Remembering the Departed Professor

Perhaps.

In the girl's heart.

An accomplice is a relationship more intimate than a friend.

Family tradition is nothing more than this.

"This person suddenly went missing in the small town; I'm afraid the Aurors will be drawn here soon." Ian still remembered those wizards on the main street saying that even a bar fight could bring the Aurors running.

To this group of police in the wizarding world, it was as if they had eyes and ears everywhere. Perhaps they didn't know exactly what had happened, but they could always sense when something was amiss.

Could the wizarding world have some sort of all-seeing eye?

Something similar to the Trace?

"Kraft will handle everything."

Aurora helped Ian latch the top of the wooden box. She seemed long accustomed to such matters; the entire process of killing and disposing of the body was performed with practiced ease.

"That's good, then."

Ian still felt a bit uneasy, but he clearly couldn't do anything about it. From the moment he stepped into this bookstore, he had been unable to avoid being dragged into this situation.

If he had to blame someone, he'd blame the unlucky day.

He shouldn't have spent those extra two minutes eating at home, shouldn't have spent those extra two minutes in the bathroom... It was too late to say anything now; a new layer of gloom had settled over his sensitive status as an orphan from Wool's.

"Was that Fiendfyre you used just now?"

Watching Aurora first clean the floor with water and then destroy the broom and mop along with it, Ian felt he needed some spiritual comfort.

"Do you want to learn?"

Aurora seemed to see right through Ian's thoughts. It didn't take much insight, after all; Ian's slightly gleaming eyes were filled with curiosity and longing for Fiendfyre.

"Yes, is it very easy to lose control?"

Ian still remembered that in the original story, one of Malfoy's lackeys had burned himself to death playing with fire. This magic was terrifying; it was likely far more dangerous than the magic he had tried to strengthen last night.

"It's in the book I gave you. My grandfather's explanations are always detailed." Aurora walked back behind the counter and sat down on that backless chair again.

"I feel it shouldn't be too hard for you."

She acted as if nothing had happened, picking up the runic notebook once more to flip through it.

"Thanks, I'll take a look when I get back."

Ian was already impatient to slip away.

"Remember to take the trash with you."

Aurora didn't look up, her attention fully returned to the notes. The "trash" she referred to was clearly the box left on the spot, which even had traces of corpse ash along its edges.

"You really know how to order people around."

Ian didn't really want to parade such dangerous goods through the streets.

"I haven't received permission to leave this shop yet. Can this count as a request?" Aurora spoke from behind the counter, her tone sounding somewhat helpless.

"Fine, since I'm happy to help a friend. But you'll have to give me something in return next time."

Ian looked left and right, found a piece of burlap to wrap the wooden box in, and after checking that no ash would leak out, he picked up the tightly wrapped box and headed toward the front door.

"Accomplice."

The girl reminded him again, serious and precise.

"..."

Ian always felt that this was a title that brought one dangerously close to Azkaban. He hurriedly quickened his pace, stepping out of the dark wizard's lair and breathing in the air outside the bookstore, free of the stench of burnt flesh.

Ian had come.

And now he was leaving.

When he arrived, he carried a brand-new book box filled with knowledge.

When he left, he was lugging a casket filled with human ashes.

The box was still the same box.

Only the nature of its use had changed slightly.

On the way back.

Ian felt quite tense. Fortunately, no idle wizards stopped him for questioning; only the wizarding chess player at a street stall, who was trying to swindle money, greeted him enthusiastically.

With school about to start.

Many unfamiliar faces had appeared in Hogsmeade Village. Perhaps this place was far less prosperous than Diagon Alley, but it was, after all, one of the few places for English wizards to socialize.

Rich in history.

Ancient in tradition.

On his way back, Ian even saw a few young couples who were already drawn to each other, and like the other wizards along the road, he found it nothing out of the ordinary.

Although this is the wizarding world, it is England after all, and as everyone knows, England has always enjoyed the reputation of being a "Little Chengdu."

"Professor."

"Good morning, Professor."

Along the way, Ian also saw several clearly adult wizards greeting a woman who was purchasing items in the village. He could recognize that the woman was a teacher at Hogwarts.

The Head of Gryffindor.

Minerva McGonagall.

She was his Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts. He didn't know why she had come to Hogsmeade Village to shop; perhaps this professor also kept a residence in Hogsmeade, much like Snape's cabin.

"You actually have a child now? Crybaby Henry."

"Richard, I heard you passed your Auror exams. Congratulations."

"Daisy, the time you turned your own wand into a pig's trotter remains my favorite story to tell in class to this day."

Professor McGonagall seemed to remember every student who had ever graduated. Regardless of whether they came from Gryffindor, she could accurately call everyone by name and recall their most embarrassing moments.

Perhaps only by holding a true passion for one's profession could one remember every little detail from their career.

She doesn't seem as stern as she was in the movies; perhaps it's because she isn't at school right now. Ian only watched this scene from afar.

Clutching the urn that would land him in prison for life, how could he dare to approach a professor with such keen insight? The wisest choice was certainly to bypass this group of Hogwarts alumni and take another path.

Simply disposing of the urn wouldn't do; if it were dug up, it would be a massive problem. Perhaps he could plant it in the garden, but there was no guarantee Snape wouldn't discover it in the future.

Throw it in the river?

If anyone witnessed it, that would also be trouble.

It seems the old ancestors' methods are the most reliable!

Back at the cabin, Ian pried open the floorboards he had just relaid and dug up the living room floor that Snape had just refilled. He buried the entire wooden box, along with the ashes of the dead, deep into the earth beneath the cabin.

"There's plenty of space here; I could probably bury ten or eight more people without any trouble."

Ian covered the soil back up and nailed the floorboards of the living room back into place. He compared it to the previous layout and, sensing nothing out of the ordinary, finally breathed a sigh of relief and began to fill his stomach with cauldron cakes.

After eating and drinking his fill, Ian fished the hidden Secrets of the Darkest Art out of the toilet tank.

I am still too weak!

In truth, before today, Ian had still felt a bit self-satisfied. After all, holding the Avada Truth at such a young age—it would be impossible for him not to feel a little bit conceited.

However, the silent casting of the Fiendfyre Curse by a peer had made him realize once again that this world was not lacking in geniuses, nor was it lacking in conflicts where people would resort to violence at the slightest disagreement.

Only the strong can survive.

The weak only end up in a box buried in the ground.

Not wanting to invite trouble didn't mean that trouble wouldn't come knocking on his door.

In this cruel wizarding world, I am truly walking on thin ice!

Recalling the adult wizard who had been burned alive before his eyes, Ian understood that only by working harder to improve himself could he gain enough of a sense of security.

The great man was right: a peaceful and stable life only exists within the coverage range of the Avada Lightning Chain...

The book opened.

Under the glow of his wand, forbidden knowledge began to unfold for the budding sprout of his ideals.