[Note: Read up to Chapter - 105 on P patron at: p-atreon.com/Knockturn_Alley]
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"Headmaster Dumbledore, are you in?"
After leaving the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, Aris mulled it over for a bit, then decided to swing by the Headmaster's office. Since he'd used Dumbledore as an excuse to bunk off class, it was only a matter of time before someone caught on. Better to get ahead of it and give the old man a heads-up—save himself a bollocking later.
Unfortunately, Aris had clearly misjudged the situation.
He had a good wander round the office… but the silver-haired old wizard was nowhere to be seen.
"Where's he wandered off to at this hour?" Aris muttered, frowning.
As far as he knew, the old Headmaster wasn't exactly snowed under with work. Most of the school's day-to-day was handled by Professor McGonagall, and besides the odd bit of advice to the Minister of Magic, Dumbledore didn't seem to have many obligations—unless you counted occasionally checking in on their precious Boy-Who-Lived to make sure he wasn't up to his neck in trouble.
Truth be told, Dumbledore's feelings toward Harry were likely far more complicated than even Snape's.
He was, first and foremost, the Headmaster of Hogwarts. His duty was to protect every student in the castle. But with Harry's unique position, Dumbledore was forced to stand by and watch as the boy got tangled up in danger time and time again.
Because from the very beginning, he knew—Harry would one day have to face Voldemort. And before that happened, he needed to grow. To struggle. To suffer. Only then would he have the resolve to stand against the Dark Lord.
In truth, Harry's time at Hogwarts wasn't filled with nearly as many hardships as it could have been.
But even so, Dumbledore rarely intervened in the antics of Harry and his two sidekicks.
Did he not notice? Hardly.
If there was one thing certain, it was that there was precious little happening at Hogwarts that Albus Dumbledore didn't know about.
Even if something minor happened in the farthest corner of the castle, as long as Dumbledore wanted to know, he'd find a way to uncover the whole story.
After all, as Headmaster, Dumbledore wielded most of the authority within these enchanted walls. You could say the ghosts and portraits scattered throughout the castle acted as his eyes and ears. And with the wisdom of that old wizard, there was hardly anything that escaped his notice.
"Ah, forget it. If he's not in, he's not in."
Aris didn't manage to find the Headmaster, but he wasn't too fussed. He casually brewed himself a cuppa in the office—acting as if he belonged there—and sipped it in no great hurry, just before preparing to leave.
That's when a voice rang out from the side wall, where the portraits of Hogwarts' past headmasters hung in dignified silence.
"Leaving so soon, young man? Not going to wait for him?" said a voice from one of the paintings.
Aris glanced up. The voice had come from none other than Armando Dippet—Headmaster from 1927 to 1966.
He remembered the name. Dippet was Headmaster during the time when a certain Tom Riddle walked Hogwarts' halls.
"Headmaster Dippet," Aris said with polite nod, "I reckon Headmaster Dumbledore's got himself caught up with something. I've nothing urgent to discuss, so I'll take my leave for now."
"You're a respectful boy—and a talented one," Dippet replied, sounding thoughtful. His painted features grew sombre, as though caught in a memory. "Seeing you now... you remind me of someone."
"The last student I saw with such promise came just before the trouble started. Let me offer a bit of advice, boy: use your gifts wisely. And whatever happens—don't stray down the wrong path..."
"I understand, sir." Aris gave a small smile.
He didn't need a genius to guess who Dippet was referring to. That student with the raw talent and twisted ambition could only be one person.
Tom Riddle.
The boy who became Voldemort.
"Oh~, the wizarding world may have another great figure on its hands," remarked an old wizard with a sharp look and a neatly trimmed goatee.
Aris glanced at the nameplate beneath the portrait: Phineas Nigellus Black.
He didn't know much about the former Headmaster, but the surname alone told him everything—he was clearly from the Black family, one of the twenty-eight sacred wizarding houses.
"Cheers for the compliment, sir," Aris nodded modestly to the portrait.
"I just wonder if he'll end up being the next Dark Lord," Phineas added with a dry sneer.
Aris's smile faltered slightly. "...Oi now—I'm cheerful, sociable, practically glowing with sunshine. How could I possibly be mistaken for the next Dark Lord?"
"Don't mind him, child," came a much gentler voice from the far end of the wall.
"I believe you'll grow up to make a real difference—someone who'll benefit the whole wizarding world."
It was a witch, dressed in what looked like a healer's uniform—somewhere between a traditional robe and a medical coat. Her gentle demeanour gave her away at once.
Dylis Derwent, 1741–1768.
Aris felt a flicker of admiration. Over two centuries had passed since her time, and yet here she was, preserved in portrait form.
The wizard who developed these enchanted portraits must've been a genius, he thought. If the Muggle world wanted to pull off something similar, it would probably take another hundred years and the invention of fully sentient digital life.
Only magic could make such wonders feel so casual.
"Thank you kindly, Headmistress Derwent," Aris said with a respectful bow.
Then, turning to the rest of the portraits, he added, "Well, I won't keep you all chatting. If the Headmaster pops in, would you be so kind as to let him know I dropped by for a cuppa?"
With that, Aris gave them a polite nod and headed out of the office.
No sooner had the door clicked shut than the portraits began muttering among themselves—some praising the boy, others scoffing. Naturally, a few even broke into a good old-fashioned argument.
"Phineas, that was out of order!" Madam Derwent said sharply.
"You can't speak that way about a bright young boy with talent."
"Oh, come off it—since when can't a portrait say what he thinks?" Phineas scoffed.
"Young wizards need proper guidance, not snide remarks or twisted influence!"
"There's a reason you've always rubbed people the wrong way, Phineas," she added with a huff. "It's not like it's your first offence..."
…
Eighth Floor, Hogwarts Castle.
Aris stood before a tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy being walloped by a troll, muttering to himself,
"This should be it..."
"Three times back and forth, thinking about what I need—and the Room of Requirement will show itself."
He glanced around cautiously, cast Reducio on himself about ten times in a row, shrinking his body slightly, and checked the walls to make sure there were no portraits hanging nearby.
Satisfied, he began pacing—once, twice, three times—focused solely on his desired space.
Sure enough, a door began to form in the wall, ancient-looking and perfectly blended into the stone. Once fully visible, Aris stepped forward and pushed it open.
The lights flickered for a moment before slowly illuminating the space.
A large room unfolded before him—wide, clean, and purpose-built.
Several long, rectangular tables were arranged in a ring, forming an open space in the centre large enough for him to move about freely. Around the perimeter of the room stood a series of storage cabinets, some towering, others compact—perfectly sized to house the many materials he'd acquired.
At the far end stood the room's crown jewel: a test platform enclosed in a metal octagonal cage. It resembled something between a duelling arena and a containment unit.
Within the cage stood a raised platform surrounded by several smaller ones—each one carefully designed by Aris himself.
Everything was just as he envisioned.
The room was spacious enough that each platform could be linked up without feeling cramped.
This was the spot Aris had specifically designed to study the magical circles detailed in Merlin's Manual.
"Right then—let's get cracking."
Now that he had the space sorted, it was time to set up the actual lab.
One by one, he pulled out various bits of magical equipment from his enchanted pockets—each charmed with a Traceless Extension Spell—and placed them neatly where they belonged.
After that, he arranged a few stools around the central workbench, encircled by the long tables. It took him a good hour and a half to get everything in place, even with the help of magic.
Had he done it all by hand, at his current size, it would've taken him twice the time—and left him knackered.
Once finished, Aris glanced at the clock.
Potions class was about to begin.
He paused, uncertain. Snape could be a right pain, but now that the lab was ready, he had little interest in heading back to class.
Besides, he'd already memorised the entire first-year Potions syllabus and could brew every listed potion without so much as glancing at the instructions.
Going to class at this point would just be a waste of time.
"Ah, stuff it. I'll skip it. What's Snape gonna do—dock points?" Aris muttered under his breath, shrugging.
He turned back to his equipment, eager to get started.
"Right—first up, sketch the base magic circle, then run a few preliminary tests..."
"After that, I'll dive into the energy storage array..."
"Oh, and nearly forgot—I should brew a Scabies Potion. Pretty sure that's the first one in the Potions textbook. Wouldn't hurt to have something to show Snape, just in case he starts throwing a strop..."
Amid the soft hum of murmured incantations, Aris's figure flitted busily about the lab.
At one point, he even summoned the little red dragon to help out as an assistant.
The dragon had returned around midday—thankfully cloaked in invisibility—so none of the other students or professors had clocked him. Still, the little bugger looked far too pleased with himself, sporting mysterious grime on his scales that Aris chose not to question.
He could only hope the creature hadn't got itself into trouble in the Forbidden Forest.
…
Meanwhile, back in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, deep within the adjoining office...
The students had all left. The classroom was deserted, its door now locked and warded. Yet, from the depths of the office, faint voices could be heard.
"Master, have we been discovered?" came the timid, quivering tone that unmistakably belonged to Professor Quirrell.
A second voice followed—low, rasping, and soaked in menace.
"Impossible. No one can break through my Occlumency shields."
The sound sent a chill down the spine, as if something wicked and ancient was lurking behind it.
Had any student stumbled in and heard it by chance, they'd likely have legged it screaming.
"But, Master," Quirrell persisted nervously, "why would that boy suddenly bring up soul possession? That sort of knowledge is far beyond a first-year's level..."
"..." There was a pause. Then the dark voice replied slowly.
"It was likely just a coincidence. I've read the book he mentioned myself. It does touch on certain theories about the soul..."
"So, the little brat wasn't lying."
"D—"
"No buts," the voice snapped, venom now dripping from every word. "Stick to the plan—or I'll end you where you stand!"
The room trembled slightly with the force of his fury, like some beast barely chained inside was threatening to burst free.
"Yes, Master... I'll carry on as planned. But I'll still need a bit of time—"
"You useless wretch! Don't keep me waiting too long!"
"..."
The eerie voices in the office gradually faded.
Moments later, Professor Quirrell opened the door and stepped out. He adjusted his turban with trembling fingers. There was still a trace of panic clinging to his face, but he did his best to compose himself, forcing a weak smile as he made his way out of the office.
…
Meanwhile, in the Potions classroom...
"In my class, there's no need to flail your wands about like idiots. And I hardly expect most of you to truly grasp the subtlety and power of potion-making. All you really need is to—"
Suddenly, Snape's monologue cut off.
His dark eyes swept across the room like a storm cloud.
"Can someone tell me..." he said slowly, his voice dangerously quiet, "whether a student has dared to miss my class?"
A chill rippled through the room. Terry and Anthony, seated near the back, ducked their heads instinctively.
The rest of the class exchanged glances but said nothing, eyes fixed firmly on their desks.
The Hufflepuffs had already noticed that a rather famous Ravenclaw student hadn't shown up.
And the Ravenclaws, of course, were more than aware. Aris had practically become a celebrity among the first-years.
The moment they entered the room, half the class was scouring for his usual seat. A few of the girls had even loitered by the door, hoping to sit near him—only scrambling to find a spot when Snape swept into the room.
"No one wants to speak up?" Snape growled, his expression darkening further.
Snape swept his cape behind him and strode briskly to the podium, his eyes narrowing as he traced a finger down the class register.
"Aris Shafiq!"
He paused, his voice cutting through the silence. "Does anyone know where he's vanished off to?"
His sharp gaze fell on a young Ravenclaw lad.
"S-Sorry, Professor... I've no idea..." the boy stammered.
Snape turned to a girl nearby. "And you?"
"I... I don't know either, sir."
Terry, trying to keep his cool, chimed in quickly, "Last I heard, Professor, Aris mentioned that Headmaster Dumbledore had called him to the office."
The implication was clear: the boy might very well be sipping tea with the headmaster right now.
"Don't spout nonsense!" Snape snapped, his face darkening. "The headmaster's not even in the castle at the moment!"
His expression now clearly read: How dare he skip my class?!
"For Aris Shafiq's unauthorised absence—Ravenclaw will lose twenty points!"
A collective groan swept through the Ravenclaw side of the room.
They weren't too fussed about the House Cup standings, truth be told—but what worried them more was the idea of Aris catching Snape's wrath next.
He'd already had run-ins with Professor McGonagall and Professor Quirrell.
Now he'd dared to bunk Snape's class too?
Hadn't he heard the horror stories from upper-years about how spiteful the Potions Master could be?
At that moment, the first-years had no choice but to admit it:
Aris Shafiq really had a knack for stirring trouble.
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Drop power Powerstonessssssssss!
[Note: Read up to Chapter - 105 on P patron at: p-atreon.com/Knockturn_Alley]