Spellbreaker.
That was the title carved on the coffin of the being occupying his body, back in the tomb from Iain's "dream." He had already learned quite a few things from the many inscriptions on that coffin.
For all that Iain usually had ideas of his own, at a moment like this, he still grasped the nature of his magic almost immediately.
The fallen dragon and the frozen witch were proof enough of his theory. His second magic, at its core, was the power to strip any living being of its right to cast magic.
The dragon and the witch's construct had dropped at the same time. Once deprived of the miracle that magic represented, even a dragon lost the ability to fly just because it had wings.
Of course.
Iain did not really have time to care about that. What mattered now was how he was going to explain all this afterward.
"I'm not lying to you! That dragon behind me and this jeweled sword in my hand were both lucky treasures I picked up while dumpster diving!"
"According to salvage law, they're mine!"
Iain did his best to hide the powerless dragon and the jeweled longsword behind his back while offering the strongest explanation he could manage.
"?????"
Godric's Hollow had just suffered a disaster. The Ministry of Magic was in chaos, and Dumbledore had rushed back at once.
Now he was standing there, listening to the little wizard's explanation.
"So," Dumbledore said, "what you're telling me is that a creature calling itself Voldemort, one that keeps going 'hee hee hee' like some sort of lunatic, not only killed Professor Quirrell while he was trying to protect you, but also attempted to possess your body, forcing you to seek help from your senior, who then had a legendary witch from a hundred years ago help you escape the Dark Lord's clutches?"
Dumbledore stood in front of Iain, his usually calm face wearing an extremely peculiar expression.
"Yes. Exactly."
Iain nodded at once. He nodded so hard that a leaf fell out of his hair and landed on the tip of his nose. He had to blow it away.
The diary floated up out of the ruins.
Its pages fluttered a few times in the morning wind, shaking off ash and dust before drifting open in front of Dumbledore.
[I can confirm that he's telling the truth. The Dark Lord Voldemort was far too powerful!]
The writing appeared in neat strokes, though the tone was outrageously theatrical.
[That's exactly how it happened. Voldemort truly was the strongest dark wizard on earth!]
The diary had clearly already teamed up with Iain.
"????"
Dumbledore looked at the words, then at Iain, then toward the Aurors in the distance. They were surrounding a Muggle who had just been dragged out from under a blanket and patiently explaining, "What you saw this morning was not dragon fire. It was a transformer exploding."
Wizards would not believe that.
Muggles would.
"Iain," Dumbledore said at last, "don't you think you may be giving Voldemort a bit too much credit? He's only the Dark Lord."
The old man raised a hand and covered his face. His fingers were long and bony, with the frame of his half-moon spectacles visible between them.
Quite obviously, the Headmaster of Hogwarts did not believe a word of this story.
Iain could not read the meaning of that hand-over-face gesture.
But he took it to mean Dumbledore still needed more evidence before he would believe in his innocence. So he lifted the sword in his arms a little higher.
Mud still clung to the blade, dull in the morning light.
"Professor, I'm telling the truth. If you don't believe me, ask him. Ask him. He's a Gryffindor, so he definitely hates lying. He'll only tell you the truth."
Iain turned to the cloaked skeleton standing beside him.
It stood there in its cloak, one hand gripping the scabbard, its two hollow eye sockets facing Dumbledore. Its jaw opened slightly.
Then it made a very soft click.
"Hm?"
Dumbledore's gaze landed on the skeleton.
At that moment, his expression changed. Not into shock, but into a kind of incredulous astonishment.
Like someone in a museum spotting a priceless artifact that ought to be locked in a vault, only to find it casually left out in a hallway to gather dust.
The old Headmaster's lips moved, but no sound came out. He hesitated for a long time.
Then.
He still asked, even though he clearly did not want to.
"You think you resurrected one of Hogwarts' founders?"
Dumbledore felt as though his intelligence was being dragged across the floor and scrubbed raw.
But Iain still nodded.
"Yes. He's Godric Gryffindor. He never lies." Iain was convinced he had already seen through everything, just as he had previously seen through his senior's intentions.
Unfortunately.
His intelligence rarely lasted a whole episode.
The diary's pages fluttered once, and new writing appeared, this time faster than before.
[Who told you he was Gryffindor?]
At that, Iain's brow furrowed.
He turned to look at the diary, then back at Dumbledore, then back to the diary again.
Then he raised the sword in his hand.
The blade carved a silver-white arc through the air.
"Isn't it obvious? If he's not Gryffindor, then who is he? This is Gryffindor's sword! I've seen it in books. No, I've heard of it in stories! Gryffindor's sword. Only a true Gryffindor can pull it out of the hat. And now it belongs to me!"
Iain wanted to add that he himself was a born Gryffindor.
But.
Dumbledore raised a hand and cut him off.
"I'm sorry to tell you this, child."
The old man's voice was light, full of that soft, reluctant kindness people used when they hated to shatter someone's fantasy but had no choice.
"The Sword of Gryffindor has always resided inside the Sorting Hat. For a thousand years, only a true Gryffindor has been able to draw it from the hat. I have seen it drawn with my own eyes. It is at Hogwarts right now, in my office, resting beside the Sorting Hat."
That was a secret.
Yet Dumbledore had revealed it so easily, which said a great deal about his current state of mind.
"What are you talking about?"
Iain's mouth fell open.
He looked down at the sword in his hand, then up at Dumbledore, then back down at the sword again.
The blade was bright silver, untarnished, without rust or chips. A dark red gemstone sat in the hilt, gleaming in the morning light like a clot of frozen blood.
This was not the Sword of Gryffindor?
Then what was it?
The diary drifted in front of him. One page turned, and new words appeared. The writing came more slowly now, as if deliberately giving Iain time to process.
[Could it be the prototype of Gryffindor's sword?]
Iain's brows knotted together.
"A prototype? What kind of prototype?"
Dumbledore stood in front of the ruins, both hands resting atop his staff, his head tilted ever so slightly. Morning light fell over his white beard.
It shone on his deep purple robes.
It shone on those pale blue eyes, narrowed slightly beneath his spectacles.
He fell silent for a moment, as though confirming whether what he was about to say was really true.
Then he spoke.
"If I'm not mistaken,"
Dumbledore said, very softly,
"the sword in your hand was once known as... the Sword in the Stone."
A revelation if ever there was one.
"What are you talking about?!" Iain was struck as if by lightning. His whole body went rigid. His fingers clenched tighter around the hilt, his knuckles going white.
"That can't be right!"
At last, the boy was truly stunned. His mouth hung open, refusing to close, his eyes wide, his pupils slowly dilating in their sockets.
The diary floated in front of him and turned another page.
[Did it never occur to you to wonder why he can't use magic?]
At that, Iain turned and looked at the skeleton.
The cloaked skeleton stood there, its two hollow eye sockets fixed on Iain. Its jaw opened slightly.
Then it shut again.
The thing was confirming what the diary had said.
"Damn it! Gryffindor's sword is the knockoff!"
At last, Iain began to understand everything.
"Clack-clack!"
The cloaked skeleton gave Iain a thumbs-up.
Its bony finger was perfectly straight, thumb raised high, gleaming white in the morning light with that peculiar polished sheen only bone seemed to have.
As if confirming the diary's words.
He...
really was not Godric Gryffindor.