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Hidden in a corner, Ian watched as Snape arrived at the scene, immediately noticing the stray hairs on the floor. With a furious roar, he stormed off toward the staffroom.
"Pity the loop still has its limitations…" Ian mused, once again retreating to the Room of Requirement. While safely hidden away, he resumed brewing potions and inscribing runes, expecting this loop to pass as slowly as the others.
However—
The door to the Room of Requirement swung open.
Albus Dumbledore entered, stepping into Ian's carefully concealed refuge. Knowing exactly where Ian was, the castle had granted the headmaster access, proving once again that the Room of Requirement could indeed accommodate a second visitor, if that visitor knew what to ask for.
"It's time to go."
Dumbledore seemed unusually rushed. With a flick of his wand, he sent a Dementor lurking nearby hurtling backward before turning to Ian, his piercing blue eyes betraying a sense of urgency.
Pulling the little wizard along, he swiftly led him out of the Room of Requirement.
"Am I leaving the loop?" Ian asked, startled. He had barely done anything this time, yet it felt as though the two professors had already completed their research without him. Hastily, he shoved the remaining potions into his bag.
"Yes. The time has come."
Dumbledore strode ahead.
"Will you continue your research after I'm gone?" Ian hesitated, suddenly reluctant. Not long ago, he had been desperate to escape.
But now…
Each loop had become a chance for limitless study, a time of growth and occasional indulgence. The idea of leaving that behind stirred a strange feeling in his chest.
Gradually, the thought had crept in: 'This isn't so bad, actually.'
After all, the path of mastery— the slow, methodical refinement of skill was undeniably satisfying. Even if many events repeated, the personalized guidance from Hogwarts' finest professors had been nothing short of invaluable.
And that… was undeniably real.
"Once you leave, I will ensure you have the means to continue." Albus Dumbledore led Ian through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, finally arriving at the headmaster's office, where he retrieved the ancient Sorting Hat.
"What will happen to all of you after I go?" Ian asked, a twinge of reluctance in his voice. The thought of leaving behind the venerable headmaster and the steadfast Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, both of whom had aided him in every iteration of this endless cycle, weighed on him.
"That," Dumbledore replied with a knowing smile, "is a question you must answer for yourself. Even if I were to tell you now, you might not yet grasp the full truth, for it requires a profound understanding of time and destiny."
As they walked, Ian couldn't shake the feeling that Dumbledore was deliberately avoiding a direct answer. A deep unease settled over him— the sense that, once he departed, everything here would cease to exist.
The old headmaster had once explained that this place was but a shadow of a discarded possibility, a fragment abandoned by the whims of fate.
"Are you trying to spare me the pain of knowing?" Ian murmured as he stepped closer to Dumbledore, who handed him the silent Sorting Hat.
"Sacrifice is only worth mourning if it serves a purpose. When the old pass, the new must take their place." Dumbledore halted before a familiar lounge, his solemn tone suddenly giving way to something lighter.
"Are you ready?" He asked, turning to Ian.
"Ready for what?" Ian frowned, his gaze flickering to the door ahead. If he wasn't mistaken, this was the teachers' lounge. "Is this where I finally break the loop?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. "Your discoveries align with our conclusions. No matter how intricate this loop may be, it remains within the bounds of magic."
He gestured towards the door. "And as long as something is bound by magic, it can be unraveled."
Ian listened intently as Dumbledore continued, "Our research has led us to a singular solution: to sever this enchantment, we require three individuals at the peak of their magical prowess to cast a combined spell." He paused, then, in a completely uncharacteristic move, raised his foot and kicked the door open.
No magic required.
It seemed that Gryffindors always had a flair for the theatrical.
"Come," Dumbledore said, stepping inside. "Welcome the moment when your magic reaches its earthly limits."
Ian followed, his gaze immediately landing on a flustered Professor Quirrell.
The unfortunate man, recently subjected to yet another magical explosion courtesy of Ian, was gingerly applying a restorative salve to his wounds. Upon noticing the headmaster's arrival, he fumbled with his robes, hastily trying to cover himself.
"Headmaster… what— what is the meaning of this?"
Quirrell's feigned confusion was almost convincing— perhaps slightly better than that of Arthur King. But it wasn't enough.
Dumbledore wasn't in the mood for theatrics today.
"Tom," He said, his voice firm as he raised his wand and gave it a gentle flick.
Quirrell's hastily wrapped robes flew off, revealing the grotesque, half-formed visage of Voldemort, twisted and melded into the back of his host's skull. The room fell into an eerie silence.
Dumbledore's expression remained composed, but his voice carried a biting finality. "You should never have returned."
The words were neither threat nor plea. They were a simple truth, laced with both regret and condemnation.
"Damn you, Dumbledore!" Voldemort snarled. "You must have uncovered everything! All those 'accidents' I suffered these past days—they were your doing, weren't they?!"
As he spoke, Voldemort forced his face further into Quirrell's, twisting the man's body into something even more monstrous. His gaze snapped to Ian, his crimson eyes burning with hatred.
He knew.
He knew exactly who had been orchestrating his misfortunes.
And if he weren't so pitifully weakened, he would have struck Ian down without a second thought.
"You seem eager to duel me now!"
Voldemort attempted to seize his wand, but Dumbledore merely pressed a single finger against his shoulder, and the Dark Lord was driven to his knees.
The overwhelming magical force pinned him down, making it impossible to even lift his head.
"There will be no duel here, Tom. I once frightened you with a burning wardrobe, hoping it would teach you a lesson. Perhaps your current predicament is, in part, my responsibility."
Albus Dumbledore's voice carried a note of sorrow. "Yet your descent into darkness has surpassed even my worst fears. There was a time when I truly did not know how to counter your relentless pursuit of power."
"Perhaps this is a form of penance for me… though, of course, it is even more so for you." Dumbledore stepped closer to the prostrate Voldemort.
"Impossible! Your magic— how can it still be so powerful? You are old!" Voldemort's voice quivered with fear as he realized his soul was trapped, unable to escape Quirrell's failing body.
This was not an outcome he had foreseen.
"Yes, Tom, I am old and can no longer frighten you with burning wardrobes," Dumbledore said, his expression grave. "But that does not mean I cannot make you answer for your crimes."
He stood effortlessly over the fallen Dark Lord, his power unshaken. "Voldemort— yes, perhaps it is best to call you that now."
"There is something you never truly understood: the distance between you and me has never changed. No matter how much dark magic you employ to close the gap, it remains the same."
Dumbledore's words cut deep.
"Even if you were at full strength, even if you possessed all the power you once wielded, your fate would be no different. Because, at this moment, I am just like you… without restraint."
He cast a glance at Ian, his blue eyes sharp with meaning. "I trust you will feel no hesitation. You have long awaited this moment."
Ian swallowed hard.
"Incendium Purgatus!"
Steeling himself, Ian unleashed his magic. In an instant, Voldemort and his hapless host were consumed by roaring flames, their agonized screams swallowed by the inferno as they were reduced to mere embers in the fabric of fate.
Ian had never imagined he would achieve his goal in such a way.
''Name: Ian Prince''
''Occupation: Bloodline Sorcerer''
''Magical Power: Level 9''
His magic, already teetering on the edge of evolution, surged as Voldemort's lingering essence was absorbed, feeding his strength.
It ascended in silence.
"Come, we must go!"
Without waiting for Ian to process the moment, Albus Dumbledore grasped his arm and hurried him toward the school's exit— where, beneath the silver moon and starlit sky, a lone figure stood waiting by the towering castle gates.
Grindelwald watched them in silence.
(End of Chapter)