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This year's crop of Hogwarts students must've been cursed.
"Unbelievable." Snape exhaled sharply, straightening his robes. "You really think this will pass in Knockturn Alley? You think your little tricks can compare to theirs?"
"I'll tell you now, even if you manage to brew these scraps into something that looks decent, those people will spot it in a second!"
"Don't make the mistake of thinking the wizards down there are fools. Yes, they sell counterfeits, but they're masters at it. Faking a potion properly requires just as much skill as making a real one."
Snape shot a scornful look at the pile of withered, useless materials on the floor.
To his well-trained eye, it was immediately obvious: these were imitations, no potency, no use.
Of course, to the untrained eye, the illusion might pass. The texture and colouring were close enough to fool someone lacking expertise. But he, as a Potions Master, couldn't comprehend how Ian had managed to replicate the appearance without adding any actual magical properties.
Because in truth—
They were devoid of any real effect.
"And how exactly do they test whether something is genuine or not?" Ian asked with genuine curiosity.
Snape turned to him with a glare, brow furrowing again. He clearly had no intention of humouring such a foolish question, but after a moment's hesitation, he decided it might be wiser to educate the boy than let him carry on unchecked.
"Appearance. Aroma. Even the feel of the material can give it away," he replied curtly.
Good Uncle or not, he still took his craft seriously.
Reaching down, he picked up another item, a shrivelled sleeping bean, just as he began to explain the proper techniques for identifying authentic, fully-brewed potions.
"Brilliant!" Ian suddenly claps his hands together, his face lighting up.
Just as Snape began to frown in mild confusion—
"You've touched my stock! Touch it, and you buy it! I can't sell handled goods, contamination risk, see?" Ian wasn't the least bit concerned about identifying real from fake. He was simply demonstrating his street-side selling tactics to Snape.
"..."
Snape could see exactly what Ian was up to.
It was precisely because he understood how utterly shameless the boy could be that he found himself temporarily speechless.
"You're trying to force a sale? Do you honestly believe those cutthroat lowlifes in Knockturn Alley will hand over their gold because of your twisted logic?" Snape's lip twitched, somewhere between a sneer and disbelief.
"Of course not." Ian nodded matter-of-factly and whipped out his wand.
"That's why we learn magic, isn't it? With the right charm, even Knockturn's worst will cough up the coins."
As Ian's words fell, Snape's left eye gave the faintest twitch.
Then, Ian added, almost defensively:
"Honestly, I'm being rather decent here. I'm even giving them a few real ones in the mix."
The boy's tone was filled with unwavering sincerity.
"I reckon I could bottle up sugar water and sell it as Felix Felicis, and they still wouldn't dare report me to the Ministry, or anyone else, really."
"That's Knockturn Alley for you. They're dark wizards..."
Ian clearly hadn't forgotten the delight of fleecing shady types during the Christmas dealings with Aurora.
"This is hardly the kind of thing someone your age should be doing!" Snape spoke firmly now, his voice filled with reluctant concern.
The boy was a natural-born menace.
Even Voldemort might've been more restrained at school.
"Which is why I plan to hand it off to Aurora's relatives. They've got proper shops down there, all legitimate fronts."
Ian's words were light, tossed out like idle conversation.
But he was baiting the hook.
And Snape bit.
"I also… have a shop in Knockturn Alley..." He muttered lowly, his expression going a bit stiff. He'd never trusted those aligned with Grindelwald, and he certainly wasn't about to let Ian cozy up to that lot.
As a renowned potioneer, after all—
There was no doubt about it:
He was also an expert in counterfeiting. He'd brewed fakes more times than he cared to admit. Why waste effort on authentic brews when the knock-offs sold just as well?
Ian understood what Snape was trying to say.
"Perfect! That saves us both the trouble of asking favours." He beamed. "You brew them all, and we'll go halves on the profit!"
Not waiting for a reply, Ian casually dumped the rest of his low-grade ingredients from his enchanted money pouch onto the ground.
After all, if someone else was willing to do the work, why should he lift a wand?
"..."
Snape opened his mouth to reprimand him, but the sheer volume of questionable ingredients now littering the floor stole the words from his tongue.
He took several deep breaths, shut his eyes, and mentally braced himself.
This was all to keep Ian from getting involved with those blasted Grindelwald supporters.
That was the priority— not the gold.
Certainly not the gold.
And it definitely wasn't the curiosity burning inside him about how Ian had managed to replicate the appearance of so many complex ingredients.
Yes, exactly that.
With that reassuring thought, Snape reopened his eyes.
But—
The young wizard was already gone.
Vanished.
"That blasted boy… how in Merlin's name did he make these fakes so convincing?"
Snape grumbled, gathering up the remaining ingredients from the floor.
He didn't confiscate them, nor did he slip them into his own pocket.
Because just as Ian knew, Snape's favoured methods of punishing students—
Snape also understood how seriously Ian took his galleons.
And not even Snape was willing to gamble with that kind of greed.
Because winning the wager would merely pad his vault with a few extra Galleons, but losing?
Losing might cost him far more than pride— it could well tarnish his name beyond repair.
Especially when love potions were involved. This particular nephew of his just might actually pour them down a Niffler's throat and sneak it into his bed at midnight, Snape had learned quite a lot about Ian already.
"Odd…"
Back in his office, even after a lengthy examination, Snape still couldn't unravel the method behind the forged draughts.
Their woeful lack of effectiveness was clear, yet their outward appearance, confusingly similar to the real thing, clashed with that truth like mismatched potion ingredients in a cauldron.
"How is this even possible?" He began to suspect that Ian had simply siphoned the active magical properties from genuine ingredients, but a thorough inspection revealed no such extraction traces.
They appeared naturally low in potency, utterly feeble, yet somehow, they bore an uncanny resemblance to their high-grade counterparts.
Snape retrieved a shriveled fig from his stores, holding it up for comparison.
"The markings… they're identical?" A rare note of disbelief crept across his face.
It was undeniable.
Some bizarre, infinitesimally unlikely coincidences had taken place.
He stared at the shriveled fig in his hand, visibly indistinguishable from the rest, save for its utter lack of magical effect, with an expression of stunned incredulity, as though he had just witnessed a breach in magical law.
"Just as there shouldn't exist perfectly identical witches or wizards, no two magical plants should ever be completely the same." Snape moved to bring the fig closer to the table's enchanted candlelight, ready to perform a more meticulous comparison.
"Hsss~"
A sudden, sharp breath escaped him.
A blinding surge of pain jolted through his head, as though a migraine had struck with the force of a Bludger.
"Bang~"
Snape caught several potion flasks just in time before they crashed to the floor, though a few vials of corrosive draughts hissed and steamed where their contents had splashed.
"What in Merlin's name—? Am I under a curse!?" He barely noticed the liquids pooling across the flagstones.
His skull throbbed violently, and flickering images began to flash behind his eyes—quick, disjointed, and utterly unfamiliar.
Every one of them was connected to him.
And yet, none were memories he possessed.
Elsewhere, in Hogsmeade Village—
The chess player seated beneath the trees always seemed to be there, no matter the hour.
It was as though the hand of a wandering, world-weary wizard moved the pieces gently, his worn robes brushing the snow-dusted bench. A curious shimmer pulsed from the ring upon his finger— subtle, deliberate, ancient in design.
But moments later, nothing stirred around him.
"Fascinating," he murmured under his breath.
Beneath the snow-laced branches, the scene around the man remained still.
The heavy winter snow continued to fall from the sky, yet within the circle where he sat, not a single flake landed.
Not only did the snow avoid the space, but the chill also did not reach him, within the ring of earth and stone, the air was warmer, touched with the scent of springtime blooms.
The entire circle stood in jarring contrast to the surrounding frost and silence.
"Balance must be maintained," The man said softly, as if in conversation with someone unseen.
In his gaze, the reflection of a single chess piece gleamed upon the board.
Albus Dumbledore.
(End of this chapter)