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Chapter 71: The Mystery of Bloodline, the Reason for the Blood Debt
🕑 Added 2025-04-06 19:17:19 +0000 UTCAs expected.
Ian missed the entire Hogwarts dinner.
After returning to the common room to hide the box securely in his trunk—complete with a Concealment Charm—he took a detour instead of heading straight to the kitchens to sate his hunger.
The cold wind outside the castle whistled through the cracks of the stone walls.
Ian wasn’t the kind of young wizard who would willingly starve himself—Hogwarts’ kitchens beneath the Great Hall were always an option. Still, tonight, he had another priority.
Knock, knock.
Ian stood before a familiar door in the castle’s dungeons and rapped firmly.
No answer.
“It’s me, Professor Snape. Ian. You picked me as the top student in Potions today, remember?” Ian raised his voice, calling through the door to the office beyond.
Click.
After a moment, the door creaked open.
Snape stood there, disheveled and expressionless. Behind him, the office was in a chaotic state that perfectly matched his own appearance—a mess of dark shelves crammed with strange glass jars, the walls curved like three enormous domes jammed together.
“Prince,” Snape said, his voice sharp. “Curfew is moments away. If you don’t want detention, the only place you should be right now is the Ravenclaw common room.”
He spat the word Ravenclaw with particular venom—biting, sarcastic, but also tinged with something unresolved and bitter.
“Would detention come with extra lessons?” Ian asked, tilting his head up to meet Snape’s piercing green eyes. “The kind that aren’t in textbooks?”
“…”
Snape’s eye twitched.
“If you can’t fix your attitude toward Potions,” he said coldly, “you will never learn true mastery from me.”
“I apologize right now. I’ll fix it immediately.” Ian straightened up, bowed a full ninety degrees, and held the position for several long moments.
The intensity of the gesture caught Snape off guard.
The Potions Master opened his mouth, ready to deliver a scathing remark, but nothing came out. He studied Ian closely, something conflicted flickering behind his dark gaze.
“If that’s truly why you’re here…” he muttered, turning away. He strode to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a worn, black-bound book.
“Take it. And get out of my office,” he snapped, tossing the book at Ian with a jerky motion.
“This book had another purpose,” Snape said stiffly. “But since you manipulated me into giving it away, your end-of-term exam will differ from everyone else’s.”
“If you fail to impress me… hmph.”
He left the threat hanging, hoping to stir tension. But Ian didn’t flinch. His eyes lit up as he caught the book.
Advanced Potion-Making.
And on the inside of the back cover, a small handwritten line.
Ian blinked in surprise.
This is the same one Harry Potter had?
“Who’s the Half-Blood Prince?” Ian asked innocently.
Snape’s face turned visibly red.
“That was the Half-Blood Prince, you idiot!” he growled, storming forward to snatch the book from Ian’s hands. He grabbed a quill from his desk and furiously scribbled over the words until they were illegible.
“I thought you’d be smarter than your idiotic father!”
After ensuring the name was completely erased, Snape shoved the book back into Ian’s chest.
“It belonged to my father?” Ian asked, already suspecting the truth.
He had long wondered about the possible connection between himself and Snape, and now the answer had revealed itself—abrupt and undeniable.
So it’s true.
Just as I thought…
What had once been a nebulous suspicion was now painfully real.
“Heh. Your father had the brains of a troll. This was a collector’s piece, from a so-called ‘great Potioneer’ of your family—long dead,” Snape lied poorly, clearly underestimating Ian’s awareness.
“Then you just defaced a master’s signature,” Ian noted dryly.
Snape looked momentarily speechless.
“I’m more brilliant than he ever was. I have every right,” he muttered stiffly.
A weak excuse.
Ian pretended to believe it.
“If you spent more time in the library instead of experimenting with dangerous substances alongside certain miscreants, you might’ve already learned what kind of family you were born into,” Snape sneered, returning to his familiar rhythm of icy sarcasm. There was even a trace of frustration in his tone.
“I borrowed the Hogwarts Register of Enrolled Students Throughout History. Just haven’t had time to look through it yet,” Ian said, catching the implication in Snape’s words—Snape was not his father.
“Do I have any living relatives?”
His sudden, quiet question made Snape pause.
“If you did, do you think you’d have ended up in an orphanage?” Snape’s expression darkened, and he looked away from Ian’s pale green eyes.
“Who did it?”
Ian didn’t remember anything about the parents of this life, but that didn’t mean he could treat it lightly. A slaughtered bloodline demanded a reckoning.
“Focus on your studies,” Snape said sharply, trying to push Ian out the door.
“Wait.”
Ian blocked the door with his hand.
“I’ve already answered enough of your questions,” Snape growled. “You never know when to shut up, do you?”
“I actually came to pay you back,” Ian said, pulling a heavy coin pouch from his pocket and pressing it into Snape’s confused hands.
“You sold the Felix Felicis, didn’t you?” Snape asked darkly. That much gold could only mean one thing.
Even as Ian shook his head, Snape’s glare didn’t waver.
“You’d be just the type to do it,” he muttered.
“I’m not that dumb,” Ian said. To reassure him, he showed the rest of his gold stashed in the inner folds of his robe and hidden pockets.
“I found a secret treasure in Hogwarts. My personal wealth finally saw positive growth.” Ian lowered his voice.
Snape stared at him in disbelief.
A treasure in Hogwarts?
Why didn’t he know about it?
“I’ll ask around. If I find out you robbed someone or threatened younger students with magic, I’ll personally escort you to Azkaban. You belong there,” Snape hissed.
What kind of villain does he think I am? Ian thought, mildly exasperated.
“You’ve clearly never heard of the romantic legacy of medieval treasure-hunting. Finding hidden gold doesn’t count as theft!”
“Better hope you’re right,” Snape grumbled.
He attempted to return the pouch of gold, but Ian dodged away. With a smirk, Ian tossed the pouch back through the open door.
“You think I’d accept a favor for just a few lousy Galleons?” he scoffed.
Snape’s forehead vein throbbed.
“Get out!”
The door slammed shut.
Seconds later—
Thunk!
The door cracked open just wide enough for a book to be shoved out. Advanced Potion-Making landed on the stone floor with a dull thud.
Bang!
The door slammed again, even harder.
Ian let out a quiet sigh, his expression sobering. He bent to retrieve the book, brushing his fingers across the space where Snape had obliterated the handwriting.
“A family of Potioneers…”
He murmured into the cold, empty hallway.
“Was it Voldemort who ordered the massacre after I was born, or…?”
The memory of Snape’s unnatural reactions replayed in his mind.
“My only remaining uncle…”
No one answered the young wizard’s whisper.
Only silence remained.
