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With practiced precision, Ian guided the loose fragments, reshaping them until they were indistinguishable from the Resurrection Stone itself.
Faint etchings surfaced across their polished black surfaces, moving like living ink before settling into place, the mark of the Resurrection Stone, ancient and foreboding.
Clink.
Ian winced slightly as he flicked several Galleons into the air like marbles. Mid-spin, the coins melted and flowed under his magic, curling around the newly shaped stones.
By the time they landed, they had solidified, seven rings, identical to the original Resurrection Stone, each gleaming with a subdued, mysterious luster.
Of course, they were nothing more than imitations. Crafted rings, empty of true enchantment. Mere forgeries, for now.
Ian's plan was simple: if he couldn't extract the precise alchemical formula he needed, he would replicate every known aspect of the Resurrection Stone down to its finest detail, hoping, perhaps, that in doing so, he could create an "anchor" of his own.
"After all, these counterfeits wouldn't belong to Death. If I bypass the original's ownership, who's to say they won't function the same way?"
He knew it was an ambitious idea. A fool's gamble, even.
It was like attempting to sculpt a living being from clay; one could mold a perfect replica, but without the divine breath of life, it remained just that: a lifeless figure.
The same logic applies here. The Resurrection Stone's engravings might not simply be an inscription of knowledge but a gift of power, one only Death itself could bestow.
If that were the case, even if Ian unraveled every one of its secrets, using them would be another matter entirely.
"Rowena Ravenclaw has certainly left me with quite the puzzle. But I have to try. This isn't just about the Patronus Charm, it's about my alchemy."
Ian studied the rings in his palm. Seven false Resurrection Stones, resting in the light, their illusion of authenticity nearly perfect.
His thoughts turned to potential test subjects.
Besides seeking Professor Morgan's approval, there was another possibility, Ariana.
Ariana Dumbledore had died young. If she was willing to return, even in this spectral form, would it not be a kindness?
To offer her a glimpse of the world she had been denied? To give her, if only briefly, a chance to walk among the living once more?
"If Ariana were my Patronus, she'd be incredibly powerful. In some ways, she might even surpass Professor Morgan. Summoning Ariana would be almost the same as summoning a fully magical Dumbledore."
Ian mused over the idea, a smirk playing at his lips. With Ariana's help, he could very well convince Dumbledore to summon Gubraithian Fire just to warm his foot bath.
What a luxury that would be.
"To think I'd even consider bullying an old man… Aurora was right. I really am a bit wicked."
For the first time, Ian found himself truly acknowledging this obvious fact.
Shaking off his amusement, he tucked the seven counterfeit Resurrection Stone rings, along with the real one, into his money pouch. Then, he withdrew the Locket of Slytherin, intent on studying its alchemical structure. Given that Salazar Slytherin himself had crafted it in tandem with the Resurrection Stone, it almost certainly held valuable knowledge about anchoring.
"This… this is something humans can actually understand!"
Carefully tracing the engraved patterns, Ian uncovered the hidden alchemical mechanisms concealed within.
The locket's enchantments were woven using the principles of ancient alchemy, fortunately, his expertise lay precisely in that field. If he could dissect and replicate the necessary methods himself, why bother trying to decipher the cryptic inscriptions of the Resurrection Stone?
"Tick-tock, tick-tock~"
Time slipped away, second by second.
In the warmth of the Ravenclaw common room, Ian sat by the fireplace, engrossed in a late-night study session. Beside him, a fragment of Professor Morgan's enchanted robes lay unfolded, a key piece in his ongoing research. With meticulous precision, he examined its magical properties, comparing them to the notes he had gathered.
Beyond the arched windows, the temperature had plummeted below freezing.
The rain fell in sheets, the night air thick with moisture. Lightning slashed through the sky like silver blades, momentarily tearing apart the darkness. For a split second, the Forbidden Forest was illuminated in eerie detail, a massive, sleeping giant crouching beneath the misty downpour, its depths filled with unseen, watchful eyes.
Most of Hogwarts lay in peaceful slumber.
Yet with each crack of thunder, the castle was briefly set aglow, and far beyond its stone walls, hidden corners of the Forbidden Forest were likewise unveiled. Ancient trees, shrouded in secrecy for centuries, could not escape the reach of the storm's illumination.
Somewhere deep within those woods, something stirred.
"Vanished. Just like before. I've lost contact with the Horcruxes again."
The ceaseless rain did little to muffle the low, seething voices that wove through the shadows.
Dark souls clung desperately to the veil between life and death, writhing in silent torment. Their eyes, hollow and vengeful, turned toward the distant castle. Their whispered fury seeped into the night like venom, carried by the howling wind.
"Dumbledore… are you forcing my hand?!"
Holy blood.
Spilled.
Seeping into eager lips.
"Then so be it. Let the battle begin."
Somewhere, a lingering soul, desperate to endure, had made its decision.
…
Dawn.
The sun rose, hidden behind thick rain clouds, just as Ian had hoped. The heavy downpour had continued through the night, spilling over into the morning, effectively grounding all practical Flying lessons.
Across the Great Hall, countless young witches and wizards slumped over their breakfasts, disheartened by the news. Their dreams of soaring through the sky had been replaced by the drudgery of theoretical Flying class.
Ian observes the scene with mild amusement.
With drooped shoulders and listless expressions, their enthusiasm for handling broomsticks was now about as strong as a Muggle student's love for PE. Or, perhaps, among the older ones, their interest was closer to how Muggles felt about maths first thing in the morning.
The rain lashed against the castle's towers and windowpanes, but it might as well have been striking the hearts of those who longed to fly.
Ian, however, was the exception.
Internally, he was rather pleased by the miserable weather. But outwardly, he played the part well, blending seamlessly into the chorus of groans and complaints.
"Oh, Merlin's beard! This wretched weather! It has absolutely no respect for us!"
To this day, no one had figured out he was behind those absurdly difficult riddles now plaguing the bronze eagle knocker of the Ravenclaw common room. And it was all thanks to his exemplary acting skills.
Even their young Charms professor had been recruited to hunt down the so-called mastermind behind the increasingly complex questions. The irony was almost too much to bear.
Ian smirked.
At this rate, the case would go unsolved, an unspoken stain upon Hogwarts' investigative history, forever lingering in the records. He had already imagined what he'd write in his future memoirs:
"A shocking failure in Hogwarts' security, a cryptic perversion, left unchecked. Even my prodigious intellect failed to expose the identity of this riddle-wielding menace."
Oh, what a tragedy it would be.
A Ravenclaw by the fireplace suddenly groaned, stretching his arms above his head.
"Why doesn't Madam Hooch teach us how to fly in the rain? Now that would be practical knowledge."
Ian chuckled, dragging his chair a little closer to the warmth of the fire.
Yes, very practical indeed.
(To Be Continued…)