Meeting

Ian watched the map before him.

It was his redesigned version of the Marauder's Map, but its functions far surpassed the original.

Unlike the original's magical range, which was limited to Hogwarts, this map could track the location of any wizard anywhere in the world. As long as he possessed the target's blood, hair, fingernail, saliva, or a personal item with a powerful magical resonance, Ian could locate them with the Tracking Spell.

Of course, the greater the power, the greater the restrictions.

For a name to appear on the map, he first had to establish a connection with the target's magic. Maintaining that connection required a constant supply of energy. To prevent his energy from running dry, he had also made a copy that he carried with him. Linked to the main map, it could display the movements of every target in real time.

At that moment, a flickering name on the map caught his attention—Quirinus Quirrell.

Ian watched the string of glowing points, his expression calm.

He saw Quirrell's position suddenly vanish from Hogwarts' main building and reappear in the distant forests of Albania.

"Finally making your move?" Ian murmured.

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. The next second, his figure vanished into thin air.

Deep in the forests of Albania, cold mist hung in the air.

Quirrell was wrapped in a cloak, his face hidden beneath a hood. Unease flickered in his eyes as he kept looking around, seemingly waiting for something.

The air was thick with dampness. Dead leaves skittered in the wind, rustling softly.

"Quirrell, just how far have you fallen?" a calm voice said behind him.

Quirrell spun around. When he saw the approaching figure, his heart clenched—it was Ian Bones.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Quirrell's voice turned low and hoarse, a deliberately suppressed tremor running through it. "You've mistaken me for someone else."

Ian smiled faintly. "Stop pretending. I'm the one who sent you that 'secret letter.'"

After a brief pause, his tone became calm yet razor-sharp. "I'm not here for you. I want to speak with the 'gentleman' hiding at the back of your head."

Quirrell's pupils contracted sharply. The next moment, his wand flashed green.

He struck first.

A spell shot out, but Ian dispelled it with a casual wave.

The ground bulged under the impact of Cursed Energy. The soil suddenly burst apart, and dozens of sharp earthen spikes spread from beneath Ian's feet, rushing straight toward Quirrell.

Quirrell hurriedly cast a defensive spell. His magic erupted and shattered the earthen spikes.

But when he raised his head again, Ian's wand was already pointed at him.

The air twisted abruptly as a violent storm swept toward him.

The gale tore up the ground, sending gravel and fallen leaves surging straight at Quirrell.

Quirrell shouted and hurriedly cast Protego.

A curtain of light unfurled before him, forcibly resisting the impact.

However, every tree within several meters was uprooted and came crashing down.

Ian did not stop.

The gravel beside him suddenly transformed into a massive stone tail. Carrying terrifying force, it lashed toward Quirrell's abdomen.

"Bang—!"

Quirrell was struck hard. His body flew dozens of meters before slamming into a tree trunk, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth.

"Let me handle this." A chilling voice came from the back of Quirrell's head.

"But, Master... your power is still too weak—"

"If I don't act, you'll be killed. Do you want to ruin my plans with your own hands?"

"No, my master."

Quirrell's body suddenly stiffened. After a moment, his movements became steady again, and his entire aura changed abruptly—becoming cold and eerie, carrying the scent of death.

Ian sensed the change and spoke calmly. "So... Tom Riddle is speaking to me now?"

His answer came in the form of a fierce green light.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The wand in Quirrell's hand released terrifying Cursed Energy, and the green light shot toward Ian like lightning.

Ian's figure vanished in an instant, reappearing behind Quirrell the next second.

He raised a hand and waved. A mass of scorching red flames erupted with a roar and rushed toward Quirrell.

"Flame Spell? How laughable." Quirrell sneered. His figure blurred as he Apparated to Ian's side.

He opened his mouth and spat out a serpentine flame—that was the Fiendfyre.

Ian's flames were swallowed in an instant, and the entire forest was scorched into a living Purgatory.

"Looks like I'll have to get serious." Ian murmured, a cold glint flashing in his eyes.

He raised his wand and traced a complex rune through the air.

"Restriction—Blink!"

Magical fluctuations spread outward, and the surrounding space was immediately sealed.

Every Apparition passage was completely blocked at that moment.

Then he reached out and clenched his hand. The air suddenly grew colder.

An utterly bone-chilling cold erupted from within him and rapidly spread across the entire forest.

This was not ordinary cold, but an icy breath capable of freezing even the soul.

It drained all color from the world, leaving only gray and white. The wind stopped. The insects fell silent. Even the shadows of the trees seemed to freeze in place.

The serpentine flames devoured by Fiendfyre froze under the cold into transparent crystals, turning into an ice sculpture.

Quirrell's body shook violently, and Voldemort's soul-consciousness let out a pained, shrill scream.

"What kind of magic is this?!" the ghostly voice roared.

Ian's expression was cold. "A Soul-Freeze Spell based on the Dementors.

"It isn't merely cold in terms of temperature. It can strip away all happiness and hope in the world. Even ghosts can be frozen by it—do you really think you can escape?"

As his final words fell, Quirrell collapsed to his knees, his body completely suppressed.

Voldemort's soul tried to separate, transforming into a mass of black mist that escaped from the back of Quirrell's head. But even that black mist quickly solidified in the cold, releasing a sharp, agonized scream.

This pain was all too familiar to him—the sensation of his soul being torn apart.

Every time Voldemort created a Horcrux, he had experienced this tearing. And now, Ian's magic was acting directly upon his soul.

"Enough—!" Voldemort roared. The wand fell from his hand as he dropped to one knee, clutching his head with both hands and letting out a low growl.

Ian watched silently and applied no further pressure.

He knew Voldemort would not die easily—he had too many Horcruxes scattered elsewhere.

After a moment, Voldemort raised his head. His voice was hoarse. "What do you want, Ian Alvin Bones?"

Ian's expression remained calm. "What I want? Only understanding. I want to know the truth behind the power of the Philosopher's Stone."