Unlike the scheming minds over at the Ministry of Magic, things at Hogwarts moved at a quieter, more personal pace.
After a quick wash-up, Ino was already on his way to Potions class.
Now that he was back at school, some routines had to be respected—even if he didn't particularly miss them.
Sixth-year Potions had become something of a luxury subject.
After the O.W.L.s, students who didn't plan on taking the final certification exams often dropped it. Unless you were aiming to become a Healer or Potioneer, you were better off spending that time sleeping in.
Returning to the classroom after a year and a half, Ino immediately noticed: more than half the seats were now empty.
At precisely 9:00 AM, Professor Snape arrived like clockwork, robes billowing behind him like a looming thundercloud.
His tone and expression hadn't changed. Cold, sharp, and somehow always just on the edge of annoyed.
But even so, something about him seemed… off.
Ino had already suspected the reason before term even began.
To create a potion that could counteract the effects of a soul-bound artifact, you needed one to study. But all of his had long since been confiscated and locked away by Dumbledore.
So if someone wanted to continue that line of research, there was only one viable route left: create one themselves.
A disturbing choice—but not entirely surprising.
Still, seeing Snape now, Ino couldn't shake the uneasy feeling.
Time ticked by. Before long, the hour was nearly over.
As students filed out at the end of class, Ino remained in his seat.
Only when the room fell silent again did he rise and approach the professor.
"Professor, you're not yourself today," Ino said calmly, eyes steady.
"I'm aware," Snape replied without hesitation. "But this isn't the place for that conversation."
With a quiet snap of his book closing, he turned and walked toward his office.
Ino said nothing more, following without protest.
Down in the Potions office, nestled deep within the castle's underbelly…
"I created a Horcrux," Snape admitted bluntly. "Dumbledore knows. He's just pretending he doesn't."
The flickering candlelight threw his expression into uncertain shadows.
"I've already destroyed it. It's not something to dwell on. The weakness—it's just the aftermath."
There was no drama in his voice. No shame. Just tired honesty.
For a long moment, Ino said nothing.
"Some things aren't about right or wrong. Just… choices," he finally murmured. Relief washed over him like warm water. It wasn't ideal, but at least Snape hadn't gone off the rails.
"I respect your decision, Professor," Ino continued. "But right now, what I really need to know is… how long until Harry's ready?"
Snape didn't hesitate.
"Three months. He came to see me yesterday, right after your little conversation with Dumbledore."
"Perfect." Ino gave a satisfied nod. Both of his goals today had been met: assess Snape's mental state and confirm Harry's timeline. That was enough.
Now, all he had to do… was wait.
As he left, the Potions office fell into silence once again. In the dim glow of the wall sconces, Snape's face blurred into the darkness.
Time, as it always does, crept forward unnoticed.
A week passed in a blur.
The excitement surrounding Hermione's return had begun to fade—especially among the younger students. Things like death and resurrection were dramatic, sure, but to teenagers, real grief was still a distant, abstract thing.
Saturday morning.
"Lantern! More pumpkin juice and butterbeer, please!" Hermione called out cheerfully, wiping a mug behind the bar like a natural-born tavern keeper.
The small tavern nestled in the valley had slowly come to life.
While Hermione bustled about, Ino was in full contrast—lounging comfortably in a chair, sipping fresh meadowgrass juice with the air of someone who had absolutely no intention of being productive.
Before long, two freshly filled casks floated behind the counter with a soft clunk.
"All ready!" Hermione declared proudly. "Ino, open us up!"
"Right on," Ino stood up and closed the tavern door with a soft click—an action that triggered something subtle and strange.
As the door shut, the tavern changed.
A stillness fell over the room. Not silence exactly—more like a gentle slowing of time. The air grew heavier, filled with whispers of sound: faint wind, distant waves, and a melody so delicate it seemed to dance at the edge of hearing.
Hermione instinctively shivered.
"Don't worry," Ino grinned, leaning back in his chair. "We're just running a tavern. Not summoning ghosts."
"I'm not scared," Hermione huffed, straightening her shoulders. "It's just… surprisingly magical."
Right on cue, voices echoed from outside the door.
"I still think it's madness to trust a tavern in the middle of a forest," came a tense voice. "Especially at night."
"We don't have many choices," said another. "We either go in or keep walking. Who knows how long it'll take to get out of this forest."
They sounded like young men—and something about their voices tickled Ino's memory.
"Jacob," the steadier voice said again, "We're taking a risk—but not a stupid one."
The moment that name rang out, Ino froze.
Jacob Grimm. William Grimm. The Grimm brothers.
Ino leapt to his feet.
"You know them?" Hermione asked, peeking up from behind the bar. It wasn't often she saw Ino look this excited.
"Yes! They're old friends," Ino said immediately. "They're the ones who gave me the three oak trees in the garden."
He was thrilled—and a little annoyed. The tavern operated by its own rules. The door would only open when someone knocked. If you opened it early, it was essentially a rejection of the guest.
And right now, the brothers were still debating.
Time stretched. Finally, Jacob's voice broke through again.
"Fine! But I'm not scared."
And then—knock knock knock.
"Yes! Finally!" Ino flung open the door with enthusiasm. "Took you long enough!"
Outside stood two very familiar faces.
Jacob—youthful, energetic, a mess of wild hair and wide eyes.
Wilhelm—older, calmer, glasses perched on his nose and a sensible frown on his face.
Behind them loomed the forest: dark, twisted, and undoubtedly dangerous.
At Ino's greeting, the conversation stopped.
Jacob hesitated, studying the man in the doorway.
"You're… Ino?" he asked cautiously.
"Unless I've been replaced by a lookalike," Ino replied with a smirk. "And if so, I want royalties—Wilhelm wrote me into a story without permission!"
Jacob didn't rush in. He stayed wary, scanning Ino's face.
To be fair, it had been years. People change. Faces age. But Wilhelm? He didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward and embraced him warmly.
"It's good to see you again, my friend."
"You too," Ino replied, hugging him tightly.
Not to be outdone, Jacob immediately threw his arms wide. "Hey! Don't forget me! I was the one who nursed you back to health in Merchant Town!"
"How could I forget?" Ino laughed. "Drinks are on me. And candy. As much as you want."
He pulled Jacob into a one-armed hug as well.
But as he did, his gaze flicked back to the forest—and for just a heartbeat, something in the darkness looked back.
Something watching.
Something... wrong.