McGonagall exhaled slowly. Her brows were still furrowed, but her tone had softened; it no longer brimmed with anger. Her wrinkled face was now mostly filled with confusion.
"Indeed, some ancient wizarding families produced Animagi with magical creature forms," Professor McGonagall said as she paced back and forth across the classroom with her arms crossed over her chest. "But as far as I know, the Prince family shouldn't possess any such special bloodline."
She spoke as she walked, clearly deep in thought as she tried to puzzle out this troubling mystery.
To be honest, even Professor McGonagall wasn't entirely sure.
After all,
Wizards, or rather, this species of humans, have such tangled ancestries that no one can ever truly know what bloodlines their ancestors mingled with or when an ancient trait might reawaken.
Sometimes, a bloodline ability might remain dormant for ten or even twenty generations, only to resurface abruptly in a distant descendant. Such occurrences were rare in the wizarding world but not unheard of.
That was precisely why—
No wizarding house could ever fully trace its heritage.
The more McGonagall thought about it, the more complicated it seemed. Finally, she stopped pacing and turned back toward Ian, with a hint of helplessness and confusion in her eyes. Shaking her head slightly, she said,
"Perhaps you should speak with Professor Snape. He's far more knowledgeable about your family's bloodline than I am."
It was clear that Professor McGonagall herself couldn't explain what had happened. She assumed Ian might be curious about the origins of such a peculiar bloodline.
However, Ian had absolutely no intention of asking Snape anything. He was quite certain this had little to do with the Prince bloodline and that Snape would be just as baffled as she was.
Who knew?
That well-meaning uncle might start spouting his theories again about Ian being the heir to several bloodlines.
Ian had already heard the rumors; apparently, Slytherin students were spreading that talk.
Their "information"?
Came straight from observing their own Head of House.
It was clear that Snape had been trying to determine how many ancient bloodlines were in Ian's veins.
"All right, Professor."
Ian didn't plan on seeking out Snape, but he nodded politely, pretending he would. For now, it was better to reassure the Transfiguration professor in front of him.
McGonagall drew in a deep breath, her expression once again firm and serious.
"Mr. Prince, remember this: never attempt dangerous magic again. With your talent and potential, your future is bright. Don't let yourself stray from the right path."
Her voice carried genuine warmth and care.
Her guidance was heartfelt, sincere, and full of hope.
Ian could feel her care, a quiet warmth blooming in his chest. He stood up straight and looked at her earnestly, nodding with conviction.
"Professor, don't worry. I'll remember your words." Ian sounded utterly determined.
McGonagall gazed at him for a long moment, then sighed softly. A faint smile curved her lips—a rare sign of relief.
"Good. I hope you truly keep my words in mind."
With that, the elderly, cat-like professor gathered her books and left the classroom. She still had to teach another Transfiguration class for the upper years, and there wasn't much time between lessons.
"Professor McGonagall really is a good person." Ian murmured quietly as he watched her depart.
The second class of the morning was Flying, which he didn't enjoy, so he decided to skip it.
He left the Transfiguration classroom and darted through the corridors of Hogwarts like a nimble little beast.
Ten minutes later—
Inside the Room of Requirement—
"Da-da-da-da-da-da-da—!!!"
Now that his magical ability had greatly improved, new ideas flooded his mind constantly. At that moment, he was bringing one such idea to life.
A Gatling gun gleamed in his hands, its cold metallic sheen flashing faintly under the dim light.
It was like a slumbering beast awakening.
With a deafening roar, blinding streaks of green light burst from the modified gun one after another, hammering the targets downrange. Little bunny dummies were instantly blasted into rolling, twitching heaps.
One by one, they went belly-up.
Yes!
This was Ian's latest creation.
The wizarding era had long since changed, and Ian, ever in tune with the times, decided to modernize magic itself. In a stroke of true genius, he created something unprecedented: the world's first Avada Kedavra Gatling Gun.
Inside this experimental chamber, portraits on the walls screamed and fled in terror as the residual waves of the Killing Curse swept past them.
"Perfect!"
Ian snapped his fingers, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
He seemed to have completely forgotten Professor McGonagall's earlier warning: "Do not attempt dangerous magic."
Perhaps in his mind, this didn't count as dangerous magic at all.
In the corner, the black-robed skeleton silently watched Ian's actions. Its newly acquired "brain" worked hard to process what it was seeing.
Meanwhile, a Dementor was being boiled into soup inside a cauldron—an experiment dreamed up by the skeleton, apparently inspired by Ian's own bizarre culinary habits.
One could say—
This was the advantage of having a brain. It was imitating what Ian usually did to it—boiling things for experiments. Only now, it was trying to stew a Dementor. Yet, no matter how long it boiled, it could never produce the nice, milky-white broth that Ian could.
This puzzled the skeleton deeply. Even with its newly attached brain—borrowed for temporary use, mind you, it didn't seem to grant much actual wisdom.
They say some pigs are smarter than people.
That didn't seem to be the case here.
Perhaps the problem lay with the pig brain Ian had chosen. Then again, maybe the fault lay with the skeleton itself. After all, when it was still the so-called "Goddess of Reckless Might," Intelligence had never been one of its strong points.
"Today is a wonderful day, such a wonderful day." Ian hummed cheerfully as he began assembling his second Gatling wand.
This one would be inscribed with the runes of the Imperius Curse.
Yes, the three Unforgivable Curses.
Ian intended to craft one weapon for each curse, turning them into his personal Three Hallows.
The Deathly Hallows were one type of hallow. His New Age Hallows would be another.
"Equality for all!" Ian declared dramatically, imagining the possibilities:
He envisioned a Gatling gun capable of firing Imperius Curses.
He couldn't even fathom its potential. If Voldemort had had one of those, he would have probably conquered the world in record time.
Even Grindelwald would have applauded, saying, "Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous!"
"All thanks to the headmaster's wise teaching. He opened my eyes to true brilliance!" Ian said gratefully, thinking of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. The old man's lessons on ancient magical structures, once converted into spell matrices, were proving to be astonishingly effective.
"Isn't this, too, a form of a bright future?" Ian mused aloud, deeply satisfied.
He was certain that thanks to his countless innovations and inventions, his name would one day be marked in bold, glorious ink in the chronicles of wizarding history.
Whatever history might say of him—
—in Ian's eyes,
—he was the greatest inventor the wizarding world had ever known!
Even Professor Nicolas Flamel's creations would pale in comparison.
(End of chapter.)
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