Proven true:
When holding truth, even a mischievous poltergeist must submit to reason.
"I was wrong! I shouldn't have scared you—I'm truly sorry."
Realizing escape was impossible, Peeves instantly begged for mercy.
"Who did you call a 'bad seed'?"
Ian demanded, wand raised, eyes blazing.
"It was me—wicked Peeves,"
the poltergeist answered, sporting a scorched afro.
"I'm usually so mild, but you ambushed me first."
Ian grabbed Peeves by the collar and lifted him. Though Ian's height was only average, he still stood taller than the stumpy poltergeist.
"If I find out you lie to the professors about this, I'll hang you in the Great Hall and burn you twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred-sixty-five days a year,"
Ian threatened coldly.
"Once a leap year, I'll give you a day off—clear proof of my kindness!"
Peeves felt as though he might cry.
"I understand. I won't say a word, I swear,"
he promised. Peeves had never been an obedient "student," but he knew how to play the part.
"All right then—let's both keep our promises."
Ian stowed his wand. His suspicions were confirmed:
The usual barrier between life and death, or humans and spirits, didn't apply to him in the normal sense—likely due to his link with the Mysterious Realm.
Compared to his status panel,
this privilege clearly held countless unexplored mysteries.
"May I go now? I swear I'll never scare you again."
Peeves, deeply afraid, sensed something dreadful about Ian.
"But if you try to twist the story, it's no use. Sectumsempra was taught by Professor Snape, and Dumbledore already praised my magic's elegance."
As a final threat, Ian let Peeves go.
"Boo-hoo—"
Peeves drifted away, weeping. Though furious, he dared not complain.
Before, he'd roamed free, unafraid of consequences—no one could touch a poltergeist in Hogwarts. But this year, things were… different.
Dammit—
What's happening?!
How can a first-year be so vile?!
Peeves flew off, mind swirling. How could a living boy grab him, even cast magic on him? He couldn't fathom it.
"I hate pranks,"
Ian whispered as Peeves vanished. He felt no concern that the poltergeist might seek revenge; if necessary, he'd recapture Peeves tomorrow night—Pandro and Ariana might need a moving target for sword practice.
****
"I need a hiding place… I need a hiding place… I need a hiding place…"
Once Peeves had gone, Ian paced three times in front of a blank wall, mentally repeating the "I need a hiding place" incantation for the Room of Requirement.
Indeed, the correct focus could open the Room. On his third pass, a silent door appeared where the wall had been—a smooth knob gleaming under the corridor's torchlight.
"Click."
Ian gripped the bronze handle firmly, and the hidden chamber opened. Full of anticipation, he darted inside.
The sight within:
A space vast as any stadium, piled high with abandoned items, forming towering mounds. Broken statues, ruined chairs, dust-laden desks, random jars of liquids, mountains of old books and notes, tarnished magical artifacts, ragged robes…
There were even a few Muggle cannons propped in a corner.
Ian realized his search was worth it:
All these items long unclaimed, effectively ownerless after centuries. They might look like trash, but hidden among them were treasures.
"So many questionable magazines?"
He headed for a stack of books. While a few diaries and study journals were there, more were… vivid "moving pin-up" magazines—Western style.
"Upperclassmen might pay for these, but that'd ruin my name at Hogwarts,"
Ian murmured, discarding the thought. He had plenty more to choose from.
Everything left here would have rotted away in time.
"They deserve another chance, and that's my responsibility."
He brandished his wand:
"Accio anything valuable!"
The piles of junk remained utterly still.
"Of course—it can only summon specific items,"
he mused. Still hoping to avoid manual sifting, he tried anyway.
"I'll come back another time,"
Ian decided. Once he located a secret route to Hogsmeade, he'd haul the goods in bulk to a secondhand magic shop he recalled seeing there.
"Accio Galleons!"
Half in jest, he pictured money in his mind. Unexpectedly, hundreds of unclaimed gold coins soared his way. Delighted, Ian stuffed them into his robe and trouser pockets, savoring the heavy jingle.
"Lastly…"
Recalling an illustration from a library book, he combed through the junk heaps with a keen eye.
Time ticked on.
After half an hour:
"That's it!"
He'd found his primary goal: a corroded, ancient diadem lodged among the refuse. Once bright with gems, they were now dull as stone—Ravenclaw's Diadem, inscribed with "Tom Riddle."
"The Dark Lord's defilement of such a treasure… a pity,"
Ian muttered. He placed it in a battered box, aware that so long as he didn't wear it, its vile powers remained dormant.
A legendary relic
abused by Voldemort.
"If it wasn't tainted, it'd be my new 'Imperial Seal' in Ravenclaw,"
Ian grumbled, determined to remove it from the castle.
Tomorrow night, he'd take "Voldemort" somewhere…
the place the noseless fiend should have gone long ago.
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