Hogwarts Raven

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Who could resist the allure of becoming Ravenclaw's Heir? More importantly, its king. He will have the male Prefect ready to fetch his books, while the female Prefect would offer to polish his shoes, and all the students standing in awe as they welcome the triumphant return of Ravenclaw's Diadem.

Of course, such fantasies might seem a bit childish for older students.

But for a university mathematics major who, after crossing over, found himself at Hogwarts instead of making a fortune through stock speculation or Bitcoin investments— or even attending Eton— such a thought was undeniably tempting.

"All because of that noseless Tom!" Ian muttered, lamenting the lost opportunity to ascend Ravenclaw's throne. But while he had missed out on that, Voldemort had lost far more than just Merope Gaunt, as Ian had once pointed out.

After all, he was about to snatch away the Dark Lord's hidden Horcrux in the Room of Requirement.

''The Twilight Zone.''

That would be its final resting place.

"Professor Mara will love this new artifact," Ian mused, tucking the boxed Ravenclaw Diadem under his arm. He also picked up a few stray Charms notes left behind by previous students.

He had always been a dedicated learner, and high-quality notes from excellent seniors— long since forgotten— would no doubt help him master Charms far more quickly.

''Click.''

He twisted the brass handle of the Room of Requirement's door.

Taking one last look at the cavernous chamber brimming with forgotten treasures, he made a mental note. He might not be able to haul everything out at once, but he would certainly return to sift through the valuables— especially anything that could help fund his alchemical studies.

"My good old friend, I'll protect you with everything I have in the future," Ian murmured while patting the stone wall. He had long suspected that Hogwarts had a mind of its own.

"Technically, I'm just salvaging abandoned goods. Meanwhile, Harry will eventually go about liberating others' private property. Comparing the two, my conscience is still relatively clear."

Ian chuckled as he stepped out of the Room of Requirement, pulling the door shut behind him. But just as the latch clicked into place, a faint voice drifted toward him.

"You seem rather eager to take something from that place, child."

Ian turned.

The voice came from the painting of Barnabas the Barmy. The troll in the mural had paused its relentless assault and was now resting under a tree, taking a breather.

"Is that a problem?" Ian asked, slightly puzzled.

"For most things, no," Barnabas replied. "Ownerless treasures belong to those who find and need them. It's an old custom, a romantic vestige of the medieval treasure-hunting craze."

The eccentric wizard was now lounging against a rock, his bruised and swollen features peeking from the frame.

His reasoning made sense. If Hogwarts truly didn't want students taking those items, it wouldn't reveal them in the first place. After all, they were hidden objects. If just anyone could see them, no one would have bothered hiding them there at all.

"So that's that. I am grateful to the the ancestors, grateful to the Founders, and grateful to Hogwarts," Ian intoned solemnly, making a theatrical show of his gratitude.

Barnabas, however, was still staring at the Diadem tucked under Ian's arm. "I just wouldn't recommend taking that particular artifact. It has been corrupted by powerful dark magic…"

Ian raised an eyebrow. "You actually know about this?"

Barnabas sighed and nodded. "I saw him— long ago. That young wizard, already steeped in sin, sneaking into this very room to hide the Diadem."

Just as Hogwarts had silently borne witness to countless secrets, its paintings had quietly observed many tales unfold over the centuries.

This raised a question in Ian's mind. "Why didn't you tell the professors? I know portraits can communicate with wizards beyond their own frames."

"Because that wretched boy placed an Unspeakable Curse upon me. I couldn't tell anyone who didn't already know about the Diadem's existence."

Barnabas's voice dripped with resentment.

"Until you appeared in the Room of Requirement, I had never seen such a… morally flexible young wizard. You remind me of the more ruthless, pragmatic wizards from the Middle Ages."

His archaic terminology aside, Barnabas the Barmy seemed far more perceptive than his reputation suggested.

"An elder once told me: 'Kindness without caution is a blade turned on oneself.'" Ian smiled lightly. He didn't see himself as wicked.

Take Peeves, for example.

Faced with the poltergeist's antics, Ian had deliberately held back. He had chosen 'Sectumsempra'— the mildest offensive spell in his arsenal— instead of something more severe.

The alternatives? The Imperius Curse, Fiendfyre, the Cruciatus Curse, Avada Kedavra…

'Please…' Ian thought, rolling his eyes. If the situation hadn't been so sudden, even if a troublemaking student had provoked him, he would have just retaliated with a 'Tarantellegra' or 'Dancing Feet Jinx' instead.

"Rare indeed," Barnabas mused. "You follow the survival rules of the wandering sorcerers. Your elder must not have belonged to a traditional wizarding house. And considering you managed to 'catch' Peeves, you might have an extraordinary ancient bloodline…"

His speculation was reasonable— until he took it a step further.

"Your ancestor must have taken a ghost as a lover."

Ian almost choked. For a moment, he seriously considered pulling out his wand and charming Barnabas's mural to feature a few oversized teddy bears.

Instead, he smirked. "At least my ancestor didn't spend centuries getting walloped by a troll."

A critical hit.

And Barnabas's expression crumpled.

"Regardless," he pressed on, "I still advise against taking that Diadem. It's too dangerous. You could suffer eternal damnation. A relic tainted by dark magic can no longer bestow wisdom."

"Don't worry," Ian reassured him. "I know a thing or two about souls. I wouldn't be foolish enough to put it on."

With a slight bow to acknowledge Barnabas's concern, Ian turned and headed for the stairs, the small box tucked securely under his arm. The pleasant 'clink' of golden Galleons echoed from his pockets and robes as he walked.

"You may be helping Hogwarts in your own way," Barnabas muttered behind him, "but I still think you're more troublesome than 'him.' What kind of first-year wizard studies soul magic…?"

His sigh barely faded before the troll in the mural, now rested and rearmed, resumed its relentless assault.

''(End of Chapter)''