Who could resist being enthroned as the "Little Emperor of Ravenclaw"?
Imagine the male prefect massaging your shoulders, the female prefect washing your feet, and the entire House gathering to welcome the diadem's grand return.
Such a scene might feel childish to the average high-schooler, but to someone who never got to invest in Bitcoin or near-enroll in Eton—a math major now transferred here to study magic at Hogwarts—it's more than tempting.
"All thanks to that noseless Tom!"
Ian had lost the chance to be "crowned" within Ravenclaw, while Voldemort's loss was far greater than some fleeting mention of Merope Gaunt. Ian intended to take the corrupted Horcrux stashed in the Room of Requirement.
The Mysterious Realm would be its new home.
"Professor Mara will definitely enjoy this new toy,"
Ian mused, tucking the wrapped Ravenclaw diadem beneath his arm and grabbing a few abandoned spell notebooks.
Being ever studious, these dusty upperclassman notes—likely left behind decades or centuries ago—would surely boost his incantation skills.
"Click—"
Turning the bronze handle of the Room of Requirement's door, he glanced around one last time at the teeming piles inside.
He wouldn't take all the unclaimed valuables, but he'd definitely be back to retrieve some items for funding his Alchemy ventures.
"Don't worry, pal. I'll protect you from now on,"
he said, patting the wall; Hogwarts, after all, was believed to have its own consciousness.
"Anyway, I'm only grabbing abandoned stuff. Compared to Harry, who outright seized others' property, my actions are just slightly bolder."
Stepping out, Ian was about to shut the door when a listless voice sounded behind him.
"You're leaving with something from inside, child."
He turned—
Spotting a portrait of Barnabas the Barmy. The troll in the painting had paused its relentless beating, panting under a fruit tree during a brief intermission.
"That's not allowed?"
Ian asked, puzzled.
"If it's general items, by all means. Unclaimed treasure belongs to the finder—an echo of medieval hunts, a bit of romantic heritage."
Barnabas lay belly-down on a rock, bruised butt and cheeks turned outward from the troll's thrashing.
He made sense:
If Hogwarts didn't intend for these possessions to be reclaimed, why display them for a newcomer?
They were "hidden," after all.
If just anyone could see them, no one would stash their stuff here.
"Bless the Founders—bless Hogwarts,"
Ian declared, sprinkling gratitude liberally.
Barnabas's eyes remained on the diadem under Ian's arm. After a moment, he spoke:
"I merely advise against taking that diadem. It was tainted by black magic…"
A startling notion.
"You knew about that?"
Ian looked surprised.
Barnabas sighed, nodding:
"Yes. I watched that wicked young wizard, hide Rowena's crown here. Before you, I'd never met anyone as thoroughly rotten. Until you showed up, that is."
Just as Hogwarts had witnessed every secret within, many seemingly unimportant paintings had silently borne witness to countless incidents. Ian felt a flash of curiosity:
"Why not inform the professors?"
He knew portraits could chat with the outside world, even traveling to other frames for gossip.
"That foul wizard cast a certain unspeakable charm on me. I couldn't mention a single detail of the diadem to anyone who didn't already know it was hidden here."
Barnabas's voice crackled with resentment.
"Never had I met such evil until him. Then you arrived, and I saw traces of that old medieval spirit in you—swift and merciless."
He thus used a different name for the Room of Requirement.
He also wasn't as "barmy" as rumored.
"One mentor told me that when traveling, kindness can be your own undoing,"
Ian said. He didn't see himself as a villain.
When Peeves jumped out, he nearly let slip something worse but switched to the less-deadly Sectumsempra. In a split-second of self-defense, it was the mildest of his available lethal spells.
Had events been calmer,
he'd probably have used a Dancing Jinx or the like.
"That's unusual—you follow the roving folks' survival creed. So your elder likely wasn't Hogwarts-born. Only someone with an ancient bloodline could pin Peeves down."
Barnabas started off logically but soon betrayed why he'd been hammered by a tutu-wearing troll for centuries:
"You must have an ancestor who slept with a banshee."
He declared with certainty, leaving Ian briefly tempted to paint a herd of giant hounds into the scene.
"At least my ancestor wasn't thrashed by a troll,"
Ian retorted, delivering a pointed blow.
Barnabas's face fell like a broken melon.
"Even so, I hope you won't remove that diadem. It's too dangerous—a path to ruination. Dark magic has ruined its capacity to bestow wisdom."
He clearly presumed Ian wanted the diadem for study.
"Don't worry, I'll handle it properly. I know a bit about soul magic. I won't be stupid enough to wear it."
Ian offered a small bow of thanks, hugging the box with the diadem inside and heading for the stairs. Coins jangled in his robe and trousers.
"It might save Hogwarts a headache, but to me you're scarier than him. Honestly, how many first-years dabble in soul research…?"
Behind him,
Barnabas managed one last lament, before the troll in the painting, now rested, raised its club to resume beating him.
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