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Her tone brooked no argument, a quality common to determined German witches.
"Whisky's for the regulars, dear. For you, best to start the festivities with a Butterbeer," Rosmerta replied kindly but firmly, her voice gentle with practiced authority.
She slid two steaming mugs of Butterbeer across the counter and, surprisingly, pushed Ian's coins back toward him.
"My treat. After all, no charge means no consequences," She added, her eyes twinkling with layered meaning.
Ian, who had just pulled a tiny enchanted bottle of chilled Muggle cola from his satchel, blushed faintly at the implication. He discreetly slid the bottle back into his money pouch, pretending it had never made an appearance.
"Hoot hoot, gurgle~"
Aurora had already taken a sip. The warm, spiced brew fizzed pleasantly on the tongue. This particular drink was a third-year privilege at Hogwarts, and the alcohol content was almost nonexistent—what little there had been having long evaporated in the brewing.
"What are you up to now?" She asked, narrowing her eyes as Ian discreetly took out a small vial and tipped a few golden drops into his Butterbeer. The viscous, shimmering liquid clung to the inside of the bottle like liquid luck.
She recognised it immediately—Felix Felicis. A gift from Snape, if she remembered correctly.
"I need a bit of luck before I open the box."
Ian glanced at the cup Aurora had drained and turned to Madam Rosmerta. "Could she have another? She's already polished off her Butterbeer— quietly."
Madam Rosmerta didn't budge, continuing to wipe down the counter with deliberate focus.
"Don't push your luck, dear," She said, her tone light but edged with dry humour. Then she turned away and wandered off toward another table, leaving the two of them alone at the bar.
"I drank it right in front of you," Aurora muttered, setting down her empty cup with a soft clink.
"Open your mouth," Ian sighed, exasperated.
"What for?"
Aurora didn't move, suspicious.
Without another word, Ian reached forward and gently pressed both sides of her face, prising her mouth open. He tipped in a few glimmering drops from the tiny crystal vial of Felix Felicis.
"Mmm… tastes a bit like honey cake," Aurora said, blinking as if savouring it.
"I didn't realise you and Dumbledore had similar tastes," Ian remarked, eyes flicking across the room, sharpening his senses to zero in on two wizards engaged in hushed conversation.
"I'd still like to know why we're taking Felix Felicis in the first place," Aurora said, shaking her Butterbeer mug upside down to catch the last few drops.
The gesture clashed with her usual cool and composed image.
Maybe Ian was rubbing off on her.
"I noticed a few odd goings-on when I was here before," Ian explained. "Overheard some chatter. Black market traders, dodgy wizards— secret deals and shady items."
"The goods are quality, no doubt about that, but everything has its risks. I figured a dose of luck might lead us to the best Christmas gift we could find."
Ian clearly viewed the Black Market vendors as if they were some sort of magical blind box. His gaze swept across a number of them before circling back to the one he'd first clocked.
"Bit of 'black eats black,' is it?" Aurora asked, a flicker of excitement in her voice.
"It's more like punishing the wicked, defending the innocent!" Ian declared, almost righteously. "Redistributing wealth! Protecting wizarding society!"
"But you're not exactly poor anymore, are you?" Aurora pointed out, tilting her head. "Wouldn't it be simpler to admit we just don't like them?"
Her expression suggested she knew full well the moral high ground Ian was attempting to claim.
"I'm poor again now." Ian nonchalantly slipped his coin pouch into the inner pocket of Aurora's robes as if this settled the matter entirely.
"…"
Aurora wasn't sure she'd ever understand how Ian's mind worked.
She was about to respond when—
"That's the one!"
Ian spotted his mark rise from a shadowy booth and quickly tugged Aurora after him. The wizard, cloaked head to toe in black, radiated bad intentions. Ian had seen him earlier selling something illegal; he was sure of it. Some sort of contraband laced with the blood of rare magical creatures.
Ian had read Cho Chang's "Annotated Map of Magical Creature Trade Routes and Associated Offences" and knew full well that if the Ministry caught a black-market dealer peddling blood-based artifacts, the punishment was a guaranteed lifetime in Azkaban.
"Master… that young wizard has walked right into our web. Shouldn't we just strike him down now?" Muttered the wrinkled-faced wizard left behind in the booth, speaking in a voice only heard inside his own skull—Quirrell's thoughts were meant for one person alone.
"Have you still not grasped the reality of your own uselessness?" Came Voldemort's furious whisper from within his host's mind. The Dark Lord had recognised Ian the moment he laid eyes on him—even with the altered appearance granted by the Aging Potion.
Perhaps it hadn't been such a useful disguise after all.
"Return at once! We have only one shot at this! Dumbledore's whereabouts are unknown—we must act now!" Voldemort growled, urging Quirrell back toward Hogwarts with increasing impatience.
Tonight, the temporary vitality gifted by the restorative potion would let him retrieve the Philosopher's Stone. And with it, all that he had lost would be his again.
Soon, through this pitiful vessel, he would rise once more, fully reborn.
At that time—
Everything would return to normal, and Voldemort's name would once again echo through the wizarding world. Voldemort, who was now trembling with rising anticipation, could no longer suppress the storm of excitement welling within him.
"Fancy a game of chess?"
A wizard seated on the roadside beside a floating chessboard tried to lure in passing challengers.
"Clear off!"
Voldemort snarled through Quirrell's mouth, only to realise, with a jolt of frustration, that he was merely borrowing Quirrell's voice for the moment. His fragile soul felt eerily light, as though it were floating, unanchored.
As though he might unravel at any second.
"Get back, quickly! Something's wrong with me!"
He didn't know precisely what was happening to his form, but he was certain of one thing, if he could just obtain the Philosopher's Stone, his fading and fragmented soul would be renewed, restored with true vitality.
"Looks like the old goat who left passed along some unfinished trouble to this sorry heir of his… taking over jobs that once belonged to my nanny."
The chess-playing wizard snorted, watching Quirrell's retreating form vanish into the mist. He glanced down at his enchanted chessboard— one of the pieces was translucent, shaped like a crystal orb. Inside it, the image of Ian and Aurora appeared, tracking a black market dealer.
The two had shadowed the black-cloaked wizard to the outskirts of town before making their move. Just to be cautious, they'd cast facial disguise charms but Ian wasn't particularly adept with that branch of magic.
Unable to refine the spell properly, he'd simply altered his face to resemble a younger version of Tom Riddle Sr.
"It's illegal to hawk contraband this close to Hogwarts grounds!" Ian declared, rifling through the black marketeer's belongings. The man was a low-level operator, hardly worth the effort.
"I was only selling a few harmless trinkets!"
The cloaked wizard, whose wand had already been blasted out of reach, raised his hands in immediate surrender. He didn't dare put up a fight. Not when, just a few feet away, a dazzlingly beautiful young witch had her wand fixed on him. The pulsing blue glow and the unmistakable hum of Dark Magic, possibly even the Killing Curse, made it clear this was not a bluff.
"We're from the Ministry's Black-Robed Patrol Division. We specialise in rooting out troublemakers who disturb the peace near Hogwarts," Ian said confidently, spinning the lie on the spot with the ease of someone used to improvisation.
The black-cloaked wizard went visibly paler.
He'd never heard of any such division, but that was exactly what made it believable. It could easily be a covert branch of the Ministry, kept hidden from public knowledge.
Like the old Inquisition from the church days.
It wasn't at all implausible that the Ministry had a secret team operating in shadow.
Faced with this realisation—
(To Be Continued…)