— At two in the morning, inside the Headmaster’s office.
Ian sat opposite Dumbledore, a cup of hot tea in hand, taking a leisurely sip.
As the rich aroma of tea spread across his taste buds, Ian felt an instant surge of alertness.
Under his normal sleep schedule, Ian would have already been fast asleep at this hour, but right now…
Ian looked up at the man sitting opposite him.
Dumbledore was intently examining the diadem resting on the desk.
His face was leaned in so close that he seemed on the verge of melting into the object, tapping it with his index finger every now and then.
Behind his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore’s eyes were bright and focused, occasionally flickering with deep thought.
Meanwhile, the entity residing inside the diadem seemed to have sensed something as well, reining in all its activity and playing dead like a ordinary piece of junk.
“This…
appears to be Ravenclaw’s Diadem?” a hesitant female voice broke the quiet of the office.
Ian glanced over at the sound to see a portrait depicting a witch in a white coat—a rare sight among the ranks of Headmaster portraits.
Ian read the inscription beneath the frame: Healer, St.
Mungo’s Director, Hogwarts Headmistress: Dai Llewellyn-Derwent [T/n: Dilys Derwent].
Ian actually remembered this one.
Aside from being one of the rare female Headmistresses in Hogwarts history, she was most famous for her exceptional healing magic, which had been featured in numerous newspapers.
“Indeed, Headmistress Derwent.
This is Ravenclaw’s Diadem,” Ian confirmed her suspicion.
“It really is?” Having received Ian’s confirmation, the old woman in the portrait stared at the diadem on the desk in complete disbelief.
At that moment, another Headmaster leaned over.
The moment he opened his mouth, Ian couldn’t help but frown.
“Boy, how can you be so certain that’s Ravenclaw’s Diadem?
That legendary artifact has been lost for countless years.” Ian looked at the portrait with a furrowed brow until his eyes caught the name beneath it: Phineas Nigellus Black.
Ian cast a bizarre look at this notoriously unpopular Slytherin Headmaster, saying nothing.
If he remembered correctly, Sirius Black was this man’s descendant.
And Sirius was currently locked away in Azkaban.
“Boy, what’s with that look?
Are you looking for a thrashing?” True to his reputation, this Headmaster possessed a sharp tongue that could give Snape a run for his money.
Ian paid him no mind, choosing instead to look toward Dumbledore, who had just stood up.
Standing tall, Dumbledore drew his gaze away from the diadem.
His face turned unusually grave, though Ian keenly caught a fleeting glint of relief in his eyes.
Is it because he’s finally confirmed Voldemort’s status?
The thought flashed through Ian’s mind.
When it came to Voldemort, his stance aligned completely with Dumbledore’s; that was part of the reason why he had exposed this Horcrux to the Headmaster in the first place.
If possible, he would have even liked to tell Dumbledore the secret on the back of Quirrell’s head.
However, since Voldemort’s Horcruxes hadn’t all been gathered yet, exposing Voldemort’s secret identity prematurely wouldn’t solve the problem at its root.
Sensing Ian’s gaze, Dumbledore offered him a warm, smiling glance before turning toward the portraits on the wall.
Fingering his beard lightly, his voice was low yet resonant: “Phineas, what Ian brought is indeed Lady Ravenclaw’s Diadem.
Though it has been corrupted by Dark Magic, its craftsmanship and inscription leave no doubt that it is the real thing!” Headmaster Black was completely cut short by Dumbledore’s words, ultimately reduced to muttering under his breath, “Since when did you become an expert on ancient materials…” Ignoring Black’s discontent, several other Headmasters leaned forward against their picture frames, crowding toward the front.
Ian was convinced that if not for the physical boundaries of the portraits, they would have already rushed right up to the desk.
And understandably so—this was Ravenclaw’s Diadem, a legendary artifact said to enhance a person’s wisdom.
Only former Headmaster Armando Dippet leaned his torso forward slightly, his tone laced with anxiety: “Albus, if memory serves, that Dark magic is…” “Yes, Armando.
It is that,” Dumbledore interrupted before the former Headmaster could utter the name of the spell.
At the same time, Ian noticed Dumbledore’s peripheral vision subtly darting toward him as he spoke.
“A Horcrux?” Ian supplied the name of the Dark magic with an annoyed huff, looking down on Dumbledore’s overly cautious approach.
A flicker of surprise passed through Dumbledore’s eyes, but it swiftly dissolved into a gentle smile.
He nodded and sighed, “Yes, Ian.
It seems you are even more familiar with the dark side of magic than I imagined.” Dilys Derwent gasped from inside her frame.
“A Horcrux?
Doesn’t that mean…” She trailed off, but everyone in the office understood what she was implying.
Even Phineas Black fell into an uncharacteristic silence, staring down at the diadem with an unreadable, stormy expression.
For a moment, a heavy silence settled over the entire office.
Dumbledore walked over to the window, gazing out at the pitch-black Forbidden Forest in the distance.
His voice grew solemn: “Tom Riddle has embarked upon a dangerous path.
Perhaps…
Ravenclaw’s Diadem is merely one of them.” Ian set down his teacup, leaning forward to break the quiet: “Headmaster, how do you intend to handle it?
Destroy it directly?” Hearing this, Dumbledore turned around, his eyes falling onto the diadem once more.
After staring at it for a long while, he looked back at Ian, a twinkle of slyness flashing in his eyes.
“Mr.
Evans, if memory serves, your very first class is scheduled for tomorrow.
Would it be convenient for me to sit in and observe?” Ian’s eyes widened as he glared at him fiercely.
In the end, Ian could only leave behind a harsh “You win” before storming out of the Headmaster’s office.
Once the office door clicked shut, the smile on Dumbledore’s face gradually faded.
He stared at the wooden door, seemingly looking right through it at Ian’s departing back.
“Albus, do you not trust the boy?” After an unknown amount of time, Dilys Derwent’s gentle voice drew his attention back.
Dumbledore turned to face the kind Headmistress.
After a moment of contemplation, he voiced his underlying concern: “I…
I simply cannot see through him.” “No one can ever truly see through another person,” the old Headmistress shook her head in refutation.
“Even if you believe you know them inside and out.” Dumbledore remained silent.
He understood what the former Headmistress meant.
Once, he had believed he understood Tom Riddle well enough, going so far as to reject his application for a teaching position.
Yet Tom’s ultimate actions still exceeded his wildest imaginations.
However, Dumbledore was, after all, hailed as the greatest wizard of the century—a title born not just from his formidable strength, but also from his rich wealth of life experience.
He quickly recovered from his moment of loss, turning his gaze back to the diadem.
“A Horcrux…” After a long pause, Dumbledore let out a deep sigh.
It was an exceedingly vile form of Dark magic, dating back as far as Ancient Greece.
Created by the Dark wizard Herpo the Foul, he was the first known creator of a Horcrux.
That was a thousand years before Hogwarts was even founded.
Ripping one’s soul apart through murder, then sealing a fragment into an external object to achieve immortality—that was a Horcrux.
It was precisely because Dumbledore had detected this trait in Voldemort that he had maintained a skeptical attitude regarding Voldemort’s death.
And the diadem brought by Ian tonight seemed to confirm his suspicions.
Of course, Ian’s anomaly—remaining unnaturally youthful after eleven years—had similarly aroused his vigilance.
Because Dumbledore could feel that Ian’s youth wasn’t maintained through magic or potions.
Rather, the feedback Ian’s body gave off was genuinely that of a twenty-year-old.
This was something magic alone could no longer explain—at least, Dumbledore had never heard of magic capable of such a feat.
The former Headmistress seemed to discern Dumbledore’s internal conflict, yet she did not share his stance.
She looked at Dumbledore, her gaze gentle yet firm: “Caution is necessary, Albus, but do not forget: he took the initiative to bring the diadem right to you.” Hearing this, Headmaster Black scoffed nearby, interjecting mockingly, “Or perhaps he simply wants to use you to clear away a few obstacles!
The Black family has produced plenty of shrewd boys like that.” “And where are the boys of the Black family now?” The old Headmistress shut Black down completely with a single sentence.
Enraged, Black yelled as he charged out of his own frame and barged straight into the Headmistress’s picture.
Before he could lay a hand on her, however, several other Headmasters materialized behind him in unison.
One Headmaster produced a long club out of nowhere and slammed it hard onto the back of Black’s head, instantly restoring silence to the Headmaster’s office.
Dumbledore simply watched the scene with a light chuckle, as if his troubled expression from a moment ago had never existed.
Only when everyone’s eyes settled back onto the diadem did he pull back his smile.
Slowly raising his hand, his aged fingers brushed across the surface of the diadem once more.
Moonlight streamed through the window and bathed the artifact, its ancient silver patterns gleaming with a cold, ghostly lustre in the dim light.
“Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.” Dumbledore softly recited the inscription engraved upon the diadem, seemingly coming to an understanding.
“Perhaps you are right, Dilys.” Dumbledore sighed, finally making up his mind.
“I need to remain cautious, but I should place greater trust in my student.” “Perhaps Ian’s return was meant to bring us hope.” “After all, this world ultimately belongs to the young.” “I am already over a hundred years old; it’s about time I had a rest, isn’t it?” By the end of his sentence, Dumbledore even put on a weak and frail act, prompting everyone in the room to roll their eyes at him.
After all, who among them didn’t know that Voldemort—the dark wizard who made the entire British wizarding world tremble—was around sixty years old himself, making him quite an old man in his own right?
Though Voldemort would likely disagree with that sentiment.