Ian Stanley had a long and unsettling dream.
He found himself swallowed by absolute darkness—so dense, so profound that not only was he unable to see his own hand, he could barely sense his own existence at all.
In that void, space and time lost all meaning. His consciousness and reason slipped away, and in that foggy state, fragments of memory flickered through his mind.
He saw the misery of becoming an orphan as a child, the helplessness and weakness he'd felt at Beauxbatons, the aching self-doubt when he watched the girl he loved from afar, too timid to approach. He remembered the grit that kept him studying day and night, the heady confidence after graduation, and the restless years spent chasing obsessions across the world.
But in the end, it was his days at Hogwarts that filled his mind—those simple, fulfilling moments, the laughter and bickering with friends, the silly, pointless things they did together...
He saw that Eastern boy again. He saw the long sword. He remembered the night they lay drunk on their backs, gazing up at the stars.
He heard voices calling his name, bidding him farewell, hoping he'd return someday...
And finally, he seemed to hear that familiar boy's voice: "Kinda miss that old Swinton..."
So rude—neither "Professor" nor "brother," just his surname, plain and simple.
He wanted nothing more than to rap that kid on the head with his wand, just to show his annoyance.
But all around him was darkness. In fact, he himself was part of that darkness.
He couldn't break free. He didn't even have the strength to try. He had no idea how to escape.
All that remained was darkness. Darkness, and more darkness...
...
...
Staring up at the wooden ceiling, Ian Stanley lay in bed, still shaken by the nightmare.
Despite the crisp autumn air, he was drenched in cold sweat.
The vivid fragments of his dream left a gnawing sense of dread and unease that refused to fade.
He knew this dream wasn't random. It had to be connected to that damned Stephen Swinton.
He—or rather, they—had stumbled upon that soul-splitting dark magic by chance. But as the dominant personality, Swinton had only cared about chasing his family's secrets, trying to uncover where his relatives had disappeared or died. He'd never been truly interested in the magic itself.
But Ian Stanley, hidden deep within the soul, had been obsessed. He'd poured endless effort into researching the spell, seizing every precious moment of control to scour ancient magical texts for clues. Piece by piece, he'd managed to reconstruct the ritual and its incantation. In the end, he'd performed the forbidden magic in an Egyptian pyramid, completing the soul-splitting ceremony and casting Stephen Swinton out of their shared body.
As part of the ritual, Swinton's soul was trapped inside a mummy in the pyramid. Ian supposed the guy wasn't exactly enjoying himself in there.
"Could that dream have been what Stephen's experiencing now?" Ian Stanley muttered under his breath.
Once he'd calmed down, his sharp mind quickly drew the connection.
After all, magic involving souls was the most forbidden, mysterious, and sinister branch of the Dark Arts. He'd only managed to cobble together the basic ritual, and even then, he couldn't be sure what side effects might linger—or rather, he was certain there would be side effects, but had no idea what form they'd take.
So, was this dream a taste of Stephen's torment? Was that guy trapped in a state of endless, crushing darkness?
The thought twisted Ian's lips into a cruel, satisfied smile.
"That's what you get for suppressing me all these years!" he spat.
Yet, even as he said it, a deep anxiety gnawed at his heart.
The dream hadn't just let him glimpse Stephen Swinton's suffering—it had reminded him that their connection was far from severed.
Maybe it was time to find a way to end this for good.
He made a silent vow.
But for now, he had no idea how. Forcing Stephen out of his body had taken almost everything he had. To destroy him completely—he still had no clue how to do that.
He'd once considered destroying the mummy that housed Stephen's soul, but the attempt had nearly killed him too. He'd given up, thinking that as long as he stayed far away from that cursed mummy, he'd be safe. Now, he realized, it was a dangerous loose end.
"No matter what, I need to focus on my current work first."
His mind raced with tangled thoughts, but at last he exhaled and dragged himself out of bed.
The wizarding world was rife with danger. Without a powerful organization backing him, neither his "ambitions" nor the complete elimination of Stephen Swinton would be possible.
So for now, he'd play the part of the dutiful worker.
Worker—that was a term he'd picked up from that kid Qin Yu.
He shook his head, banishing irrelevant emotions, and steeled himself into the cold, ruthless Ian Stanley once more.
Then he left his hideout, heading toward his next destination.
Saturday was nearly upon him, and his task was to consolidate the wizarding factions of Salem.
It wasn't a particularly difficult job—just tedious, and required dealing with a bunch of useless idiots.
But if he wanted to join that so-called "G.A." organization, he'd have to grit his teeth and do these menial tasks first.
With these thoughts, Ian Stanley's stride became almost lazy, an air of boredom settling over him.
...
...
"What's wrong, Qin?" Hermione asked over breakfast, her voice tinged with concern.
She'd noticed right away that Qin Yu wasn't his usual self that morning.
"Did I ever mention Professor Swinton to you? I haven't been able to reach him for a long time," Qin Yu said, setting down his sandwich, worry creasing his brow.
"You told me before that Professor Snape once got a letter from him, but you didn't have Professor Swinton's address, so you couldn't write back," Hermione recalled, nodding.
"After that, we never heard from him again. I don't know why, but lately, every time I think about him, I get this uneasy feeling. Maybe I'm just overthinking it." Qin Yu pursed his lips.
The night before, using that alchemical mask had brought Professor Swinton to mind again, and he couldn't help but worry.
At the same time, he silently cursed Swinton for his usual lack of responsibility. It was one thing to be unreliable, but couldn't the man at least write a few more letters while he was away?
"Don't worry too much. Maybe he's just been busy lately and hasn't had time to write," Hermione offered gently.
"Maybe. He did say he was heading off on a long adventure—maybe it'll be a while before he's done. Never mind, I'll stop thinking about it. He can take care of himself, I'm sure we'll hear from him soon enough." Qin Yu shrugged.
"Mm, let's just wait and see," Hermione agreed.
Actually, Qin Yu did have one unconventional way to contact Professor Swinton—through the alchemical longsword. Since his, Snape's, and Swinton's swords were all forged from the same rare material, there was a kind of resonance between them. With the right technique, the three could communicate.
But that method required a special combination of meditation and alchemy—something still a bit beyond his current skill.
Well, that just means I need to study harder, Qin Yu thought, feeling a fresh surge of motivation.
He finished his breakfast in record time, grabbed Hermione by the hand, and hurried to the library to dig up some books on alchemy.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
The story isn't over...
🤔 Want to know what happens next to the characters?
🤫 Eager to explore the untold secrets of this world?
✍ Ready to read more of my wildest stories?
✨patreon.com/GoldenLong