The sun had just risen, and while the village of Hogsmeade remained peaceful, it was far from quiet.
Between the cottages, thin wisps of smoke curled upward, intertwining with the morning mist. Though still early, the streets were already filled with wandering wizards—drinking, chatting, and enjoying their morning leisure.
The windows of the small wooden cottage weren't large, but the glass panes were clear. When sunlight broke through the clouds and streamed in, it scattered into shifting patterns of light and shadow inside the room.
Vines occasionally curled around the window frame, with a few tiny, nameless flowers swaying gently among the green leaves. A faint fragrance mixed with the scent of earth wafted in on the breeze.
"Brush your teeth! Wash your face! Time to welcome a brand-new day!"
This wasn't Ian's second day in Hogsmeade. In fact, he'd already been here for several days, and Snape—who had unceremoniously dumped him here—hadn't shown up even once.
Had it not been for Ian's remarkable self-sufficiency, surviving alone in a strange place at just over ten years old would've been no easier than a wilderness survival challenge.
"One honey-fruit pie to kick off a disciplined day!"
Ian had fully familiarized himself with the area by now. He grabbed breakfast at Honeydukes, then swung by the Three Broomsticks for a cup of lemonade.
"Good to see you, little Ian."
Madam Rosmerta, the pub owner, was still an attractive woman with a charm that came only from age and experience—enough to make many regulars swoon. But on Ian, that charm had zero effect.
He preferred girls his own age.
"If you sold me a butterbeer, I'd be even happier to see you, Madam Rosmerta," Ian replied, his eyes fixed on the bottles behind her bar.
He'd long been curious about the drink everyone raved about. But despite several attempts over the past few days, he hadn't managed to get a single taste.
Even Galleons had their limits.
"If you could suddenly turn thirteen, I'd gladly treat you to a glass," Rosmerta said with a smile—another polite refusal.
"Rules are dead, people are alive. If you know how to adapt, you'll make way more money."
Ian wasn't ready to give up.
"That's an interesting way to put it. But compared to the vague promise of riches, I think a fine from the Ministry is much more immediate."
She smiled as she handed him a cup of lemonade.
The sourness of it made Ian's face twist in agony.
But he had no one to blame but himself.
He just couldn't get used to the local tea, which was often mixed with milk or broth.
"That woke me up! There's no way those lemons didn't have acid boosters in them!"
His sleepy eyes instantly sharpened.
"Haha, I don't sell those lemons. I just squeezed in two more for you!" Rosmerta laughed heartily as she snatched up the coins Ian had set on the table.
A preemptive strike to stop him from asking for a refund.
"..."
Ian, faced with the full force of adult wizard mischief.
What could he do?
Mumbling "I got two extra lemons" in bitter self-consolation, he shoved two peppermint teeth-cleaners into his mouth and hurried out of the lair of the "evil witch."
Over the past few days, Ian had made himself known at quite a few local shops. He'd blended into his surroundings surprisingly well—something most wizard kids could never pull off so quickly.
That said—
He still hadn't fully adjusted to the wizarding lifestyle.
Prices were way higher than in the Muggle world.
If not for the cold, hard Galleons Snape had left behind, he'd probably be out on the street selling wild herbs by now—so pitiful even Ron would call him unlucky.
"Hey Ian, up for another round of wizard chess?"
The cobblestone streets were lined not only with shops but also eccentric vendors. A middle-aged wizard in a ridiculous top hat waved enthusiastically.
He ran a little wizard chess booth, charging one silver Sickle per game—with a five-Sickle prize if you won.
"Go scam someone else. I'm just a kid," Ian said, barely glancing at the animated chess pieces on the board.
His refusal was firm.
Naturally, it was because he'd already lost several Sickles to that trickster. The guy clearly knew psychology—he always made you feel like you'd just barely lost.
Whether it was a rookie like Ian or a veteran chess player with years of experience, everyone ended up handing over a silver Sickle with a reluctant sigh of "So close..."
At first,
Ian had actually thought he might be some kind of prodigy at wizard chess. But once he saw a real international-level player lose and mutter "So close..." too, he understood just how slick this guy's con really was—and never challenged him again.
"Seriously, you've got talent. Practice a bit more and you might just win next time," the chess vendor said with a straight face.
Ian pretended not to hear.
He jogged away, escaping one of the most unforgivable sins in gambling addiction.
"Incendio!"
A spell rang out.
A wisp of flame burst from the tip of his elder wand.
Just as he'd planned—
Back at the cottage,
Ian began his day of self-discipline.
He'd already learned four spells from The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1—Lumos, Wingardium Leviosa, Alohomora, and Reparo—all at a basic, Level 1 proficiency.
Now he was working on his fifth, one of the rare spells from the first-year syllabus that could actually cause damage.
Incendio.
A charm that summoned a burst of flame, useful for lighting fires. Most of the time, it was used like a Muggle's lighter—or, at most, a mini flamethrower.
Still—
If it hit someone, it could definitely cause burns. It was one of the few offensive options available to a first-year.
"Incendio!"
"Incendio!"
"Incendio!"
Flames flickered and danced in a steady rhythm.
And on Ian's personal panel, the proficiency number kept ticking upward.
[Incendio (Level 1): 1/100]
Once a spell reached Level 1, that familiar wave of fatigue crept over him again. Ian knew it was time to pause his studies for the day.
He cleaned up a bit.
Did the laundry.
There was still plenty to take care of. Life without a TV might lack the fun of modern tech, but it had its own kind of satisfying fullness.
When night fell,
Ian went to bed earlier than usual. For one specific reason: tonight was that night again—the one where he'd enter the dream-realm while asleep.
"Let's see if Ariana's back."
As his consciousness faded and crossed that unseen threshold, stepping into the realm of the dead—a world cut off from the waking one—Ian slowly opened his eyes on the other side.
"...Huh?"
The scene before him gradually came into focus.
But—
There were no dreamlike meadows, no skies painted in surreal colors, no familiar shady trees or chirping birds to greet him. Instead, he found himself in a strange, unfamiliar place.
A palace.
Grand and magnificent.
And the moment Ian appeared—
The furniture sprang to life, growing arms and legs and frantically fleeing in all directions.
"A human! It's a human!"
"So scary!"
"Aaahhh!! Help!!"
Amid the chaos and noise,
only one golden bench remained still.
"Well now… this is unexpected."
A witch sat calmly upon it,
gazing upward at her visitor.
(End of Chapter)