Chapter 24: A Relic of the Past

As expected.

Some things remain the same, no matter where you go.

And when it comes to assignments—

They're never easy.

Ian had a feeling that he was well on his way to becoming the least popular student at Hogwarts. After all, even Hermione Granger, the infamous bookworm of the Golden Trio, only outpaced her peers and classmates.

But him?

He hadn't even officially enrolled yet—

And he was already diving into material that was meant for third-years. Ancient Runes, a subject categorized as an elective, was typically reserved for those who found their regular coursework manageable enough to take on additional academic challenges.

A true scholar.

Or, perhaps, a complete lunatic.

"Well, they say the capable should do more," Ian muttered to himself as he carefully stored away the fragment of robes in his possession. Extinguishing the faint glow of his wand, he climbed back into bed.

That night, his dreams were chaotic and fragmented.

At sunrise, Ian wasted no time getting ready. Without a moment's delay, he made his way to the bookshop in Hogsmeade.

Most students, he knew, probably didn't even realize Hogsmeade had a bookshop.

In fact, it was likely that the majority of Hogwarts students went their entire school careers without ever stepping inside. The shop, tucked away behind the well-known quill store, was little more than a second-hand bookshop with no signage to mark its presence.

Despite its rundown appearance, the store had a curious business model—every year, it acquired unsold textbooks and surplus stock from Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley, reselling them to the rare students who actually visited on Hogsmeade weekends.

Of course, that was the problem.

Few students came to Hogsmeade to buy books.

Most of them were far more interested in Honeydukes, Zonko's Joke Shop, or a warm drink from the Three Broomsticks.

And yet, the bookshop persisted.

How its owner managed to stay in business was anyone's guess.

Ian stepped inside, his gaze immediately landing on an old man reclining in a worn-out rocking chair.

The shopkeeper had a ruddy complexion, a head of sparse but strikingly silver hair—like frost-dusted pine needles—and a pair of round spectacles perched on his nose.

He radiated a quiet scholarly air.

"You're the young wizard staying in the village, aren't you?"

The old man's voice was calm, carrying a tone of mild curiosity.

Ian wasn't surprised he had already been noticed. After all, it wasn't often that an eleven-year-old took up temporary residence in Hogsmeade before even setting foot in Hogwarts.

"Yes, sir."

He maintained his usual polite demeanor.

"For someone your age, studying Runes is a bit… premature," the old man mused, making no move to leave his chair.

"I'm simply very interested in the subject," Ian replied, using his youthful enthusiasm as a shield. "I hope to become a great scholar of ancient magical scripts one day."

He adopted a look of eager determination, playing the role of a bright-eyed, ambitious student.

The shopkeeper regarded him thoughtfully.

"A lofty goal."

For the first time, the old man sat up properly.

"But ideals and reality are often two very different things. Most students struggle just to keep up with their core subjects."

Despite his skeptical tone, he slowly got to his feet and shuffled toward the back of the store.

His movements were unsteady, his posture slightly frail. Yet, oddly enough, there was no trace of weakness in his expression.

A contradiction.

"That may be true for most," Ian said with a slight grin, his white teeth gleaming. "But there are always exceptions, aren't there?"

The shopkeeper turned back to give Ian another considering look.

"Young, sharp-tongued, and brimming with confidence… I'd wager you'll be a Slytherin."

With that, he began sorting through the disorganized piles of books.

"I've only been running this place for three months," he muttered, half to himself. "The previous owner wasn't much for tidiness. Then again, neither am I."

Ian simply waited patiently.

He had long since mastered the art of appearing like a well-mannered, obedient child.

"Ah, here we are."

Despite barely exerting himself, the old man was already breathing heavily.

A lingering injury, perhaps? Something from his youth that had taken a lasting toll?

With slightly trembling hands, he pulled out three books from a pile on the floor and handed them to Ian.

It was then that Ian noticed something unusual.

A tattoo.

A golden Snitch, etched onto the inside of the man's forearm, detailed and lifelike.

It caught Ian's attention immediately.

"That's a beautiful design," he remarked.

The shopkeeper's gaze flicked to him, and Ian quickly added, "I hope I wasn't being rude—just admiring the craftsmanship."

"It was beautiful once," the old man said softly.

There was something distant in his eyes, a shadow of old memories.

Ian chose not to pry. Some stories were best left in the past.

There were only two possibilities—either it was the remnant of a youthful romance, or it held the weight of something deeper.

Given the country they were in, he had no way of knowing for sure.

Ian decided not to ask.

"How much for these?" He changed the subject smoothly.

"Six Galleons."

The old man settled back into his chair.

"Six?!" Ian nearly choked.

"That's the second-hand price," the shopkeeper said, amused by Ian's reaction. "If you bought them new from Diagon Alley, it would cost you double. Ancient Runes didn't become an elective just because it's difficult—it's also expensive."

Ian fell silent.

For the first time, he truly understood why, in every generation, knowledge was often monopolized by the privileged few.

The profits of selling knowledge were far higher than one would expect.

"Fine. Thank you."

Ian didn't bother questioning whether he was being overcharged. He had no way to compare prices, and besides, it wasn't worth the trouble.

Reaching into his pouch, he carefully counted out six Galleons and placed them on the counter.

"If you ever decide to give up on studying, I'll buy them back for three Galleons," the shopkeeper added with a smirk, as if fully expecting Ian to quit.

"I doubt that will happen," Ian replied with a polite smile.

With that, he gathered his books and left the shop.

Silence returned to the dimly lit store.

The old man leaned back into his rocking chair, lost in thought.

For a long time, he simply stared at the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

Then, as if stirred by some distant memory, he slowly raised his arm.

His gnarled fingers brushed over the golden Snitch tattoo, tracing its familiar shape.

And as the sunlight from the window illuminated the faded ink, the past came rushing back—

A time of loyalty.

A time of sacrifice.

A time that had faded into the past.