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The echoes from the past had already made it quite clear that this tower was no ordinary ruin.
"Real wizards ought to reside in proper wizarding towers," Ian muttered to himself, eyes gleaming with fresh admiration. "That's true grandeur, not so cramped little cottage or draughty manor." He admitted it was just his latest fancy; his interests did tend to shift with the seasons.
He began rummaging through the relics scattered about the entrance hall, but other than the enormous clock he'd already claid, most of the items had long since surrendered to ti.
In the centre of the room stood a vast stone table, littered with withered scrolls and shattered vessels. Ian gingerly brushed a finger across one of the scrolls, only for it to crumble instantly into ash, drifting into the air with a bitter, musty scent.
"Ugh!"
Dust coated his face before he could shield himself.
"Squawk!"
Just as he began summoning a stream of Aguanti to wash the gri away, the black Phoenix shrieked from the upper levels of the tower, sticking its head out from a broken archway and calling him with insistence.
"If there's nothing but spiderwebs up there, I'm definitely roasting you for dinner!" Ian growled playfully, abandoning the desiccated relics and attempting to take off with his enchanted cloak.
However,
"Why aren't you working?"
"Up! Now!"
He tugged at the fabric and whispered the activation charm again, but nothing happened. Confused, he tested a different spell, which cast perfectly. So, it wasn't that magic was being restricted entirely.
"Is it only certain enchanted items, then?"
To confirm, Ian retrieved his [Housewitch's Handy Box] and placed it squarely on the ancient stone table. At once, the little artefact stirred to life, extending its insect-like legs and snapping its jaw open to begin nibbling at the table's edge.
That settled it. The tower wasn't suppressing magic altogether, just particular kinds. His pouch still worked as well. The restriction seed limited, perhaps selective.
"Maybe flight is forbidden out of respect. Could be a place of honour or ritual," Ian reasoned, eyeing the arcane sigils and faded runes that curled across the walls.
Wasting no ti, he began ascending the winding staircase toward the top of the tower, where his mischievous familiar awaited.
As he climbed, the murals lining the stairwell caught his attention.
Though faded and chipped with age, the walls were adorned with breathtaking depictions of a once-prosperous wizarding city. Ian stopped frequently to examine the painted scenes, heart racing as he realised the creatures they portrayed were ones he'd never seen recorded in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.
"Wild Swans..."
"Petal-Furred Cats..."
"Shape-shifting Sky-Fowl..."
"Oh! I knew there must have been truly stunning rpeople at one point!"
...
Even in their damaged state, the murals captured a kind of ancient majesty. Each painting seed a preserved mory, an echo of stories older than Hogwarts itself. Ian couldn't read the forgotten script that accompanied them, but he understood their emotion, the magical pulse that lingered still in the stone.
One showed fairies with luminous wings dancing around an enormous tree, their faces alight with glee.
In another, industrious goblins dug deep beneath the earth, surrounded by glittering treasures, the fruits of long and arduous labour.
A unicorn, elegant and solemn, stood serenely amidst a sea of wildflowers, its silver horn aglow with a soft, healing light.
Sprites leapt playfully among clouds, while sirens reclined on jagged rocks, their haunting songs lingering even in silence.
So many magical creatures Ian had only read about in half-forgotten footnotes, or never heard of at all, adorned the ancient plaster. Then ca the dragons.
Not just any dragons, each was utterly unique in form and breath, depicted soaring through sky or sea with elental might and inscrutable wisdom.
"These... these are the Dragon I've ford pact with!" Ian whispered, recognising patterns and colours that only those bonded with such beings would notice. The tower's origins, he now realised, predated even the days of Professor Morgan's pri.
And that wasn't the half of it.
If he hadn't seen firsthand the tower's ancient existence and its place in the world's forgotten history, Ian might have dismissed the uppermost murals as re fairy tales.
Yet there they were.
A tiny tailor defeating a monstrous giant through trickery, an echo of a familiar Muggle tale.
A radiant young witch wronged by her stepmother, finding solace and love through the kindness of seven goblins and a travelling prince, is undeniably reminiscent of Snow White.
Another mural revealed a red-cloaked girl outwitting a wolf in the woods, a tale Ian knew as well as his own na.
And yet another, featuring a mistreated girl who, through courage, charm, and the aid of enchanted creatures, overca her cruel guardians and found joy, if that wasn't Cinderella, Ian would toss his Phoenix into a cauldron.
...
Gazing at the murals before him,
Ian felt as though he were watching a sequence of fairy tales unfold rather than reviewing actual events from history. The sheer wonder and dreamlike quality of it all were difficult to describe with re words.
Even though he had long accepted that many tales dismissed as fantasy by Muggles were grounded in truth, the impact these murals had on him was profound.
Did this an that the lands and legends of those so-called fairy tales once genuinely existed?
"If this all truly happened... rlin's beard, that would shake wizarding history to its roots."
Ian pressed his hand against the mural. Though he couldn't channel magic into it, he could still sense lingering traces of arcane energy.
"Most Ancient Magic," He murmured.
It beca clear to Ian that the purpose of these murals was not simply to relay history to future generations; rather, they served as vessels for so of the most archaic and potent magic known to wizardkind.
Much like the sacrificial protection Lily Potter cast over Harry.
"It's hope," Ian whispered.
The tower's function was beginning to make sense.
Whatever catastrophe had once ravaged this realm, it was apparent that the magic of love and hope had played a vital role in opposing it.
The tales etched into the stone walls weren't rely stories, they were enchantnts, repositories of a deep and ancient magic. Still, it was sobering to realise that this force, which had once turned the tide against Lord Voldemort, was not all-powerful.
At least, not powerful enough to stave off the final collapse of this forgotten world. Whether that failure had co from a weakening of belief or the hearts of its people losing strength, Ian could not say.
"Even with all that love and hope... they still couldn't stop it. That's a chilling thought." He rembered the vision of a fallen sun and a city crumbling beneath its glow.
The scale and sorrow of that mont would likely haunt him for the rest of his days. He couldn't help but speculate, perhaps this cataclysm was the work of a god beyond comprehension.
Just as the wizarding world had confird the existence of the Grim Reaper, Death himself, it wasn't beyond reason to think that other divine beings might also exist across the vastness of the cosmos.
Perhaps Professor Morgan would know. Ian had glimpsed his senior in the murals earlier, after all.
"Was it Death who brought ruin? Or so other power we've never understood?" Ian mused as he continued climbing toward the top of the tower. The murals changed as he ascended, revealing different wizards.
They were clad in shadowed robes or sweeping cloaks, wielding wands or ancient tos.
Often accompanied by motifs of thunder, storms, or swirling darkness, these figures symbolised their elental command and magical prowess.
Perhaps these wizards had inspired the fairy tales of old, but now they were nothing more than shimring echoes captured in pignt and stone.
"If the figures of legend were real... then might their echoes still exist in the Veil or the liminal edges of magic?" Ian thought, approaching the summit, a mix of awe and uncertainty swirling in his heart.
The topmost chamber was cloaked in shadow.
(To Be Continued…)
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