It had to be said—
Aside from being sharp-tongued, unpleasant in speech and appearance, Professor Snape did possess certain redeeming qualities.
For example, he'd left Ian with more than enough Galleons.
Although today's essential shopping spree had cost quite a bit, the pouch Snape had given him was clearly enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm, and still contained a staggering total of one hundred and fifty Galleons.
Never underestimate that number.
A regular Ministry of Magic clerk would need at least two months—without spending a single Knut—to earn that kind of salary.
Let's not forget—
The Weasleys couldn't even afford the seven Galleons needed for a wand.
So one hundred and fifty Galleons? For any young wizard—or even a fully grown one—it was an amount worthy of envy.
"Tsk… Even if my parents really did die at the start of this story, there's no way the guilt should run this deep." Ian was growing increasingly suspicious. Could his mother really have been Lily Potter's clone?
No way.
This was the 1990s—neither the Muggle nor magical world had that kind of tech.
"The more I think about it, the creepier it gets…"
Though uneasy, Ian's focus quickly shifted back to what mattered most—learning magic.
After moving his belongings into the neat little cottage Snape had arranged for him, he couldn't wait any longer. He pulled out his wand and opened Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1, one of Hogwarts' most essential textbooks.
Dusk had settled in.
The last streaks of sunset had faded over the horizon. As night crept in, Ian chose to start with the simplest and most frequently used spell.
"Lumos!"
Following the instructions in the book, he focused his thoughts, synchronized with the wand, took a deep breath, and softly recited the incantation.
The tip of his wand flared with a faint light—
Then quickly went out.
It was a failed attempt. But rather than feeling discouraged, Ian's eyes lit up with genuine excitement.
When it came to learning,
most people were hampered by a lack of feedback—by not knowing whether they were improving. That uncertainty was often the greatest barrier to long-term study.
However—
That wasn't a problem for Ian.
[Lumos (Level 0): 3/50]
With one failed attempt, a new skill appeared on his status panel. It wasn't the first time Ian had experienced this phenomenon.
"Looks like I'm not lacking in magical talent," he grinned, staring at the numbers.
One try earned him three points of proficiency. Less than twenty attempts would get him to Level 1—the basic entry level of the spell.
Once learning could be quantified,
it was like facing a god with their health bar fully visible.
"Lumos."
"Lumos."
"Lumos!"
Inside the small, empty cottage,
white light flared again and again—brief, flickering, and gone in a blink.
Each repetition wasn't just an experiment, it was a manifestation of Ian's passion for magic.
And his curiosity—
What kind of unique traits would this magic awaken?
…
Hogwarts.
Headmaster's Office.
As the most powerful wizard in the current magical world, Albus Dumbledore looked, at this moment, no different from an ordinary elderly man. Dressed in worn-out pajamas, he sat quietly behind a solid wooden desk.
The lamp on the desk had no visible wires but emitted a steady, oil-lamp-like glow. In the center of the desk lay an open book.
[Aurora Grindelwald]
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on one name among the many written in the book. Beneath his silver-rimmed glasses, his eyes gleamed—ancient, but still bright.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His fingers drummed the desk rhythmically, thoughts clearly churning. For an old man to stay up this late, there had to be something heavy on his mind.
Clack—Clack—Clack—
The sound of mechanisms shifting echoed from the door.
Dumbledore didn't even look up.
A figure hurried into the room.
"Albus, you didn't tell me Ian was a natural Legilimens!" Snape's face was full of barely concealed fury, his stance accusatory.
His voice rang through the office. Some portraits on the wall covered their ears, while others leaned forward to watch the show.
"I thought some things were better left for you to discover on your own. Like how I also didn't tell Mister Prince about your… inseparable connection to him," Dumbledore finally raised his head, voice calm and gentle. With a flick of his hand, the book on the table closed by itself.
[The Book of Admittance]
That was its name.
Every student accepted to Hogwarts had their name written by the Quill of Acceptance in this book. It had always been the foundation of Hogwarts' admissions.
Of course,
the one Dumbledore kept on his desk was likely not the original—just a copy connected to the original. The real book and quill were kept locked away in a tower no student ever visited.
"Something about him isn't normal," Snape said grimly from the center of the room, unease written all over his face. "Occlumency doesn't work on him at all. I've tested it more than once, and gave it everything I had."
"He claims he can only sense emotions, but I'm sure he can do much more than that. Albus, I've never seen a Legilimens like this—so aggressive. So invasive."
Snape's eyes locked on Dumbledore.
"Some people are simply more gifted than we expect, Severus. Surely you can understand that," Dumbledore said, expression unchanged.
He clearly had long since recognized the abnormality in Ian.
"I've seen other natural Legilimens. None of them had this kind of forceful presence. That kind of power is dangerous!" Snape's tone was serious, even anxious.
The intensity in his stare made even Dumbledore straighten a bit in his chair.
"Being gifted isn't a bad thing," he said softly.
"That's not what we agreed on! He was supposed to attend school normally, graduate, and live a normal life! Damn it, you're planning to bring that man into the school next year!"
"The last thing he needs right now is to stand out. He should be like every other average student—no drama, no brilliance. Just… peace."
Snape's words sounded like he was grinding his teeth.
"I don't believe any of us have the right to decide what kind of life Mister Prince should live—not even his parents would have that right," Dumbledore said gently, understanding Snape's anxiety, but not agreeing with it.
He met Snape's glare.
"You're not him, Severus. He's not you."
Snape fell silent.
Then, quietly—
"He's going to hate you."
"Do you think I care?" Snape sneered.
"Severus, if life has taught me anything, it's that imposing our will on others—no matter how noble our intentions—is a grave mistake," Dumbledore said. The reflection of the lamp and Snape's face gleamed in his silver lenses.
"No magic in the world can erase the consequences of that mistake."
He let the words hang.
"We're both failures, Albus. Don't pretend otherwise," Snape said bitterly.
"You're hardly a failure. The greatest wizard of our time, headmaster of Hogwarts. Even now, the entire wizarding world fears your power. Overdoing humility just makes you look fake."
Dumbledore simply shook his head.
"In truth, I told you about him not so you could change him—but so he could change you."
"Severus, you need him. He doesn't need you."
Snape's face twisted in fury.
"You're talking nonsense!"
Dumbledore only smiled.
"I don't need you directing my life, either!" Snape snapped.
"Whatever game you're playing, swear to me—on an Unbreakable Vow—that he's not part of some master plan."
It was clear Snape didn't trust Dumbledore entirely.
"You, like many others, overestimate my cleverness," Dumbledore said with a shrug. "But if it will put your mind at ease… of course."
He reached for his wand.
In the magical world, the Unbreakable Vow was sacred.
Two people, with a witness. Wand to wand. Words spoken aloud. A binding promise forged in magic. To break it was to face dire consequences—often fatal.
"Now, are you satisfied?" Dumbledore asked after putting his wand away.
"I don't know what you're scheming, letting that one into the school. But no matter what, I hope you'll still do what a headmaster must—protect every student."
With the vow sealed, Snape's expression finally softened a little.
But it was clear he remained suspicious.
"That is my duty," Dumbledore said with calm conviction.
It was the kind of voice that inspired trust.
"I'll be watching him."
With a sharp turn of his robes and a scowl, Snape left, disappearing into the corridor.
Dumbledore once again turned to the book on his desk.
[Aurora Grindelwald]
The portraits behind him broke into chatter.
"Dumbledore! Snape's really changed!"
"So wishy-washy! An embarrassment to Slytherin! Should've gone to Hufflepuff!"
"I'm curious about the kid—Snape's Occlumency is strong. What kind of Legilimens could actually frighten him?"
"Talented? Please. Hogwarts has never lacked talented students!"
…
But their bickering didn't faze Dumbledore.
He simply waved a hand, and the book flipped open once more.
Same name. Same frown.
[Aurora Grindelwald]
From the first moment he saw that name, he had gone to visit an old friend in Nurmengard—the name clearly tied to the first Dark Lord:
Gellert Grindelwald.
The entry in the book didn't belong to Gellert's direct descendant, but it was a blood relative—one who had inexplicably inherited his rare magical talent.
The truth was,
just recently, the very lesson Dumbledore had tried to teach Snape was something he had learned from that very visit to Grindelwald.
"Albus, both our failures stem from trying to change too much, too many people, without realizing—we're only wizards. Stronger, perhaps, but still human."
"Wizards may bend fate, but we mustn't decide it… All I want now is for this child to walk her path with the reflection I've gained from my mistakes."
Those were Gellert's exact words.
Almost a plea.
Hard to refuse.
And yet—
Dumbledore still hesitated, still doubted. Not because he thought Grindelwald would lie to him, but because Grindelwald could mislead without lying.
No one alive understood the art of rhetoric better than Gellert Grindelwald.
It wasn't false humility when Dumbledore claimed he wasn't as clever as people thought. His whole life was littered with regrets from thinking he was smarter than he was.
That was why—
Those two simple lines from Grindelwald struck a chord.
And that was also why—
Dumbledore worried Grindelwald might be scheming again.
He couldn't help it.
Grindelwald had changed a lot during his years in Nurmengard—more than Dumbledore had expected. The most striking change came in…
"1979…"
That year, something had changed.
Grindelwald, once despondent, had regained his old fire. That was the first time in years Dumbledore had rushed to Nurmengard in shock.
"Albus, I want you to witness the change in this world—not stop it."
"You can stop me, stop many things, even that clown Tom. But you and I cannot stop a legend from rising."
That year,
as if reborn, Gellert redecorated his quarters, dined on steak, and looked twenty years younger as he spoke those words.
And this year—
1979-born children would be entering Hogwarts.
"You meant her, didn't you?" Dumbledore whispered, gently brushing his fingers over the name in the book.
[Aurora Grindelwald]
(End of Chapter)