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The next day.
Outside the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts.
Ian, who had just emerged from the office early that morning, looked utterly drained, as if someone had siphoned away most of his magic. It was a telltale sign of severe magical exhaustion.
This didn't mean he was incapable of casting spells, but with his magic so depleted, controlling it felt like trudging through thick molasses. Sometimes, such exhaustion could even lead to wild misfires, turning an unfortunate wizard into an unintentional explosive expert, much like Seamus Finnigan.
Of course, Ian wasn't at risk of losing control to that degree. Still, the worst part for him was simply having to muster the energy to attend classes after pulling an all-nighter.
---
In the Great Hall.
At the Ravenclaw table, he sat before a spread of breakfast dishes, though he barely seemed aware of them. The other students had begun to take notice. Some of the younger Ravenclaws and even a few older ones exchanged curious whispers.
"The little professor didn't hold our session last night. Look at him— sunken cheeks, dead on his feet. What happened?"
"It's obvious! He's in love. My older brother looked exactly like that when he was smitten. Meanwhile, my sister practically glowed when she had a crush, it's completely unfair."
"I bet someone slipped him a love potion."
"What? Why didn't you tell me that was an option sooner? Wait a second, if you know about it, doesn't that mean you've used it before? You're the real little schemer here!"
"Stop prattling! Try this, it's delicious!"
"Oi! That's my cream cake!"
---
It was all playing out just as Ian remembered, aside from the ridiculous rumors swirling around him. Most events were unfolding with only the slightest deviations from what he had experienced before. Nothing dramatic, but still, it wasn't a perfect repetition— certainly not a scripted replay, like some enchanted version of 'Happy Death Day.'
"Even if the only change was a single missing gherkin, would that still count as a twist of fate at just the right moment?" Ian stared blankly at the food on his plate.
At eleven years old, he had never imagined he'd be setting aside thoughts of boosting his health with ginseng tea and dragonberry infusions, only to ponder such deeply philosophical questions instead.
As for how to break this strange cycle, he was still working that part out. He wasn't the type to pin his hopes on someone else swooping in with the answers. After all, relying on fate, powerful allies, or even Hogwarts itself was never as dependable as relying on one's own wits.
"If there can't be any deviations at all, then what Dumbledore always says about letting time run its proper course is something not even a resurrected Merlin could guarantee."
"After all, even just biting into an apple means breaking its skin, there's no way that wouldn't cause some variation." Ian bit into an apple as if to test his own theory.
"Of course, Professor Morgan always said that time has a way of smoothing out minor inconsistencies under the weight of destiny. So maybe Dumbledore's real lesson is simply to avoid making catastrophic errors?"
Despite nibbling on some fruit and pudding, Ian found he couldn't eat much more. No wonder people wasted away under stress, worry could certainly kill an appetite.
"What's with you? Why are you eating so little?"
William, taking advantage of Ian's distraction, reached for the special spicy sauce and slathered it over his already peanut butter-covered toast, watching Ian with a mix of curiosity and concern.
With a sincere expression, he looked at Ian, even forgetting to pass the spicy sauce he had just used to his other roommate, Michael. If anyone was born for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, it was him, his performance was so seamless that even the most seasoned wizarding dramatists would struggle to match it.
"Just something on my mind, and Dumbledore drained my magic," Ian muttered weakly. He idly prodded at the fruit peels he had gnawed off and spat out onto his plate with his fork. It was a small, absentminded habit— one that many older wizards would have liked to master but never quite managed.
"Merlin's beard! Dumbledore drained you? I— I heard nothing! I refuse to listen!" Michael exclaimed, covering his ears in exaggerated horror.
Sitting a few places down, he had clearly misheard Ian's words. As he stuffed a leftover chicken leg into his mouth, his expression twisted into pure shock, like someone who had just walked into a Boggart-infested wardrobe.
And as if that weren't enough, Barry, another Ravenclaw, had already begun muttering, "Ah, the venerable old warlock of Britain, as expected…" No doubt Hogwarts would soon be abuzz with yet another absurd rumor.
But Ian couldn't be bothered.
After all, if he didn't make it to Christmas, everything that happened now would simply reset. Even if some wild tale spread about him secretly raising a child with Snape, it wouldn't matter in the end.
"Resisting the urge to mess around with fate proves that my self-restraint isn't weaker than Dumbledore's," Ian thought, giving himself a silent nod of approval.
Then—
"Cough! Cough!"
William, sitting beside him, turned scarlet as he choked violently, spewing out bits of half-chewed sandwich.
"This— this sauce is cursed!"
Desperately, he gulped down three cups of water, but the fire on his tongue refused to die down.
"It's not cursed," Ian said without looking up, still absentmindedly toying with his fruit peels. "It's just an infusion of Deathcap Chilies from the Carrow Greenhouses." He slid a glass of milk towards William without a second thought.
The drink had been sitting in front of Ian untouched, clearly, he had never intended to drink it himself.
"Why would you even make something this devilishly spicy?!" William gasped after finally managing to take a sip. The milk, enhanced with a soothing potion, worked its magic almost instantly, and the red flush on his face began to fade.
"I don't eat it. I made it for you." Ian smirked slightly. He knew all too well that William would devour his spicy sauce, leading to an inevitable shortage by dinnertime.
After all, he had already lived through this moment before.
Hearing their conversation, Michael discreetly put down the suspiciously red bread roll he had been eyeing. Meanwhile, Little Black, one of the school's mischievous resident Kneazles, scampered over to Ian and, with surprising precision, nudged the spicy sauce back towards him with both paws.
"You actually anticipated that I'd try to steal your precious sauce? That's eerie," William said, blinking in surprise, his expression perfectly reminiscent of a stunned Ron Weasley.
"I not only knew you'd take my sauce," Ian replied, his voice carrying a knowing edge, "but I also know that in about ten seconds, that Gryffindor seventh-year over there will get slapped by his girlfriend. And then, her furious little admirer will march over and jinx him in the— well, you'll see."
Normally, Ian didn't pay much attention to Hogwarts gossip. But some incidents were just too memorable to forget.
And besides, in this peculiar time loop, it didn't matter what he revealed, when the cycle reset, no one would remember a word of it.
Everything seemed to be unfolding exactly as it should.
And yet, according to Dumbledore's theory, nothing he did would leave any lasting trace.
"I don't believe it!"
William stared intently at the Gryffindor table.
"I don't believe it either!"
Michael joined in, his eyes just as wide with disbelief.
Of course, his mouth didn't stop moving, he was still shoveling food absentmindedly, not even looking at what he was grabbing with his fork.
(To Be Continued…)