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The dormitory, after Merlin's frantic cleaning, no longer carried any foul stench.
Even so, Albus Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel still did not dare step closer. Having personally witnessed the grotesque spectacle only moments before, both men carried with them a lingering, almost instinctive aversion.
"What do you make of this kind of fighting, Albus?" Nicolas Flamel's voice finally broke the silence, low and steady, colored by the faintest trace of his French accent.
"Do you want the honest truth?" Dumbledore did not respond at once. He exhaled softly, eyes still fixed on Ian, the boy stood framed in the doorway, an unreadable figure in the dim light.
"It is… difficult to judge, Nicolas."
"Ian's way of fighting… it has far exceeded my expectations. His magic isn't merely powerful; it's unpredictable. And his thoughts run on paths far removed from ordinary men's. One might even say that his very existence is an anomaly."
Dumbledore's words were not simply a roundabout assessment of Ian's bizarre handling of Merlin.
He had seen enough to glimpse the underlying truth.
Behind Ian's seemingly ridiculous tactics lurked a depth of magical force few wizards could even begin to imagine.
And in matters of perception, Nicolas Flamel was by no means lacking.
"You're not wrong, Albus." Flamel inclined his head faintly, though his brow furrowed. "Yes… His magic reminds me of the oldest tales, of alchemy at its most primal."
"His transfiguration has already surpassed the boundaries scholars have laid down. It reaches into realms even we never dared conceive." His words grew quieter, tinged with uncertainty.
A man who had lived more than six centuries could not be easily unsettled. Yet still, he sensed something else.
"He holds a peculiar kind of sway over Merlin. Not just compelling him into that revolting display… It's as though Merlin harbors some strange attachment to him."
Flamel's gaze darkened. "And it is precisely that attachment… that drove Merlin to…" He did not finish, yet Dumbledore required no explanation.
The reason Merlin had held back for two thousand years was not born of a fleeting encounter. Such absurd devotion had deeper roots.
On this point, Dumbledore silently agreed.
Still, he chose not to pursue the thought further. His head inclined, his eyes catching a subtle, complicated light.
"No matter what he becomes, Ian is still just a child…" His voice carried both weariness and an odd tolerance. As Headmaster of Hogwarts, Dumbledore had always been unyielding when it came to protecting his students.
And with Ian, that tendency was only sharpened.
There was no helping it.
Because Ian carried with him… a certain weakness of Dumbledore's very own.
To this, Nicolas Flamel saw nothing amiss, and even gave a small nod of approval.
"He may very well be the most gifted student in the entire history of Hogwarts."
"He's still young. A few outrageous acts are inevitable. Besides… such talent and creativity, those may be precisely the traits needed to become a truly great alchemist."
Flamel's smile was faint, but his voice carried unfeigned fondness for Ian. There was no denying it, brilliance drew admiration. Even if Ian's magic skirted the edge of the unthinkable, that same originality was what set him apart.
And for a man like Flamel, that spark was all too easy to forgive.
After all, Was this not every alchemist's dream? The ultimate fantasy, embodied?
…
While the two ancient wizards lingered in conversation, Ian stood a short distance away, face-to-face with Merlin. He flicked his wand absently against his palm, muttering under his breath,
"I can't believe I never noticed you were just an ancient fossil."
Merlin rolled his eyes skyward.
He very nearly snapped back to ask who the real fossil was in this exchange, but thought better of it in silence.
"My Confundus Charm couldn't affect you. You should have realized something much earlier." His tone was cool, almost mocking, words carrying the sting of a deliberate jab at Ian's intelligence.
The young wizard only rolled his eyes again.
"Guess my imagination wasn't large enough. I never thought a wizard could actually survive that many centuries."
He raised his wand, and with a languid flick, silver brilliance spilled into the air. Threads of light twisted and curled, weaving themselves into floating letters:
N – I – L – R – E – M
The shimmering characters quivered in midair. Ian gave another flick, and the letters rearranged.
M – E – R – L – I – N
The true name revealed though there were some words missing and the meaning was forced.
"This little scrambling trick is really adorable. Honestly, you're the original Voldemort." Ian muttered, lips tugged into a smirk at the familiar anagram game.
"Heh."
Merlin chuckled faintly, though his eyes lingered on Ian with something stranger, like a thought left half-spoken, hovering but never quite voiced.
"What will it take for you to remove the plague you've seeded in my body?" His tone hardened at last. Whatever else could be left unsaid, this mattered above all.
The past was too bitter to revisit. He could not, would not, become that walking pestilence again. Even now, the memory of his former torment made his hands shake as he cast purification spell after purification spell.
And yet, He could already feel it. None of them worked.
"Archmage," Ian's voice cut clear and sharp, his expression calm, almost casual. "Promise me one thing, and I'll let this matter drop. Then you won't have to worry about cauliflower sprouting all over your body."
Merlin froze. His brow furrowed, suspicion flickering to life behind his eyes.
"What thing?" he asked at last, his voice low and measured, rimmed with wariness.
Ian held his gaze unflinchingly. He knew Merlin's suspicion wasn't born solely from their encounter two millennia ago. No, deep within, Merlin harbored another fear. That Ian might in some way be connected to the shadowed figure whispered of in legend… the Raven.
And that was precisely the enigma Ian now sought to unravel.
"I want to know everything you know… about the Raven."
He enunciated each word slowly, his stare fastened upon Merlin, a quiet certainty pounding in his chest. Intuition told him, The truth about the Raven was the key. The cornerstone to understanding himself.
"…I see."
At first, Merlin looked taken aback. But gradually, his tense expression eased, and he exhaled a long breath. When he looked back at Ian, there was something almost thoughtful in his gaze.
"So… it seems you truly don't know anything."
Merlin's tone softened into pensiveness and just as Ian opened his mouth to press further--
"Very well. Let us make a contract."
The words landed like a dropped stone. Merlin's face remained wary, and though his voice was deliberate, it carried the wary edge of one who remembered far too well the price of past bargains.
"Hm? Really now, everyone in Hogwarts knows I'm a man of honor." Ian raised a brow, half-exasperated. "Even that you don't trust? I'm not the type who goes back on his word."
He had the distinct impression Merlin had thoroughly misjudged his character.
Merlin's only answer was a dry, humorless chuckle.
"Last time… it was I who was tricked into a contract. Not you."
Ian sighed aloud, raking a hand down his face. Wonderful. As if it wasn't enough that he obsessed over terms and clauses, now he had to contend with someone even more fixated.
"Mhm."
Merlin's mouth curved faintly, though his eyes never lost that guarded sharpness. Without a gesture of spellcraft, he instead retrieved a timeworn sheet of parchment from within his robes. Through practiced precision, he began to inscribe terms upon it in the Most Ancient style.
Meticulous did not begin to describe it.
Every condition was inked with painstaking care. Merlin scrutinized each clause, measured every syllable like a man hunting for hidden snares. Once done, he reviewed the parchment again and again, combing it as though determined to leave Ian no crevice to exploit.
"…."
Ian wasn't guilty. Truly.
Yet, watching Merlin hunch over the parchment with such suspicion, he couldn't shake the eerie sensation of being accused of some invisible crime. As though an unseen hand had closed around his throat.
"You really are paranoid," he muttered under his breath, baffled at what sort of monstrous image Merlin carried of him.
Merlin gave no reply. Only once he had exhaustively checked each line did he finally nod in satisfaction and extend the parchment forward. Ian read it through, confirmed it was airtight, then scrawled his name across the bottom.
At once, the weight of it bound to him, a force that felt almost divine. Ancient magic coiled tight around his being. Such contracts no longer roamed this era; their craft had vanished with time.
"Interesting…" Ian murmured softly, flexing his hand as he felt the unseen tether press into his soul.
Then his tone sharpened with mocking reproach.
"You really ought to learn generosity from me. Here I am, willing to heal you first and only charge later. And yet, you still doubt my honor? What a sad lack of trust."
He smirked, gave his wand a sharp flick, and power stirred.
(To Be Continued…)