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He then extended his hand toward Grindelwald, palm open.
The gesture was unmistakable, a request for the return of his wand.
"A fine piece of craftsmanship— very loyal, with rather rare components," Grindelwald remarked as he handed the wand back, his tone layered with hidden meaning.
"Thank you for the compliment. Though, of course, I believe its quality is a reflection of my own excellence," Arthur King said, examining his wand thoroughly before exhaling in relief upon confirming it was unharmed.
"Let's go, little one."
With that, Grindelwald gestured for Ian to follow him. As they moved toward the library's entrance, Dumbledore turned back to ensure Madam Pince was comfortably seated once more.
"Professor, I didn't lie, nor was I hallucinating," Ian murmured as they walked, unable to shake the gnawing certainty in his gut. Yet, he could sense something shifting in the atmosphere between the two older wizards.
"I believe you, Ian, but the facts before us suggest otherwise. For now, we must accept that there is no evidence implicating Professor King in any wrongdoing," Dumbledore admitted with a weary sigh, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on his shoulders.
"My own memories remain intact as well," Ian pointed out, raising his wand to his temple and drawing out a thread of silvery light that shimmered with a faint, star-like glow.
"Yes... your memories are intact... and that is precisely the problem," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying an unusual gravity. The simplicity of his words masked a deeper, unsettling truth.
"What do you mean?"
Ian hesitated before returning the extracted memory strand to his temple.
Dumbledore did not respond immediately but instead turned toward Grindelwald, his expression expectant.
"I can't use his wand," Grindelwald admitted after a pause. "Even when I tried to force it, nothing happened."
He shrugged, his ever-present smirk in place, but his eyes held an unmistakable glint of intrigue as he pieced together the fragments of an unsettling puzzle.
"Does this mean his magical power surpasses yours?" Ian, grasping some of the fundamental rules of the wizarding world, immediately considered a more peculiar possibility.
"Acacia wood only chooses the most gifted of wizards... Of course, 'gifted' is a broad term, and it has little to do with my inability to wield this wand."
Grindelwald cast a backward glance, as if retracing his thoughts.
"I prefer a more straightforward explanation, Professor," Ian muttered, feeling that Grindelwald was even more prone to cryptic remarks than Dumbledore.
"He bewitched his wand without us noticing, child. When your magic blasted it from his robes, he performed a wandless spell, it was so subtle that even we missed it."
"I suspect our esteemed Alchemy professor has a touch of a possessive streak and doesn't like others handling his belongings." Grindelwald's tone remained lighthearted, yet Ian felt a chill creep down his spine.
"Could he be Salazar Slytherin himself?" The thought struck Ian like a lightning bolt. He recalled Voldemort's obsession with Horcruxes. Was it so far-fetched to think that the great Salazar Slytherin had also feared death?
After all, like begets like. With a descendant like Voldemort, it was entirely possible that Horcruxes were not an isolated obsession but rather a long-standing tradition of the old Slytherin lineage.
"You should head to class, Ian. Professor McGonagall does not take kindly to tardiness," Albus Dumbledore said unexpectedly, leading him right to the door of the Transfiguration classroom.
"Hiss... I thought we had formed a trio," Ian muttered, reluctant to part ways. He had already attended this lesson once before, and the mystery surrounding Professor Arthur King intrigued him far more than a repeated lecture.
"You would do well to ask Professor McGonagall about the Transfiguration techniques you wish to learn. She has always had a fondness for students with exceptional talent in the subject," Dumbledore said with a slight smile before gently nudging Ian through the door.
The moment Ian stepped inside, several students turned to look at him. He hesitated, casting a final glance over his shoulder, but seeing no way out, he begrudgingly found a seat.
Beyond the classroom window.
The figures of Albus Dumbledore and Grindelwald faded into the distance. However, Ian, having discreetly employed a small trick of magic, managed to catch the faint remnants of their conversation as it drifted away.
"It seems the second seer you spoke of has finally been found," Dumbledore said.
Grindelwald shook his head.
"I think he is not the one we seek, but rather an unforeseen third party… In fact, while reviewing the school's historical records, I've already noticed peculiar anomalies in his past."
Ian frowned, still puzzling over the meaning of the second person and the third party when Professor McGonagall swept into the room, halting his train of thought.
Meanwhile.
Back in the library, after the others had left.
"Well, that was quite unexpected." Professor Arthur King, who had been watching the door long after they had departed, finally let out a slow breath.
"Those two old foxes— both are far better at deception than I am."
Suddenly, another figure stepped out from behind a towering bookshelf.
The air shimmered.
Another Arthur King emerged in the dimly lit library, identical in every way to the first. His robes, previously torn, were now pristine, and on his hand, the bronze-glimmering ring remained perfectly intact.
"Ah, what a mess I made of things. It's been ages since I've had to rely on this."
Arthur King twisted the ring on his finger, his expression unreadable.
In the next moment.
The version of him that had been in the library— now clad in new robes— dispersed like dust on the wind, vanishing entirely as if he had never existed.
"I shouldn't have provoked that little fellow. I should have known that anyone capable of keeping up with you wouldn't be a fool..."
"I was careless!" Arthur King muttered, retrieving a photograph from his robes. It depicted Ian and his two deceased friends.
"This path I've chosen... it's truly arduous. Perhaps I should find a beautiful spot to die— somewhere with a grand waterfall above my grave, washing it clean each day."
In the library.
A soft breeze drifted through the window.
The seemingly youthful professor stood still, seriously contemplating his own words.
Inside the Transfiguration classroom.
Professor McGonagall, visibly preoccupied, concluded the lesson for the students. Ian had wanted to ask her a few questions, but just as he remembered, she dashed out of the room in a hurry.
"What's she so busy with?"
Since he had the luxury of the time loop, Ian decided to follow her, curious about things he usually wouldn't pay much attention to.
Of course.
The Gryffindor Head of House wasn't simply admiring the statues as she roamed the castle; at each one, she carefully examined it, checking for signs of interference.
"This one hasn't been tampered with."
"Nor this one."
"Merlin's beard, who's been using the statues?"
Ian, lingering in the shadows, listened closely as Professor McGonagall's mutterings grew increasingly frantic. By the time she finished inspecting every statue in Hogwarts, she looked as though she had aged ten years.
His extraordinary perception of thought allowed him to sense her rising distress.
"Using the statues...? Hiss! Could I be the culprit?" Ian's mind raced. He hadn't given much thought to the peculiarities of his actions until now, but McGonagall's anxiety made the connection all too clear.
Unwilling to risk a confrontation, Ian decided the best course of action was strategic retreat. Without hesitation, he slipped away and ducked into the Room of Requirement, embracing the magical equivalent of an ostrich burying its head in the sand.
He debated confessing to McGonagall, if only to grant her a peaceful night's sleep, but the mere thought of the lecture she would surely deliver made his head ache. Even in a time loop, the prospect of a stern scolding felt far more dreadful than Snape's biting sarcasm.
"Strict, responsible, middle-aged professors with a fondness for lecturing are the real nightmare."
Ian turned his attention to brewing potions in the Room of Requirement, assisted by his ever-loyal Dementor.
The sight of hundreds of cauldrons bubbling at once was undeniably impressive. Truth be told, Ian had to admit that Dementors weren't as mindless as people believed. At least, the one beside him was growing noticeably more adept.
At first, it had only been capable of handling simple ingredients and maintaining a steady fire. But now? Now it could remember entire potion refinement procedures.
"You're really quite the remarkable assistant!" Ian praised, climbing up a ladder to pat the Dementor's shoulder.
(To Be Continued…)