The following morning, Ian was down early at the dining table enjoying his breakfast.
He held an oversized bacon sandwich in one hand while gesturing with the other at a copy of the Daily Prophet floating in midair.
The Daily Prophet was the authoritative newspaper of the wizarding world—or rather, the only mainstream publication in the British wizarding community.
Unsurprisingly, today’s front-page headline was about the break-in at Gringotts yesterday.
Naturally, according to the goblins, Gringotts remained the safest magical bank in the world, and yesterday’s incident was merely a security drill.
The official spokesman quoted was none other than Director Boro.
Ian let out a disdainful scoff.
These political creatures could paint black into white without breaking a sweat.
As he read further, his expression gradually turned odd.
Right beside that article was a report accusing Gringotts goblins of embezzling wizarding vaults.
The reporter, a woman named Rita Skeeter, had somehow gotten wind of the story, managing to report on the very deal Ian had struck with the goblins.
Towards the end, she wrote in an exaggerated, alarmist tone: “The property of wizards is under threat.
Wizards need a bank of their own!” Reading this, Ian shook his head.
Setting aside whether wizards actually possessed enough financial talent to run a bank, getting one wizard to trust another enough to deposit their Galleons with them was practically impossible.
Human nature was just that complex: humans would rather place their trust in a non-human species than in one of their own.
Just then, Pudding approached holding a letter, presenting it respectfully.
“Master Ian, you have a letter.” Ian took it casually.
As his eyes swept over the signature on the envelope, his gaze instantly turned cold.
Director Boro, Gringotts British Branch.
Ian didn’t even need to open it to know what was inside.
Since when did a wizard need to offer explanations to a goblin?
“The current Minister for Magic really is incompetent,” Ian muttered.
With a subtle twitch of his fingers, the letter ignited without a flame, crumbling instantly into ash.
Just then, footsteps echoed from the stairs.
Ian looked up to see Harry coming down.
Ian put down his sandwich and gave Harry a nod.
“Morning, Harry.
Looks like you slept well last night?” “Morning, Ian!” Harry yawned, taking a seat across from him.
Pudding immediately served him a glass of warm milk and fried eggs.
Ian merely raised an eyebrow.
In the West, addressing family members by their first names was a sign of intimacy.
So while it was a subtle shift in phrasing, it marked a clear step forward in their relationship.
Harry feigned ignorance of Ian’s gaze, picking up his fork naturally to tackle the fried eggs on his plate, though Ian could see the tips of his ears turning bright red.
Ian let out a soft chuckle, which nearly choked Harry.
Seeing this, Ian laughed even harder.
Harry hurriedly gulped down a mouthful of warm milk, barely suppressing the tickle in his throat, though the flush from his ears had now spread all the way across his cheeks.
He shot Ian an annoyed glare, but the corners of his lips twitched upward despite himself.
Seeing that Harry was on the verge of dying from embarrassment, Ian quickly checked his laughter.
With a wave of his hand, the newspaper settled automatically onto the table.
Ian picked up a napkin and wiped his hands.
Looking at Harry, his expression turned serious.
“Harry, what do you say we go take a look at Potter Cottage in a little bit?” Harry’s fork froze in his hand, the blush draining rapidly from his face.
He looked up at Ian, then gave a firm, heavy nod.
Ian understood Harry’s feelings completely.
Saying nothing more, he drained the rest of his milk, stood up, and left the room to give Harry some space.
After Ian left the table, Harry stared in silence at the remaining egg on his plate for a moment before setting down his utensils and dabbing his lips with a napkin.
Pudding silently cleared the dishes and thoughtfully prepared coats for their trip out.
Ten minutes later, the two stood at the entrance of the manor.
Ian had changed into a dark suit and carried a bouquet of white carnations in his hand.
Harry, meanwhile, had changed back into the old jacket from his aunt’s house, its oversized fit making him look all the more small and fragile.
Gazing at the flowers in Ian’s hand, a flicker of regret crossed Harry’s eyes.
His lips parted slightly, but in the end he said nothing, quietly following behind Ian.
The sky today was overcast, light gray clouds hanging low as if reflecting their mood.
They walked side by side, soon arriving at the village square.
In the center of the square stood a war memorial, engraved with the names of soldiers who had fallen in the Second World War.
As Ian and Harry drew near, however, the carvings on the stone began to wriggle.
The names faded away like sand blown by the wind, replaced by a new line of text: Godric’s Hollow Remembers— Then, the obelisk itself began to melt—not collapsing, but reshaping.
The surface of the stone seemed to be molded by an invisible hand, its sharp edges rounding and its contours shrinking, transforming from a cold geometric block into three human figures.
A woman with long hair falling over her shoulders held a swaddled infant in her arms.
Her head was bowed, chin resting against the top of the baby’s head, her arms wrapped gently around him.
A man stood behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder while the other pointed off into the distance.
Harry stopped in his tracks, staring up at the stone figures.
His throat tightened, and his fingers unconsciously clutched the sleeve of his old jacket.
Ian did not rush him.
He simply set down the bouquet of white carnations and stood quietly to the side, his eyes resting on the woman.
Lily Evans—or rather, Lily Potter.
That stubborn woman had, in the end, left this world forever on Halloween night in 1981, just as in the original story.
Even now, Ian couldn’t fully comprehend Lily’s choice back then, yet she had undoubtedly lived up to her role as a mother.
The magic of love, was it?
At the thought, Ian’s lips twitched slightly, torn between a mocking smile and a mournful sigh.
Ian had once witnessed Voldemort’s strength firsthand; it was a qualitative breakthrough in magic.
It was a realm that surpassed the vast majority of wizards—a state that could almost be described as an entirely different kind of magical entity.
And he had only ever seen that level of power in one other person: Dumbledore.
Yet such a Dark Lord had collapsed, almost absurdly, before Lily’s love for Harry.
Ian found it hard to believe; there had to be something at play that he didn’t fully understand.
A swarm of thoughts flashed through Ian’s mind until his gaze finally drifted past Lily’s statue, falling upon Potter Cottage a short distance behind it.
After a moment’s consideration, Ian left Harry by the monument and walked past it, following the cobbled path deeper into the valley.
Ten minutes later, Ian halted before a ruined two-story house.
It was a small red-brick cottage with several broken windowpanes in its gabled attic and withered ivy clinging to its walls.
Ian pushed open the creaking wooden door and stepped inside.
On the rug before the fireplace lay a few scattered children’s books, and a dusty baby bottle sat on the coffee table.
In a framed photograph on the wall, a young James Potter was pulling faces at the camera while Lily shook her head with a laugh beside him.
Time seemed frozen here, preserved exactly as it had been ten years ago.
Ian shook his head and waved his wand; the dust gathered together and vanished automatically.
He headed up the stairs, the wooden steps creaking loudly beneath his feet as if they might snap at any moment.
Fortunately, that didn’t happen, and Ian reached the second floor without incident.
As soon as he stepped onto the landing, Ian saw the bedroom with its door flung wide open, a baby crib swaying gently inside under the breeze.
The moment he crossed the threshold, his footsteps froze, and he drew a golden pocket watch from his coat.
“Ten years, and the aura of Dark magic still hasn’t dissipated?” Ian looked down at the pocket watch flashing continuously with a red light, his expression gradually darkening.
He stowed the watch away and swept his gaze across the bedroom, finally bringing it to rest upon the crib.
“What’s that?” Ian stepped forward, tentatively extending a finger toward a scorched mark on the edge of the crib.
The moment his skin touched it, a surge of intense negative emotion flooded Ian’s mind.
It was the lingering scent of Dark magic—specifically, the Killing Curse among the Unforgivable Curses.
“Avada Kedavra!” Ian muttered the incantation under his breath, a tiny spark of green light flashing between his fingertips.
The instant the green light touched the scorch mark, it flared violently.
The crib could no longer hold its shape, emitting a faint cracking sound before shattering entirely into pieces on the floor.
Ian withdrew his finger, his brows knit tight.
He took two steps back and finally drew his wand, pointing it at the pile of shattered wood on the ground.
“Reparo!” An invisible wave of magic rippled out.
The wooden splinters on the floor vibrated intensely, as though drawn together and lifted upward by an invisible hand to reverse time.
Snap!
Unfortunately, just as the fragments had reassembled into part of the crib’s outline, the process ground to a sudden halt.
Then, the repairing magic was completely exhausted, and the mostly restored crib shattered back into splinters once more.
Looking at the debris on the ground, Ian knew these splinters were dead.
Yes, they were dead in the truest sense of the word.
They no longer possessed physical utility; no matter what one tried to do with them—even if one tried to ignite them with fire—they would never burn.
The Dark Lord remained as formidable as ever.
Even Ian, with his current strength, felt a lingering dread toward such power.
Yet at the thought that such a powerful Voldemort was now reduced to a mere remnant soul, reduced to wandering the earth in a pitiful struggle to survive, Ian felt an urge to laugh.
He could understand doing whatever it took to achieve immortality, but as for Horcruxes—a method so obviously full of hidden pitfalls—he genuinely couldn’t fathom what Voldemort had been thinking back then.
Was it because he was too young?
Ian wondered silently to himself.
From what Ian knew, Voldemort had created his first Horcrux while still at school.
Had he really been that terrified of death even back then?
He couldn’t figure it out—he really couldn’t!
Ian shook his head and waved his wand.
A gentle breeze swept up the wooden splinters, sealing them inside a glass bottle, and he turned to walk out of the room.
Just as Ian set foot on the staircase, however, an aged voice tinged with playful teasing echoed from below.
“Perhaps you should try Cockroach Clusters.
Believe me, they’re quite delightful.” Ian paused briefly, then continued his descent, replying in stride, “Harry, I think you should give them a try.
The old gentleman is a loyal customer of Honeydukes, so his recommendation is bound to be good!”