Chapter 70: Hogwarts, Witness to All Secrets!

Who could resist the allure of becoming Ravenclaw’s little emperor? The male prefect giving you back rubs, the female prefect washing your feet, the entire student body lining up to welcome the return of Ravenclaw’s lost diadem.

Such a scene might seem a bit childish to a high schooler.

But for a math major who’d been suddenly transported to the magical world—without the chance to play the stock market or invest in Bitcoin, and who never got close to studying at Eton College—arriving at Hogwarts to study magic was already a dream come true. And this... this was the cherry on top.

“It’s all that noseless freak Tom’s fault!” Ian muttered. He might have lost his chance to ascend the throne of Ravenclaw, but what Voldemort had lost was far greater than just Merope Gaunt’s bloodline.

He was about to rid the world of the Horcrux that the mutant of evil had hidden away in the Room of Requirement.

The Enchanted Abyss—
That would be its final resting place.

“Professor Mara is going to love this new toy,” Ian said, tucking the carefully packed diadem under his arm. He also grabbed a few abandoned spell notebooks from the shelves nearby.

He had always been a diligent student. Even notes left behind by long-dead overachievers would help him skyrocket his proficiency in charms.

Click.

He twisted the bronze doorknob of the Room of Requirement.

Before stepping out, Ian took a final glance at the room, packed with treasures and lost relics. He wouldn’t take everything—not this time—but he would definitely return to pick out valuables to help fund his alchemy studies.

“Good buddy, I’ll keep you safe from now on,” Ian whispered, patting the wall fondly. He had always believed that Hogwarts had a will of its own.

“Really, I’m just reclaiming what’s been discarded. Little Harry actually looted private property. Compared to that, my conscience is only slightly guilty.”

With a metallic groan, the heavy bronze door opened. Ian stepped out, but just as he was about to shut it behind him, a feeble voice echoed in his ears.

“You seem to be taking something out of here, child.”

Ian turned around.

The voice came from a portrait—Barnabas the Barmy. The troll in the painting was no longer pummeling him and had taken a break under a fruit tree, panting heavily.

“Am I not allowed to?” Ian asked, puzzled.

“If it were just ordinary things, of course not,” Barnabas said, resting his swollen face on a stone while raising his equally bruised rear. “Treasure without a master belongs to those who find it. That’s a relic of the romantic treasure-hunting age of the Middle Ages.”

He had a point.

If Hogwarts didn’t want anyone to take the hidden objects, why would it allow them to be found in the first place? Especially here—in the Room of Requirement, where things could be hidden from almost anyone.

That was the whole point.

If everyone could see it, no one would ever bother hiding anything here.

“Bless the Founders, bless our ancestors, bless Hogwarts,” Ian murmured, humbly paying his respects to anyone and everyone who might be listening. He believed in spreading the gratitude evenly.

Barnabas’s gaze remained fixed on the box under Ian’s arm. He spoke again.

“I just don’t recommend you take that diadem. It’s been tainted by dark magic...”

That caught Ian off guard.

“You actually know about that?” he asked, surprised.

Barnabas gave a weary nod. “I watched that foul little wizard hide Ravenclaw’s crown in this very room, full of malice and evil.”

Just like the castle that had witnessed all its students’ secrets, the portraits—often ignored—had silently observed countless stories unfold.

Ian’s curiosity stirred.

“Why didn’t you tell the professors? I thought portraits could talk to the staff, or even hop into other paintings to gossip.”

“Because the bastard cursed me with an Unspeakable Hex,” Barnabas growled. “I can’t tell anyone about the diadem unless they already know it’s here.”

Frustration was clear in his voice.

“Until you came to the Room, I’d never seen a child quite as ruthless. You’ve got the decisiveness and boldness of a true medieval wizard.”

It seemed that Barnabas had an older name for the Room of Requirement. And perhaps... he wasn’t quite the fool everyone thought he was.

“One of my elders used to say, ‘Kindness outside the home is a blade turned inward.’” Ian shrugged. “I don’t think I’m a bad kid.”

Peeves had nearly attacked him point-blank, after all. He’d only countered with Sectumsempra—the most controlled spell in his current arsenal of nasty options.

Given the circumstances, he had to choose between the Cruciatus Curse, Fiendfyre, the Killing Curse, Sectumsempra, or the Imperius Curse. He picked the least deadly.

If he’d had a moment to think, he would’ve just made Peeves dance a ridiculous jig with a curse or two.

“Fascinating. You actually follow the old Wayfarer’s Code,” Barnabas said, nodding appreciatively. “Your elder clearly wasn’t a graduate of the Hogwarts houses… no, someone with your instincts likely comes from far older blood.”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Perhaps one of your ancestors even… slept with a ghost.”

The nonsense caught Ian off guard.

For a brief moment, he was sorely tempted to draw a few giant teddy bears in the portrait to attack Barnabas instead of the troll.

“At least none of my ancestors were spanked by a troll.”

Critical hit.

Barnabas’s expression twisted into a bitter, pained grimace.

“In any case,” he said finally, “I truly hope you won’t use the diadem. It’s dangerous. You may think you can resist it, but dark magic like that has a way of corrupting even the strongest minds. What once brought wisdom may now only bring ruin.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not stupid enough to put it on my head,” Ian replied. “I know a thing or two about souls. I’ll handle it with care.”

He offered Barnabas a polite bow, tucked the small box more securely under his arm, and began descending the stairs. The cheerful clink of Galleons in his pockets echoed with every step.

“You may have helped Hogwarts rid itself of a curse,” Barnabas’s voice floated after him, “but I still think you’re more dangerous than the other one. What kind of first-year starts dabbling in soul magic?”

Behind him, Barnabas barely had time for one final grumble before the troll in his painting stood up, having finished its break. With a grunt, it lifted its club and began its next round of beatings.