Among the successful cases recorded in the book, Ivan even found the Dumbledore family.
That was unexpected.
He thought of Fawkes, and of the old rumor from the Grindelwald years: whenever a Dumbledore was in desperate need, a phoenix would appear.
It was hard not to wonder whether the family had once fused with phoenix blood.
According to the text, the Dumbledores had been among the gentler practitioners.
They had used contract magic to take a portion of the phoenix’s power, and they had done it with the creature’s consent.
That, more than anything, explained why the bond between the family and its phoenix remained so close.
“Huh.
It just stops.” Ivan had been reading with genuine interest.
The section on actual fusion methods cut off without warning, as if several pages had been torn out by force.
Everything after that was filler.
He was still wondering whether the “reward” was nothing more than information when the system spoke again.
[Ding.
Bloodline Origins finished.
Challenge quest activated.
Challenge Quest: Defeat (or kill) a troll Reward: Bloodline Fusion Potion Formula] A challenge quest.
Ivan’s expression tightened.
Until now he had treated the system as a pure study tool.
Apparently it also handed out monster-hunting commissions.
He was more curious about who had hidden the book in the first place.
Someone had layered a Confundus-type charm over the shelf and then sealed an entire cabinet behind additional concealment magic.
Dumbledore was the first name that came to mind.
The greatest white wizard of the century had both the authority and the motive.
Bloodline fusion was lethally dangerous; the wizards who died attempting it outnumbered the survivors by dozens to one.
That mortality rate alone had kept special bloodlines from becoming the norm.
James Potter or Sirius Black were also possible.
Hiding something important and slightly illegal suited their style.
And then there was the obvious third candidate: the boy who had once walked these same corridors as Tom Marvolo Riddle.
The possibilities flickered through his mind and were dismissed just as quickly.
Tonight had already given him more than enough to process.
Even the rest of the Restricted Section no longer looked inviting.
On the way back he kept turning the new quest over in his head.
A troll.
He did not share the casual confidence Harry and Ron would later display in the original timeline.
Their victory had been equal parts luck and narrative armour.
Without the Boy-Who-Lived’s private plot protection, the professors would have arrived to three (or four) first-year corpses.
From everything he had just read, trolls were not trivial opponents.
Massive strength, thick hides, and a natural resistance to magic that forced even adult wizards to treat them with caution.
If the book had not made it clear that fusing with a magical creature’s bloodline could raise a wizard’s innate talent, Ivan would have wanted nothing to do with the creature in first year.
He moved through the silent castle with less caution than he should have.
The trip out had been smooth; the trip back should have been the same.
It wasn’t.
A streak of cold blue light slammed into him the moment he stepped out of a secret passage.
The sensation was exactly like being dropped into ice water.
He staggered, teeth clenched, and turned.
Peeves.
The same ugly face, the same battered hat, already clapping and crowing at the top of his lungs.
“Look what I found!
Another first-year!
Come on, everybody—there’s one over here!” “Petrificus Totalus.” A jet of grey light struck the poltergeist square in the chest.
Peeves only rocked backward a few feet, then spun in place with pure delight.
“Ha!
That doesn’t work on me, little wizard!” He began circling, clearly intending to pin Ivan in place until the real adults arrived.
Ordinary spells were useless.
Ivan didn’t waste a second trying more of them.
He already knew one piece of dark magic that specialised in the mind.
“Fear Descent.” A thin purple beam left the tip of his wand and touched Peeves while the poltergeist was still mid-grimace.
The change was instant.
Peeves’s face twisted.
He shot sideways with a shriek and vanished into a classroom farther down the corridor.
His voice carried back, high and panicked.
“No—Baron, leave me alone!
I swear I didn’t do anything this time!
Nick—Nick, put the axe down first, we can talk this over!” Ivan watched the empty doorway for a moment, then checked the system panel.
At some point in the last few days the Fear Curse had quietly reached Level 2.
That explained the stronger effect.
The poltergeist was dealt with.
Distant, hurried footsteps replaced the silence.
Ivan remembered Peeves’s earlier shout—another first-year—and realised he was no longer alone.
Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville burst around the corner before he could step back into the passage.
They looked just as startled to see him.
Harry recovered first, seized Ivan’s arm, and yanked him into a run.
“Ivan, move!
No time—Filch is right behind us!” Ivan never got the chance to mention the secret passage.
He was already being hauled down the next corridor at full speed.
The scene felt familiar in a way that set his teeth on edge.
Only when Harry led them straight through the door of the forbidden third-floor corridor did the full shape of the problem become clear.
“Get in, get in—he’s almost here!” Harry and Neville dragged a reluctant Ivan across the threshold.
Hermione slammed the door.
Ron, for once not lagging, threw the lock and braced his shoulder against the wood.
Harry exhaled.
“That should keep Filch out.” “Yes,” Ivan said quietly, staring at the locked door, then at the darkness farther down the corridor.
“It also keeps us in.
I’d rather take my chances with Filch.” Harry didn’t understand the comment—until something warm and sticky landed on his shoulder.
He turned.
Three enormous heads hung over him.
The mouths were open.
The breath that rolled out was thick with the stench of rotten meat.
Yellowish drool stretched in long strings and dripped onto his robes.
Hermione’s scream cut through the night a fraction of a second later.