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But even as he enjoyed his meal, his mind was elsewhere, on potions, experiments, and an uneasy feeling in his gut.
Without waiting, Ian excused himself and headed straight to the Room of Requirement.
Within that shifting space, hidden from all unless truly needed, he made his way to a quiet corner where a long workbench sat covered in candles, parchments, and potion ingredients. From a pocket deep in his robes, he retrieved a tightly wrapped parchment pouch.
Inside was a rare powder made from Moonlight Flowers, which he had painstakingly collected from the edges of the Forbidden Forest during a full moon.
The petals shimmered faintly, even in the room's dim glow.
This powder enhanced a potion's resonance with the soul, an effect not even many seventh-years could manage properly.
"I hope the Soul Extraction Potion will work for Harry…" Ian murmured.
His brow furrowed.
"In the worst case… If both souls are pulled out, I'll just have to guide Harry's soul back. His anchor should be strong enough."
He wasn't speaking to anyone.
But in moments like these, Ian often felt as though the Twilight Realm was listening.
He opened the pouch, sprinkled the powder into the simmering cauldron, and stirred the mixture clockwise with a silver spoon. The moonlight dust shimmered as it touched the potion, sending silver sparks dancing through the thick purple liquid.
The colour deepened from forest green to a dark violet. The cauldron gave a low, vibrating hum, and strange ripples passed across the surface, like something had stirred within.
Outside, an owl hooted solemnly into the night.
The shadows from the tall oak bookcases flickered under the candlelight. The potion needed time to stabilise.
Thinking of Tom, Harry's other soul, if that's what it could be called, Ian checked the ornate clock hanging beside the shelf.
It was nearly nine.
He paused, then grabbed his wand and turned toward the door.
He needed to check on Harry in the hospital wing.
After all, who could say whether the cursed soul in Riddle's diary had made contact with the fragment lingering inside Harry?
By now, night had fully descended over Hogwarts.
Moonlight washed across the castle, painting the ancient stones in silver. The corridors were silent but for the soft echo of Ian's footsteps.
In the hospital wing, a handful of magical candles floated quietly, their flames low and steady. The atmosphere was calm, almost reverent.
At the very back of the room, Harry lay motionless.
His face was unnaturally pale, his forehead beaded with sweat. The lightning-shaped scar stood out starkly, like it had been freshly carved.
Sitting beside the bed was Nicolas Flamel, eyes sunken from long hours of study.
He wore a deep blue robe, the fabric embroidered with alchemical symbols in gold thread. A curious badge was pinned to his chest, a seal of the European Alchemical Society.
"I think your instincts were correct," Flamel said, glancing up as Ian entered.
His voice was calm but tired, and his brow furrowed with a worry he didn't bother to hide.
Ian froze. "What happened?"
He felt the weight in his chest grow heavier.
"The situation isn't good," Flamel admitted. "The Dark Lord's soul fragment, still tethered to Harry's scar, is unusually active. There's a dark force stirring, one I haven't sensed in decades."
He stood and moved to Harry's side, gazing down at the boy with solemn eyes.
"I can't say where it leads, but one thing is clear: Voldemort's soul isn't dormant. It's trying, desperately, to invade Harry's mind. To take root. And it's not far off from succeeding."
His voice carried the weight of experience, and a hint of something colder, fear, perhaps, though it was buried beneath decades of composure.
"I remember you said that for Voldemort to return, he'd need to sacrifice someone other than Harry, and the ritual would have to be extremely complex, correct?"
"Before something like that happens, Harry should be safe… shouldn't he?" Ian furrowed his brow, quietly voicing his thoughts.
That had been the understanding Nick Flamel had previously shared with him.
But now, Flamel shook his head slowly.
"This isn't resurrection, my boy. It's something far more dreadful, an unholy fusion. A binding of souls at any cost." The Master Alchemist's expression darkened.
"It's not just unexpected, it's unthinkable. That Dark Lord may very well be willing to destroy even his own essence to merge with Harry, to forge a completely new entity."
His voice was lined with incredulity.
"I daresay he's truly lost what little sanity he ever had. You must understand: if this fusion succeeds, neither Harry nor Voldemort will remain. They'll become something… else."
Flamel's tone trembled slightly, not with fear, but with something worse: uncertainty.
That, in itself, was terrifying.
Because according to everything he knew about Voldemort, this was not a choice the Dark Lord would ever willingly make. And yet, impossibly, it was happening.
"Maybe… it's not his choice at all," Ian murmured, his thoughts flashing to the moment Harry's eyes had become reptilian slits, his voice echoing with some ancient fury.
"It's screaming… It's angry…"
That had meant something. It had to.
"What do you mean?" Flamel paused and turned to look at Ian, his gaze sharpening.
"Earlier, Harry said a few things to me," Ian explained, recounting the moment in detail. As Flamel listened, his brow furrowed further, and the calm in his features began to fracture.
"What is that monster afraid of?" he muttered to himself, drawing a conclusion that only deepened his unease.
It wasn't just a passing disturbance, it was a reaction born from terror.
And what, Flamel wondered, could a soul fragment, a mere Horcrux, possibly fear?
"I need to look into this thoroughly." With that, he turned and retrieved a small crystalline cube from the table. At his touch, it shimmered, and an ethereal bookshelf materialised mid-air behind him.
He began scanning the floating volumes, muttering incantations under his breath.
"This may take time… and what troubles me most is that Dumbledore isn't here. I can't reach him, and he hasn't responded to any of my messages."
Concern weighed heavily in his voice.
Hogwarts was vulnerable. The tower of safety was missing its watchful eye.
"There's also a diary," Ian said, voice low. "Another Horcrux. Malfoy brought it to school… but it's gone now."
He didn't conceal the news. There was no use pretending everything was fine.
This revelation made the lines on Flamel's face deepen.
"That is not the sort of news I wanted to hear." He let out a long breath. "Perhaps you should keep an eye on your uncle. He's visited Harry more than a dozen times now… and some of the things he's said have been, unsettling."
As he spoke, Flamel plucked one of the books from the ethereal shelf. The moment it reached his hands, it turned solid, its spine gleaming with embossed silver runes. He flipped through it while continuing the conversation.
"What sort of things?" Ian asked, brows raised.
He trusted Snape, or at least, wanted to.
"I'm over six hundred years old, lad. You can't expect my memory to be perfect," Flamel said dryly. "But your uncle's eyes… he watches Harry like someone studying a cursed object. I suspect he's more worried about the soul inside Harry than he lets on."
There was no venom in Flamel's tone, but he made no attempt to hide his distrust.
(To Be Continued…)