Chapter 18: Unexpected! Sooner Than Tomorrow!

The peaceful village of Hogsmeade stirred with early morning activity as the sun rose over its rooftops.

Thin trails of smoke curled from chimneys, blending with the lingering morning mist. Though the hour was still early, many witches and wizards were already out and about—strolling through the streets, sipping drinks, and engaging in lively conversations, enjoying the leisurely village atmosphere.

Inside a small wooden cottage, the modest windowpanes gleamed as sunlight pierced through the clouds, scattering dappled patterns across the room. Delicate vines crept along the window frame, their green leaves speckled with tiny, unknown flowers that swayed gently in the breeze, carrying a faint floral fragrance mixed with the earthy scent of damp soil.

"Teeth brushed! Face washed! Ready for a brand-new day!"

This wasn't Ian's second day in Hogsmeade—he had been here for several days now. Yet, in all that time, the man who had unceremoniously dumped him here, Severus Snape, had not visited him even once.

If not for Ian's exceptional ability to take care of himself, surviving alone in a foreign place at his young age—barely past ten—would have been as difficult as an outright survival challenge in the wild.

"Start the day with a honeyed fruit tart—self-discipline is key!"

By now, Ian had thoroughly familiarized himself with the village. After picking up breakfast from Honeydukes, he made his way to the Three Broomsticks, intending to buy a cup of lemonade.

"Good to see you, little Ian."

Madam Rosmerta, the pub's proprietress, was a woman whose charm had only deepened with age. Many of her regular patrons found her utterly captivating, but her appeal was entirely lost on Ian.

He much preferred younger, livelier girls.

"If you'd be willing to sell me a Butterbeer, I'd be even happier to see you, Madam Rosmerta," Ian said, his gaze fixed on the shelves of liquor behind her.

For days, he had been curious about the drink that everyone seemed to praise so highly, but despite multiple attempts, he had yet to convince her to let him have even a sip.

Even the persuasive power of Galleons had failed him.

"If you manage to age up to thirteen overnight, I'd gladly treat you to a Butterbeer myself," Rosmerta replied with a knowing smile—yet another gentle refusal.

"Rules are dead, but people are alive. A little flexibility could be good for business, you know," Ian countered, still unwilling to give up.

"I like the way you think, but between earning a few extra Sickles and getting fined by the Ministry, I'd say the latter is far more likely," she chuckled, sliding a glass of lemonade across the counter toward him.

Ian took a sip—and immediately regretted it.

The sheer tartness made his entire face scrunch up.

He couldn't blame anyone but himself for this.

The alternative—the overly creamy and herbal tea common here—was simply unbearable to him.

"Good lord! Did they soak these lemons in pure souring potion?!"

Ian's half-lidded, drowsy eyes instantly sharpened into full wakefulness.

"Hahaha! No potions here, my dear! I just squeezed in two extra lemons for you!" Rosmerta laughed heartily and swiftly snatched up Ian's money before he could reconsider his purchase.

A precaution against any potential refund attempts, of course.

"…"

Faced with the full brunt of an experienced adult witch's mischief, what could Ian do?

With no better option, he muttered under his breath about getting a 'bonus two lemons' as a form of self-consolation. Then, he quickly popped two Peppermint Humbugs into his mouth and made a swift retreat from the 'lair of an evil sorceress.'

Over the past few days, Ian had made himself known at several shops around town. He adapted quickly, far better than most young wizards his age.

That said, he still hadn't fully adjusted to the lifestyle of the wizarding world.

The prices were astronomical compared to the Muggle world.

If not for the cold, hard Galleons that Snape had begrudgingly left him, Ian might have been forced to sell wild herbs on street corners like a pitiful Dickensian orphan—so destitute that even Ron Weasley would have taken pity on him.

"Little Ian, up for another round of Wizard's Chess?"

Along the cobbled street, amidst the storefronts, an eccentric middle-aged wizard wearing an absurdly large top hat waved at Ian with a friendly grin.

He was a chess hustler—his 'business' was simple: one Sickle per game, and if the challenger won, they'd earn five Sickles in return.

"You should try swindling someone else—I'm just a kid," Ian replied, glancing briefly at the enchanted chess pieces before decisively refusing.

He had already lost several Sickles to this so-called 'friendly match.'

The man was a master manipulator, skilled in setting up games that made his opponents feel like they had barely lost—just enough to tempt them into trying again.

It didn't matter whether you were a complete novice like Ian or a seasoned player; in the end, you'd always walk away after a close loss, reluctantly handing over a coin.

At first, Ian had entertained the foolish notion that he might be some kind of Wizard's Chess prodigy.

Then, he witnessed an actual international chess champion suffer the same 'so close!' fate as him and promptly understood the true depths of the hustler's game.

"Honestly, you've got potential. A little more practice and you might just win," the chess master said, keeping a perfectly straight face.

Ian ignored him.

Without a word, he turned and jogged away—after all, gambling, like certain unforgivable curses, was best avoided altogether.

Back at the Cottage

"Incendio!"

A flicker of flame burst from the tip of Ian's wand.

As per his daily routine, once he returned home, he threw himself into practice.

He had already learned four spells from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1: Lumos, Wingardium Leviosa, Alohomora, and Reparo—all of which he had achieved basic proficiency in.

Now, he was working on his fifth spell: Incendio.

Among the first-year spells, it was one of the few with actual offensive potential.

While typically used for lighting fires as a convenient replacement for Muggle lighters or flame-throwers, it was still capable of inflicting burns if used recklessly.

"Incendio!"

"Incendio!"

"Incendio!"

With each cast, the flames grew a little more controlled, and the proficiency counter on his personal magic interface inched forward.

[Incendio (Level 1): 1/100]

As soon as the spell reached level one, an all-too-familiar wave of magical exhaustion washed over Ian. He knew it was time to stop for the day.

Cleaning. Laundry.

There was still plenty to do.

A life without television was less entertaining, but there was a certain satisfaction in its simplicity.

That Night…

Ian went to bed earlier than usual.

The reason?

Tonight was that night again—the night he would enter the Ethereal Realm.

"I wonder if Ariana has returned."

As his consciousness drifted into slumber, it crossed the threshold into that mysterious, isolated world—the realm of the dead.

But the moment Ian opened his eyes…

"Huh?"

Something was wrong.

Gone were the familiar dreamscape's endless meadows, the clear blue sky, and the welcoming rustle of trees.

Instead, he found himself standing in an opulent palace.

Gilded, grand, and utterly unfamiliar.

As soon as he appeared, the furniture around him sprang to life—growing arms and legs, scurrying away in sheer panic.

"A human! A real human!"

"So terrifying!"

"AHHH! HELP!"

The room was thrown into complete chaos.

Only one piece of furniture remained unmoved: a grand golden chair, upon which a woman sat.

She gazed at Ian with mild amusement.

"Well, now… this is quite the surprise."