Their nonchalant attitude sent Filch into a sputtering rage.
"Oh, we'll see about that! I'll march straight to Dumbledore!" Filch roared. "For troublemakers like you, the old punishments ought to be reinstated! Shackles and irons, yes! A proper thrashing with the old cat o' nine tails would sort you out!"
"Who do you think you're scaring?" George shot back.
"Peeves still owes me a wand!" Fred's voice came from beneath the rubble, sounding both irritated and resigned.
"Ha! You won't be needing a wand where you're going," Filch sneered. "Once you're expelled, your parents will drag you back to whatever rat-infested hole you crawled from!"
"That sarcastic tone… You've been taking lessons from someone, haven't you?"
Ian's voice echoed calmly from the stairs. He'd been watching the scene unfold with mild amusement. George twisted his head to see Ian lingering above, his face practically begging him to slip away unnoticed.
A spark of mischief lit George's expression.
"You can't frighten me! Dumbledore won't expel us!" He declared, his voice suddenly louder than necessary.
Filch narrowed his eyes. Even in his anger, he wasn't entirely witless. Realizing the ruse, he spun around, just in time to see Ian nonchalantly waving goodbye to the twins. Without the slightest trace of guilt, Ian descended the staircase, clearly heading for the dungeons.
Unlike the twins, Ian wasn't particularly worried about being caught. The risk only applied if a professor were involved. Filch, for all his bluster, had always shown him a strange leniency— perhaps thanks to Ian's occasional flattery or the carefully maintained image of an obedient student.
Sure enough, Ian knew Filch wouldn't dare chase him.
Besides, with Peeves still cackling and the twins bickering beneath the wreckage, the caretaker had his hands full. Ian vanished into the shadows of the castle, the echoes of Peeves' triumphant laughter fading behind him.
Even though he saw Ian, Filch only paused for a moment.
Then, as if he hadn't seen anything, he turned his head back.
"I have to lock you up first." Filch continued to threaten the Weasley brothers ominously.
"Ah?" George, who had poked his head out from the clutter, was confused; he couldn't understand why a student, so obviously within sight, was being ignored by Filch, who was usually so eager to enforce the rules.
"Didn't you see? Over there! There's someone!" George no longer cared about keeping the night-walking team's secrets. At this point, he suspected something foul, like a Boggart disguised as a student.
"What person? Stop talking nonsense! You're still unrepentant!" Filch barked, showing no intention of turning back, Snape's warning still ringing in his ears.
"You should count yourself lucky you didn't catch him. If he'd decided to turn you into a grotesque creature and dump you into the Black Lake, Dumbledore wouldn't shed a tear."
Filch, notorious for bullying the weak and fearing the strong, had noticed Ian's frequent nighttime wanderings. He even reported them to Snape, but the Potions Master's response had left him shaken.
After probing rumors and learning from Madam Pince about the peculiar books Ian borrowed, Filch, for once, made a rare decision — selective blindness.
There was no other choice.
After all, for a seemingly harmless student who had unrestricted access to the Restricted Section and casually perused books on dark magic, how could a mere caretaker dare to intervene?
On the surface, Ian was just another student.
But in reality, the most powerful figure in Hogwarts was personally watching over him.
"Fred! Fred! You saw it too! That bloke by the stairs!" George's voice cracked, watching Filch's strange behavior with growing alarm.
Fred finally wriggled free from the pile of junk. "What are you on about? I didn't see anything. All I saw was my broken wand. Mum's going to have kittens when she finds out!"
Without his brother's confirmation, George's face paled further.
"Peeves! You must've seen it!" George clutched at his last hope, turning desperately to the poltergeist. Peeves, who had been gleefully silent, now scowled in rage.
"I didn't see anything! You rotten little ginger! Don't think you can trick the great Peeves!"
With a wicked cackle, Peeves suddenly dove at George, flattening him like a poorly stacked pile of cauldrons.
"You're far too nasty! Time to shut you up!" Peeves pressed down on George's head. Despite the crushing discomfort, George didn't cry out. He was too distracted by the unsettling realization that even Peeves — Hogwarts' most chaotic spirit — was afraid.
What on earth had they just witnessed?
...
After enjoying two brilliant spectacles, Ian arrived at the basement, intent on searching for any secret hiding places the Gryffindor portrait might occupy.
But Hogwarts, it seemed, had more nightly drama to offer.
Previously, Ian had stumbled upon Professor Quirrell in an abandoned classroom, furtively conversing with Voldemort. He hadn't interfered — just passed by. Yet tonight, Quirrell wasn't performing any dark rituals.
Instead, he was pinned to the wall, his robes crumpled in the grip of a dark and imposing figure.
Ian quickly cast a Disillusionment Charm upon himself.
It appeared the third act of the night's grand performance was about to begin.
"Don't think of me as your enemy. I rather doubt you'd want me as one."
The chilling voice belonged to none other than Ian's 'kind uncle,' Severus Snape. His tone was cutting, and his eyes gleamed with dangerous intent.
"I... I don't know what you mean, Professor Snape! Honestly, I haven't the faintest idea!" Quirrell's stammering voice wavered as he trembled beneath Snape's glare.
"No, on the contrary," Snape sneered, tightening his grip, "You know exactly what I mean."
Such a familiar exchange. Ian watched intently. The night at Hogwarts was proving far more entertaining than he had ever imagined.
Even though Ian watched the scene unfold, he couldn't shake the odd feeling that he'd become the protagonist of some grand tale— though, unlike Harry Potter, Ian had no intention of reporting Snape or assuming he was up to anything nefarious.
"I really… really don't know what happened in the Forbidden Forest, please, Professor Snape… let me go," Quirrell pleaded, his voice trembling like a beaten house-elf.
Snape remained unmoved.
"I know you left the castle. Hah, I have my ways of knowing precisely where someone has been," Snape said coldly, his lips curling into a cruel sneer.
"I contracted… contracted some illness while traveling, and it only flared up after I returned. I went to Hogsmeade to buy potions, that's all! I didn't want to trouble you," Quirrell stammered, his flimsy excuse clearly rehearsed.
Snape's sneer only deepened.
"You are tight-lipped. Good. When you've had time to reflect and decide where your true loyalties lie, we will talk again."
Releasing the trembling Defense Against the Dark Arts professor with a final glare, Snape swept out of the room, his cloak billowing ominously.
Ian remained concealed, lingering at the door.
He watched as Quirrell, collapsed in a pitiful heap, finally managed to stagger to his feet. The man crept toward the window, nervously peering outside before mumbling to himself.
"Master… Master… Snape seems to suspect us. We must get rid of him. You… you have the power. Kill him!"
Quirrell's voice dripped with resentment, the humiliation still fresh. Ian couldn't tell if this surge of hatred stemmed from the man himself or if it was Voldemort's influence whispering into his ear.
"Severus Snape… he was once my most loyal servant."
A sinister, high-pitched voice echoed through the empty room, though Quirrell had not moved his lips.
The voice was low but brimming with malice, sending shivers down Ian's spine. Standing just outside, he strained to pinpoint its source. The classroom, cloaked in shadows, offered no answers.
"He must have betrayed you long ago! He is Dumbledore's favoured pet! Perhaps… perhaps all your setbacks were his doing!" Quirrell seethed, his hatred fueling his reckless accusations.
Ian expected some form of rebuke. Voldemort did not disappoint.
(To Be Continued…)
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