This, perhaps, was the first morning in a very long time that had left Grindelwald, legendary Dark Lord, master manipulator, visionary seer, completely blindsided.
"Grindelwald is not innocent, Professor Lockhart. That era is far removed from us, and you've spent your life in Britain— you may not fully grasp what kind of dark wizard he truly was."
Quirrell, though clearly shaken by the explosive revelations in the article, still managed to respond in a low voice to the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
…
Grindelwald shot the man a long, piercing look— this traitor.
"I'll wager my wand that this report contains not a single word Grindelwald himself would actually say," The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor huffed, continuing to insist on his innocence to the professors around him.
"I know Dumbledore," Professor McGonagall said firmly. "The Daily Prophet thrives on sensationalism."
Seated beside her, the Heads of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff weren't offering their opinions on the news. Instead, they were deep in discussion, speculating about why Grindelwald would suddenly appear in Britain at all.
Whether the article itself was true or not, no one could say.
But the photograph of Grindelwald smirking from the front page? That was real.
"Apologies— I'm feeling rather unwell. I need to step out for a moment," Gilderoy Grindelwald suddenly announced, gripping the crumpled newspaper tightly in one hand.
He hastily strode toward the doors of the Great Hall, moving as though he might Disapparate straight back to Austria at any moment. It was likely even he hadn't expected Lockhart to embellish the story quite so dramatically.
"That blasted imbecile! What is wrong with that man's brain?!" Ian could still hear the muttered complaints as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor stormed past him.
"I… I don't know anything," Aurora murmured, watching her grandfather's uncharacteristically ruffled retreat.
After hesitating for a moment, she set down her fork and hurried after him.
There was an odd spark of excitement on the young German witch's face. Perhaps she was genuinely curious about the untold story between Dumbledore and Grindelwald…
Or maybe she had just discovered something she could hold over her grandfather.
Ian still wasn't sure he fully understood the complexities of family loyalty.
"Silence, all of you!"
This time, Professor McGonagall's voice carried a trace of magic, booming through the Great Hall and silencing the chattering students instantly.
With a sharp flick of her wand, newspapers began vanishing from hands and tables alike.
Not just copies of the Daily Prophet— but also Ian's own Wizards & Muggles Express was whisked away before his eyes.
Before Grindelwald's sudden exit, Ian had been absorbed in reading an article on a mountain fire in Little Hangleton. Since most students had been scrambling to get their hands on the Daily Prophet, some papers had been discarded haphazardly on the tables, left behind by their subscribers.
But it wasn't the fire itself that had caught Ian's attention.
It was the photo.
The blaze had consumed nearly everything, but Ian recognized the place immediately—
Little Hangleton.
The very spot where Grindelwald had once taken him to retrieve the Resurrection Stone ring.
Voldemort's birthplace.
Strangely, the article didn't mention that detail. Instead, it focused on how the Muggle world had failed to control the wildfire, using it as an example of Britain's supposed governmental collapse. The editor had taken it upon himself to analyze national security, military strength, bureaucracy, and even Muggle technology, ultimately declaring that the country was teetering on the brink of ruin.
"There are some sharp minds left in the wizarding world, after all," Ian mused, quietly admiring the editor's foresight— just before the paper was snatched away.
Around him, students continued whispering about Dumbledore and Grindelwald, despite McGonagall's warning.
But Ian made no attempt to join in.
Because he had distinctly felt, just moments ago, that the overwhelmed Grindelwald had seriously contemplated burning Quirrell at the stake.
And this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor might just be more vengeful than Voldemort himself.
Who knew if old Grindelwald had left behind some enchanted listening devices in the Great Hall? Recording the names of every single student and professor who had slandered him, waiting to settle the scores one by one.
"Ian, do you think our headmaster is really an Incubus? Because if he is…" William leaned in conspiratorially. "I finally understand why my grandmother is still obsessed with Dumbledore."
Ian calmly speared a piece of meat with his fork and continued eating.
Several pairs of eyes were trained on him, waiting for his response.
Without blinking, without hesitation, he swallowed his food and answered:
"I believe Hogwarts has a long and storied history. Many great witches and wizards have walked these halls. And I sincerely hope that next year, our school will continue to produce outstanding magical talent that contributes meaningfully to wizarding society."
"Hogwarts' approach to training future wizards isn't flawed, but in shaping the curriculum, we should place greater emphasis on improving students' quality of life and their awareness of magical environments."
Ian's response was so thoroughly off-topic that the young wizards around him looked increasingly perplexed.
"Are you even awake? Or did you just completely ignore William's question?" Michael waved a hand in front of Ian's face as if testing whether he was sleepwalking.
William pressed a hand on Ian's shoulder, looking uncharacteristically troubled.
"Wake up, Ian, this is big news, huge news! I mean… I only like girls… Can I still be an Acolyte?" He lowered his voice, sounding genuinely concerned.
"I'm awake," Ian replied, finally turning to look at his green-haired roommate.
The same boy who had once enchanted his undergarments to feature Dumbledore and a host of random wizards was now earnestly declaring his exclusive preference for witches and worrying about whether that disqualified him from following Grindelwald's path.
Before Ian could respond, a few more students gathered around, led by the Chocolate Frog-obsessed boy from their small study group.
"Little professor, you've had more contact with Headmaster Dumbledore than the rest of us. What do you think?"
Ian's expression remained unreadable.
"What?! The Indoor Flying class is about to start! We can't be late!"
Before anyone could react, Ian hastily bit off a final piece of beef, sprang to his feet, and dashed out of the Great Hall.
He disappeared almost instantly, like a boy who had turned into the wind.
The Room of Requirement
When the Indoor Flying class began, no one was late.
Yet Ian, despite having left the Great Hall five minutes early, was nowhere to be found.
Instead, he had locked himself inside the Room of Requirement.
The Daily Prophet article wasn't his doing. The interviewee wasn't him. He had no intention of becoming the punching bag for two aging warlocks venting their frustrations.
"Hogwarts is dangerous," Ian thought grimly.
Lockhart, in particular, might be in serious trouble.
On his way upstairs, Ian had glimpsed the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in his office, frantically scribbling letter after letter, his quill moving with near-deranged speed.
Aurora, meanwhile, had been forced to stand in the corner like a scolded schoolgirl, looking utterly disheveled. She resembled a ruffled quail, clearly regretting whatever had just transpired.
Ian had considered stepping in to help his friend.
But, upon reflection, he decided it was best that Aurora learn not to volunteer as a human shield every time chaos unfolded.
"You're the safest company," Ian murmured, shifting his focus back to the shadowy figure in front of him.
In his arms, he held the Dementor he had carefully removed from its enchanted cage.
Reaching out absently, he plucked a few wisps of its tattered black cloak, the spectral fabric almost disintegrating at his touch.
The Dementor remained unnervingly still.
It had long since learned not to attempt feeding on Ian's soul, likely realizing it was futile. Instead, it simply stared, motionless, as Ian absentmindedly wove its torn wisps into a crude handkerchief.
"Could this actually be the raw material for an Invisibility Cloak?"
Ian had never touched one of the true Deathly Hallows.
He hadn't even handled an ordinary Invisibility Cloak woven from Demiguise fur.
Still, he couldn't ignore the strange properties of the Dementor's fabric, it was unlike any recorded alchemical material he had ever encountered.
That meant he had to start from scratch.
(To Be Continued…)
You can read ahead up to 110 chapters on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/darkshadow6395