The Raven swooped down.
Its feathers are jet black, yet they gleam with a metallic sheen.
Its wings are broad and powerful, each flap creating a hurricane; its eyes are deep and unfathomable, gleaming with wisdom beyond the mundane. It swoops down from the sky with astonishing speed, like a black arrow.
It shot straight at the stitched-together monster!
The stitched-together monster's eyes widened simultaneously, their dark red light flickering. Bellatrix's voice emanated from the fused face, tinged with barely concealed fear. " Raven..."
The Raven stopped abruptly less than three feet from the ground.
Its wings suddenly spread open, whipping up a gust of wind that scattered the pebbles and dust everywhere. Its body began to change—not a Transfiguration, not an illusion, but a more essential, more natural change.
The fang's body stretched and expanded, its feathers transformed into robes, its wings into arms, and its claws into feet.
A boy stands in the middle of the ruins.
He looked about twelve or thirteen years old, with black hair and delicate features. He wore ordinary dark clothes and had his hands in his pockets. His eyes were dark and deep, like a bottomless pool. He just stood there, looking no different from any other ordinary twelve-year-old child. But everyone knew he wasn't.
Flitwick's pupils contracted slightly. He didn't recognize the boy, but he recognized the Raven. He had read those ancient legends, those records about the Incarnation of Destiny, those dusty tomes buried deep within the Hogwarts Library. He thought they were just legends, the imagination of ancient Wizard, just mysterious embellishments given to inexplicable phenomena.
But now, the Raven stood before him, transformed into a boy.
Ian Prince turned and looked at the stitched-together monster. His expression was calm, and there was no emotion in his deep eyes. There was no anger, no fear, only a faint, almost calm understanding.
" Bellatrix," he said, his voice calm and composed, "You've become uglier again."
The stitched-together monster's body shuddered violently. Its eyes blinked simultaneously, flashing a dark red light wildly. On Bellatrix's half-face, the mouth opened, emitting a sharp, angry roar.
"Who—who are you?!"
Ian tilted his head, a hint of a smile flashing in his deep eyes.
"You don't know who I am?" His voice was calm and composed. "Your master has searched for so long, and you still don't know who I am?" The stitched-together monster trembled violently. Its eyes widened simultaneously, the dark red light growing brighter. Of course it knew. It knew the Raven, knew the being that kept its master awake at night, knew the mysterious boy who stood on the reef in Azkaban, watching its master flee in disarray. " The Raven..." Bellatrix's voice was low and hoarse, filled with a morbid, almost manic hatred, "You are that Raven." Ian nodded. "I am."
He took a step forward. The stitched-up monster took a step back. Its eyes blinked simultaneously, their dark red light flickering.
"Where is your master?" Ian asked, his voice calm and composed. "Is he hiding in the back again, sending you all to your deaths?"
Bellatrix's lips twitched on the other half of her face. "Master—Master won't let you get away with this! Master has the power of Deep Space! Master is Legend! You—what are you?!"
Ian looked at her, his deep eyes devoid of any emotion.
"Who do I am?" His voice was calm and composed. "I'm here to collect debts."
He raised his hand, and the wand slid out of his sleeve and landed in his palm.
The stitched-together monster moved first.
It gave Ian no time to prepare—five arms rose simultaneously, their claws flashing through the air like five streaks of cold light, aiming straight for Ian's head, chest, and abdomen! The speed was astonishing, and the force was enough to tear steel apart!
Ian did not dodge.
With a gentle wave of his wand, a beam of silvery-white light shot from its tip, forming a rotating, shield-like barrier in front of him. The claws struck the barrier, producing a piercing, metallic sound, Mars flying, yet they could not penetrate it. The stitched-together monster swung its claws frantically, once, twice, three times—each impact causing the barrier to tremble slightly, but the barrier remained unmoved.
"That's it?" Ian looked at it, his voice calm and composed.
Bellatrix's lips twitched slightly on the other half of her face. "You—!"
She abruptly retracted her claws, and her eyes simultaneously emitted a blinding dark red light. Light shot out from her body like countless tiny, blazing rays, striking Ian from all directions! Each ray carried the chaotic qualities of Deep Space, enough to corrode any matter and scorch any soul! Ian's wand spun rapidly in his hand, forming a swirling, whirlwind-like barrier of silvery light around him. The dark red rays collided with the barrier, shattering and vanishing into nothingness. Not a single one could penetrate it.
"Didn't your master tell you?" Ian's voice was calm and composed. "The power of Deep Space is useless against me."
The stitched-together monster's body trembled violently. Its eyes blinked wildly, their dark red light flickering erratically. On Bellatrix's half-face, the mouth opened, emitting a sharp, furious roar.
"Impossible! Master's power is limitless! You—you can't possibly..."
"Impossible what?" Ian interrupted her. "Impossible to block? Impossible to survive? Impossible to stand here?"
He took a step forward. The stitched-up monster took a step back.
"Your master is very strong," Ian said, his voice calm and composed, "But his strength is borrowed. It was given to him by the Deep Space, bestowed upon him by those indescribable beings. It is not his own."
He paused, a faint, slightly mocking smile appearing on his lips.
"And my strength—I earned it myself."
He raised his wand, its tip pointing at the stitched monster. A silvery-white beam of light shot from the tip, as thin as a hair, yet carrying an indescribable, irresistible power. The light struck the stitched monster's chest; there was no explosion, no impact, only a silent, utter annihilation. The flesh touched by the light instantly turned to nothingness, vanishing piece by piece like pencil drawings erased by an eraser.
The stitched-together monster let out a piercing howl, its eyes closing simultaneously, a dark red light flickering wildly beneath its eyelids. It retreated, trying to escape, but Ian's wand was pointed at it, the silvery-white light relentlessly pursuing it, catching up wherever it ran. "You can't escape," Ian's voice was calm and composed. "Your master abandoned you. He sent you to your death, hiding behind you and watching you die."
On the other half of Bellatrix's face, her mouth opened, and a sharp, desperate scream escaped her lips. "No—my master won't abandon me—my master loves me!"
"Love you?" Ian shook his head. "He doesn't even love himself, how could he love you?"
With a flick of the wand, the silvery-white light suddenly spread, enveloping the entire body of the stitched-together monster. Its eyes opened simultaneously, emitting a final, desperate, dark red glow. Tentacles emerged from its body, flailing wildly, trying to grasp at something, trying to escape the light. But all was in vain.
The silvery-white light grew brighter and more intense, gradually engulfing the stitched-together monster's body. Its claws turned to ash, its arms to ash, its eyes to ash. Its roar grew weaker and weaker, fading into the distance, finally becoming a faint, sobbing sigh before disappearing into the light.
When the light faded, the stitched-together monster was gone.
On the ground, only a pile of ashes remained, along with dark red traces that were still emitting bluish smoke.
Ian put away his wand, stared at the pile of ashes, and remained silent for a few seconds.
Then he turned around and looked at the Death Eater.
The Death Eater stood there, wands raised, but none dared to cast a spell. They stared at the boy, at the pile of ashes, at the still-smoldering traces, their minds blank.
A stitched-together monster—the one that baffled the Hogwarts professors, routed the Auror, and instilled in them awe that made them afraid to approach—was reduced to ashes in minutes by a twelve-year-old boy.
Ian looked at them, his deep eyes devoid of any emotion.
"Get out," he said, his voice calm and composed.
The Death Eater snapped out of their daze and turned to run. Some turned into black smoke, some Apparition, and some tumbled and crawled towards the sea, leaping into the ocean. No one looked back, no one dared to look back, and no one wanted to be next.
The prisoners scattered and fled as well. They didn't know who the boy was, why he possessed such power, or whether he would attack them. All they knew was that if they didn't run, they might be the next to turn to ashes.
A few minutes later, only the Hogwarts professors, Auror, and the black-haired boy standing in the center of the ruins remained.
Flitwick looked at Ian, his large eyes filled with complex emotions—shock, awe, and a hint of barely concealed confusion. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found himself unable to utter a sound.
Sprout, supporting the injured professor, looked at Ian, equally speechless. Her apron was stained with blood, and her face was covered in dust and tear stains, but her eyes shone with an indescribable light.
Slughorn leaned against the wall, panting heavily, sweat still dripping from his forehead. He looked at Ian, at the pile of ashes, at the smoldering traces, and a complex, indescribable emotion welled up inside him. He knew who the boy was—at least, he knew who the Raven was. Those ancient legends, those accounts of Incarnation of Destiny, those dusty books sealed in the deepest recesses of the Hogwarts Library —he had read them. He had thought they were just legends.
But now, the Raven was standing right in front of him.
Shacklebolt emerged from the tower, followed by several Auror were still able to stand. He looked at Ian, at the pile of ashes, at the Death Eater and prisoners who had already fled. His face was expressionless, but his eyes churned with complex emotions.
He walked over to Flitwick and asked in a low voice, "Who is that?"
Flitwick shook his head. "I don't know," his voice was hoarse and calm, "But I've seen him."
Shacklebolt glanced at him but didn't press the matter. He simply looked at the boy, at his calm, somewhat childish face, and at his deep, seemingly all-seeing eyes.
Ian turned around and looked at the professors and the Auror. His expression was calm, and his deep eyes were devoid of emotion. He looked at them for a few seconds, then nodded.
"You've worked hard," he said, his voice calm and composed.
Then he turned around and walked out of the ruins.
No one stopped him, no one dared to stop him. They just stood there, watching the boy's back as he walked further and further away in the morning light, watching his figure disappear into the end of the ruins.
Shacklebolt remained silent for a long time before finally speaking, "Who exactly is he?"
No one could answer him.
Flitwick stared in the direction Ian had disappeared, a complex light flickering in his large eyes. He knew who the boy was—at least, he knew who the Raven was. He had read those ancient legends, those accounts of Incarnation of Destiny, those dusty tomes buried deep within the Hogwarts Library. He had thought they were just legends, the imaginations of ancient Wizard, the mystique artificially bestowed upon inexplicable phenomena. But now, the Raven stood before him, transformed into a boy.
"He's Dumbledore's henchman," Flitwick finally said, his voice hoarse and calm. "Anything else... I don't know."
Shacklebolt nodded and didn't ask any more questions.
He knew that some things were not his to ask, some powers were not his to understand, and some beings were not his to touch. "Everyone, it's alright now."
Ian walked slowly and calmly out of the ruins. Morning light filtered through the gaps in the clouds, casting a faint golden hue on his black hair. His robes fluttered gently in the sea breeze, and the blasted rubble and dust scattered at his feet, as if making way for him. Shacklebolt watched his retreating figure, hesitated for a moment, and then followed after him.
"Wait a moment." His voice was hoarse and tired, but carried an undeniable firmness.
Ian stopped and turned to look at him. His deep eyes held no emotion, only a calm, indifferent gaze. "Is there anything else?"
Shacklebolt opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found himself at a loss for words. He wanted to say "thank you," but the words felt too weak. Thank you—those three words weren't enough. If it hadn't been for this boy, they might all have died under the claws of that stitched-together monster.
Those professors, those Auror, those wounded still bleeding in the tower—they all owed him a life.
"I am Kingsley Shacklebolt, Deputy Director of the Auror Office," he finally said, his voice much calmer. " The Ministry of Magic will keep a record of today's events. We will not forget your help."
Ian looked at him, a faint smile flashing in his deep eyes.
"No need to remember. No need to thank me." His voice was calm and composed. "I'm not here to help you. I'm here to solve my own problem." Upon hearing this...
Shacklebolt's brow furrowed slightly.