The second day of the term.
Ian got hit with an epic blow worthy of Harry Potter himself.
"What did you say? I killed the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher? Why don't I know anything about it?"
Ian's legs weren't exactly short, but given his current overall height, he couldn't quite keep up with Penelope's supermodel pace.
"Don't worry too much. Anyone with a normal IQ can tell it wasn't you, and I doubt the professors are dumb enough to believe some Slytherin brat's nonsense."
"Are you kidding me? Absolutely ridiculous! Only someone whose brains got kicked in by a Giant would smear a fresh-off-the-boat little wizard for killing a full-grown powerful wizard!"
"He might as well claim Professor Erich was sneak-attacked by Filch, who'd been hiding magical talents for decades!" Penelope wasn't just sticking up for Ian—she cracked a pretty hellish joke.
At least, if caretaker Filch were here, he'd feel like he'd been banished to hell.
"Who pointed me out?"
Ian didn't seem too rattled. Yesterday, all he'd done was have a minor scuffle with Peeves. As long as Peeves wasn't the snitch, it wasn't much trouble.
He hadn't done anything.
Could a Slytherin brat really pin it on him?
His autobiography, "Hogwarts: Me and My Headmaster Uncle," was still in the works, but just because it wasn't finished didn't mean it didn't exist. There's no way Snape would just watch him get tossed into Azkaban on a false charge.
"Marcus Flint, fourth-year, Slytherin Quidditch Chaser, from one of those bloody Divine Twenty-Eight Clans."
"He's definitely doing this because of Daphne Greengrass, tsk tsk, trying to cozy up to the Greengrass family. Honestly, these pure-blood families are all the same—they're rotten to the core."
Senior Penelope paused for a second, then added, "To be fair, the Weasley family's a bit better, but their twins are as annoying as anyone."
No idea who that was emphasized for.
"Miss Greengrass's business?" Ian didn't bother mentioning that he might also be pure-blood, instead he was just stunned that he'd get smeared because of Daphne Greengrass.
Since the start of term—
He'd had zero interactions with Daphne Greengrass. Even the gift he'd prepared for her was on hold since she was still unconscious.
"There's a rumor in Slytherin: right before Daphne Greengrass passed out, the last thing she said was your name. Some folks suspect you put an Evil Curse on her on the ferry."
"Your friend Aurora Grindelwald even schooled a few people over it, but honestly, there'll always be a couple blockheads who believe professors can't spot the effects of an Evil Curse."
Penelope's voice had a hint of resignation.
It was Ian's first time realizing his reputation at Hogwarts was so bad.
He was just a first-year, for Merlin's sake.
"I didn't put any Evil Curse on her; even though Miss Greengrass insulted me on the ferry with the term 'Mudblood,' I only wanted her to see the error of her ways." Ian's confession struck a chord with Penelope—she, too, had been attacked for coming from a Muggle family.
"That is a supremely rude term, total discrimination, and only those disgusting Slytherin pure-bloods sink that low!"
"You're the victim here! And they still have the nerve to bite back? Absolutely vile!" Penelope's empathy was off the charts, making Ian feel even more wronged.
"I trust the professors' wisdom will clear my name." Ian followed Penelope down the long corridor, climbing upward as the stairs twisted and spun.
Top floor of the West Tower.
Besides several professors, there were a few Prefects helping with the search. Ravenclaw's male Prefect Ditrik was red in the face, arguing with a student sporting a monstrous set of buck teeth.
"It's him! I saw it with my own eyes! No mistake!" Marcus Flint, with the classic inbred Divine Twenty-Eight Clan look, had an impressive set of buck teeth.
He sounded dead sure.
Even with Snape right beside him, face thunderous—
He wouldn't back down for a second.
"When the professors question you, just be honest, okay?" Penelope, nervous, whispered instructions, then led Ian toward the crime scene.
The body was discovered in the Owl Shed.
Buried under a pile of straw, Professor Ronnie Ehrich's wrecked remains were hidden away; even professors who'd searched there that morning missed anything suspicious.
According to Penelope, Marcus Flint claimed he'd overcome his own fears to step forward and accuse the killer.
If not for that—
It would've taken the professors a lot longer to find the corpse.
"Professors, I've brought Ian."
Entering the shed—
Dampness and a faint whiff of decay hit instantly.
Snape stared daggers at Marcus Flint; Dumbledore frowned at the heap of body bits; Ravenclaw's Head, Professor Filius Flitwick, was crouched beside the remains, inspecting them.
Ian hadn't expected his first meeting with his Head would happen in a setting like this. Professor Flitwick didn't even look up.
"Creepy."
Penelope turned pale again at the sight of the mashed-together body parts, but still joined Prefect Ditrik at Ian's side.
The other three Prefects were present too; their gazes toward Ian were full of uncertainty. Gryffindor's Prefect Percy Weasley even looked scared of him.
"It's him!"
Marcus Flint raised his hand, pointing right at Ian.
Ian ignored him.
The corpse was blood-soaked and brutal, bits and pieces glued together while flies zoomed around. Ian's gaze lingered only briefly.
Thanks to Ditrik's tip, he spotted, exposed on the straw-cleared wall, a palm-sized patch of blackish red—a swirly, chilling line of blood-written letters.
"Prince"
Some sort of ominous reminder, blood dripping at the end; a "last word" that obviously pointed to Ian's own surname.
"Clumsy attempt at framing."
Ian spoke softly, completely calm.
"Mr. Prince, you're right: a chopped-up corpse doesn't write messages, but Mr. Flint says he saw you kill Professor Ronnie Ehrich right here."
Professor McGonagall stood dead serious, her authoritative eyes fixed on Ian, her tone grave but not harsh.
"Flint? You mean that giant-mixed brat spewing shit over there?" Ian looked Marcus Flint's way; his words sent Marcus into a rage.
Lies don't hurt.
Truth cuts deep.
Marcus Flint did bear a striking resemblance to a Giant, facially speaking.
"You dare insult me, you filthy murderer!" Marcus Flint exploded, lunging only to have Snape clamp a hand straight onto his head.
His two fellow Prefects didn't defend him, just turned aside like they were counting ants on the floor.
"If you saw me murder—especially a professor—would you still come at me this aggressively?" Ian's tone dripped with disdain; he curled his lip.
"With all these professors here, what can you do to me?" Despite being pinned, Marcus Flint kept barking and posturing.
"You're going to Azkaban! You'll never see daylight again!"
Pain on his head—
Made the fourth-year's face twist up.
But he kept insisting.
"Cut the nonsense! Ian's just a first-year! You think everyone's like your Dark Wizard clans, getting schooled in Dark Arts since infancy?"
Penelope immediately started roasting Marcus Flint on Ian's behalf.
Snape's face looked a little weird.
But he stayed quiet.
And then—
Flitwick, finished examining the corpse, stood up. First, he threw Ian a reassuring look, then shook his head and whispered to the other professors.
"It's Severus's original version of Sectumsempra."
His words left the Prefects baffled; Snape relaxed, Professor McGonagall's expression eased a bit, and Dumbledore lifted his head to look at Ian.
His gaze was gentle, his tone easy.
"Mr. Prince, may we inspect your magic wand? Of course, just for safety's sake." Dumbledore didn't really offer Ian any way out.
No use arguing.
Ian handed over his wand. At Dumbledore's signal, Professor Flitwick stepped forward and took Ian's wand.
"Relax, child, we won't wrong the innocent." Flitwick felt he'd given Ian a dose of calm—but only Ian knew he'd cast Sectumsempra yesterday.
Still—
That "original version of Sectumsempra" bit from Flitwick felt like a pretty big clue; there was definitely something intriguing behind it.
Flitwick returned Ian's wand to Dumbledore.
Ian knew exactly what was coming.
Flashback Spell.
A spell that lets you see all the magic a wand has cast.
"Sigh."
Ian was a little gloomy.
He wasn't bothered about professors and Prefects learning about his run-ins with Peeves from yesterday—every family has some odd bloodline or talent.
Silly Barnabas once claimed Ian's ancestors slept with female ghosts.
Being able to talk to ghosts wasn't a skeleton-in-the-closet secret.
His sigh was for one reason:
Within Slytherin College, the rumor that he'd used an Evil Curse on Daphne still circulated, and after today the gossip about him would just get worse.
Because—
He really could cast Evil Curses.
"Prior Incantato!"
What's meant to happen, happens.
Flitwick cast the Flashback Spell on Ian's wand.
Ian was just about to explain—
But then—
"What's going on? My spell was blocked? How can that even happen? Impossible!" For a spell-master like Flitwick, it was an unprecedented turn of events.
Elder Wood, Unicorn Tail Hair.
This wand shouldn't even exist in the world.
But right now—
It offered its full loyalty to its master.