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He kept an eye on the mail-delivering owls, noticing many students receiving Howlers, though none as loud as the Weasley matriarch's.
Molly Weasley's Howler was in a league of its own, drowning out the roars of other parents in their letters. Ian didn't know if the twins were caught sneaking out or if one of them had broken their wand, but he heard Molly mention repairing the broken wand.
The mother of many clearly didn't want to pay for a new wand, or couldn't afford it— meaning one twin would get to experience the joys of a damaged wand before their younger brother Ron. Ian saw both twins looking ashen-faced, wishing they could vanish into the floor.
Though he'd heard it was Fred's wand that had snapped, no one could tell the twins apart. Who knew if they'd used each other's names while sneaking around?
Such was the glorious humanity of mischief-makers borrowing their friends' identities.
"No update, really!"
Ian had a reason for watching the owls. By the time everyone finished eating and left the Great Hall, no owl had delivered the 'Daily Prophet'.
The 'Daily Prophet' had ceased publication!
The dozen Acolytes were impressively efficient!
"Clearly, the 'Daily Prophet' didn't foresee the trouble it invited… What a hellish joke," Ian thought. The idea that "Authority figures often lack real authority" was gaining even more credibility.
During the somewhat dull Flying class that morning, he pondered whether the 'Daily Prophet' would ever return— or if the Acolytes would turn it into the 'Acolyte Daily Terror'.
"Pay attention, Mr. Prince. Do you want me to ban you from Flying class again?" Madam Hooch interrupted Ian's musings.
She was lecturing on handling dangerous flying situations— old advice, but emphasized because some students had tried attaching lightning rods to their brooms.
"Really? That's allowed?" Ian's initial joy faded when he saw Hooch's unamused expression. "I mean, what a shame," He quickly corrected.
With that, he "reluctantly" set his broom aside and made for the castle library. But Hooch had only been bluffing.
"Stop right there!" She caught up on her broom and dragged Ian back.
"Get back here and listen, you troublemaker!" She returned him to the group, foiling his escape plan.
For the rest of the class, Hooch kept a close eye on Ian, quizzing him repeatedly to ensure he memorized every word.
"I'll be watching your final grade closely!" Hooch's concern for Ian's flying skills was palpable, unaware of his alchemical plans to render brooms obsolete.
"I think I fly just fine…"
Ian suspected her worries stemmed from her absence during the Forbidden Forest incident. Otherwise, she'd have given him full marks outright.
Under Hooch's watchful eye, the uneasy Flying class ended, with Ian held back for a stern lecture.
"Every year, I meet rebellious students like you. They all regret it after breaking their legs," Hooch said, her well-intentioned advice falling flat when Ian pulled out a potion.
"They probably need this," Ian said, holding up the vial.
He knew Hooch meant well, but low-altitude drills didn't align with his efficiency-driven learning style.
"…"
Hooch's expression was priceless.
After a long silence, Madam Hooch finally spoke. "Your potion looks high-quality, but it can't save you from every accident— like falling from great heights."
Before she could finish, Ian conjured a glider with his wand.
"?????"
Hooch was left speechless. She couldn't fathom why such a brilliant student struggled so much in her class.
"Sorry, Professor. Was that too thorough?" Ian dispelled the glider, feigning innocence.
"…"
Hooch felt her teaching career had met its greatest challenge. She almost missed the daredevils, who at least showed genuine enthusiasm for flying.
For the next ten minutes, Hooch tried her best to spark Ian's interest in the subject. Though touched by her efforts, Ian still wished she'd lose her temper like Snape and ban him outright.
"Maybe I should steal someone's broom next time, like Malfoy's," Ian thought. He genuinely hoped to be banned from the Flying class. His defiance wasn't personal, he just preferred studying magic in the library.
Admittedly, this mindset was overly skewed. Perhaps fate agreed, for Snape punished him in Potions class, forcing him to brew alone under scrutiny and rejecting three batches as "inferior."
Snape had grown wary since the Peeves incident, avoiding comments about "soulless potions" and settling for mocking their Knockturn Alley-worthy quality.
With unfinished detention from the night before, Ian endured a fourth attempt before earning a begrudging nod. As he tried to leave, Snape blocked the door.
"I recall forbidding magic for cleaning toilets. Tonight, you'll redo it."
"But the toilets are spotless!" Ian regretted not exiting through the window.
Snape produced a large bucket. "Then wax them all!"
This was pure vindictiveness.
"Wax the toilets?"
Ian had never heard anything so absurd.
Snape smirked, twisting the knife. "To prevent your usual laziness, this wax is specially brewed— immune to magic. You'll work manually."
A potion-made wax!
Ian tested it, finding the wax indeed magic-resistant.
"You used this material for toilet wax?!"
Snape savored his shock.
"Only extreme measures curb your deceitful laziness," He said with a swish of his cloak, leaving Ian with the bucket.
"…"
Ian wondered if this was karma for disobeying Hooch earlier.
His luck worsened when he ran into Quirrell, traitor, garlic enthusiast, and recent victim of student pranks.
"Afternoon, Professor Quirrell."
Quirrell froze, his eyes darting nervously. Had Voldemort shared their history?
"H-hello, young wizard."
"You seem tense?"
"N-no, just unwell," Quirrell dodged. "Aren't you heading to lunch?"
Ian smiled.
"I'll study in the library. Overate last night."
"Such dedication ensures you'll surpass mediocrity," Quirrell's voice suddenly steadied.
"Your praise honors me."
Ian remains composed, sensing Voldemort's presence.
"Not praise— fact. But avoid dabbling in dark magic. The Restricted Section's 62nd row corrupts the weak-minded." Voldemort's "advice" was a transparent trap.
"Understood, Professor." Ian saw through the ploy. The 62nd row's cursed books were infamous.
"Remember, such magic leads only to ruin. Don't presume yourself special." Voldemort reached to pat Ian's shoulder, but Ian sidestepped.
"Sorry, Professor. I'm a germophobe," He said, his hands staying in his pockets— one on his wand, the other on a forbidden potion brewed from Voldemort's relatives.
"A commendable trait for a potioneer," Quirrell's gaze lingered before he departed.
Ian watched him leave.
"If only I knew Dumbledore's plans, I'd purify Hogwarts' air," He thought. The garlic stench annoyed him.
Were it not for bystanders, he'd have exorcised the lingering soul already.
"Too bold. Hogwarts can't tolerate such audacity." Ian recognizes Voldemort's malice.
The deranged Dark Lord's reverse psychology was laughably transparent.
"The 62nd row's curses would've ensnared a lesser mind." Ian knew the Restricted Section better than his own dorm.
Voldemort's scheming paled next to true power.
(To Be Continued…)