The thought had barely formed when Bernadette frowned at herself. "Why do I feel slightly more… juvenile every time I swap over?"
Was it really the effect of inhabiting that man's body?
She picked up the wand from her right, gave it a light wave. It felt hollow and weightless — like something the Elven folk of legend might use as cutlery.
She recalled one of the spells from the video, gave a flick of her wrist, and said:
"Lumos."
Nothing happened.
She pressed her lips together and tried again:
"Wingardium Leviosa."
Still nothing.
She closed her eyes. Third attempt:
"Petrificus Totalus."
This time, Bernadette paid close attention — and throughout the entire casting, not a single spark of magical energy moved inside the body. Is it because I haven't actually learned these spells, and that's why nothing's happening?
She began working through the technique frame by frame, replaying Vincent's casting videos and doing her best to mirror each flick of the wrist, each angle, each pace and pitch of spoken word.
Two hours later, still not one spell had fired.
This made no logical sense. According to Vincent's own explanation, a beginner might fail at casting, and the results could be unpredictable or even disastrous — but even a first-year student starting from absolute scratch couldn't go through this many attempts without producing some kind of reaction.
Is it because my soul comes from a different world?
Am I what he called a Squib — someone with no magical talent? But I can feel the magical energy inside this body… No — it was his body. The magical energy was his.
Bernadette — who had spent more than a century being sharper than almost everyone around her — felt, for once, a twinge of defeat.
After thinking it over at length, she tried once more, this time consciously drawing on the body's magical reserves and directing them toward the wand in her right hand:
"Lumos."
Whoosh.
The wand blurred into a streak of shadow and shot straight out of her grip. It punched clean through the wooden door, leaving a neat hole behind, and vanished.
Bernadette: "..."
So the wand had worked as an amplifier — it just amplified itself right out of her hand.
At that same moment, Harry Potter was standing outside, having spent several minutes psyching himself up, and had just finally lifted his knuckles to knock — when something went whoosh past his head, close enough to ruffle his hair.
"???"
He had absolutely no doubt: whatever that thing was, it would have made a perfectly acceptable substitute for a bullet. I nearly just lost my head.
The wizarding world is genuinely dangerous.
Harry swallowed hard, reached out his trembling hand, and knocked.
"Knock knock knock."
Half a minute passed. The door let out a soft creak and swung open. A stone-faced Vincent stood in the doorway. "You're here?"
"Good afternoon, Vincent."
"Afternoon."
The moment she set eyes on the boy, something in Bernadette's expression eased. "Come on, then. Diagon Alley."
They had barely taken a few steps when she remembered — and quietly crossed the road to a tree, where she extracted the wand that had embedded itself most of the way into the trunk. The tip had taken on some very obvious wear.
He said this wand was here for practice. A bit of practice-related damage probably won't be something he'll complain about.
Though if this is the best I can do with magic in this world — perhaps I should look for a sturdier wand. There's a wand shop in Diagon Alley, after all. Might as well have a look.
The two of them left the street and emerged onto a busy road. Not far ahead was the large supermarket that Bernadette had "visited" the first time she arrived in this world.
Goodness knows how Vincent sorted out the police situation after that.
Following the map and directions he had left behind, Bernadette stepped to the kerb at the junction and flagged down a yellow taxi. "Charing Cross Road — the Record Emporium, please."
Though she was deeply curious about the automobile — an invention her father had once designed but never lived to see built — she gave nothing away. She wore the ease of someone utterly accustomed to the modern world.
After about ten minutes of watching the city scroll past outside, she turned to look at Harry. "Your books and your robes — the one who burned them was the chubby boy?"
Harry, jolted out of his thoughts, nodded.
"Does it have anything to do with me?"
He shook his head quickly. "No — no, nothing to do with you."
"So it does, then."
She rested her chin in one hand, thinking. "Let me guess — that chubby boy found out you'd been coming to see me regularly last week. He already had a score to settle with me after I roughed him up, so he took it out on you by burning your things."
Harry gave a silent nod.
"Don't worry. Once you've learned magic properly, you'll be able to deal with him yourself."
But Harry shook his head. "If that day ever comes… I don't want to get back at Dudley. I just want to get away from the… home I hate and that hates me."
Bernadette studied him for a quiet moment, then smiled. "That's easy enough. If you want, you could—"
She caught herself. She wasn't herself right now. She couldn't act on her own preferences — and if Vincent came back next week to find an extra child installed in the house…
Let's not.
She changed course: "In any case, term starts in a few days. Once you're at Hogwarts, you'll naturally be rid of them."
"Right!" Harry's face brightened.
"That said — running away doesn't solve the problem. The only real answer to being bullied is to fight back. Make them afraid of you, and they'll stop."
Harry went quiet at that. After a moment he said softly, "I understand, Vincent." Then, after a pause: "Would you tell me about Hogwarts?"
You're asking a lot of me there.
She thought for a moment, then said: "Some things are better experienced firsthand — the impression you get from living it is like…"
She trailed off.
Outside the taxi window, the city had suddenly opened up.
A skyline she hadn't imagined — vast, unannounced, filling the window without warning. Towering buildings climbed one after another into the overcast sky, roads and overpasses layered and crossing in every direction, streams of traffic flowing between them in dense, ceaseless rivers. For the first time since arriving, the full weight of being in another world landed on Bernadette all at once.
She had grown up in a remote part of the world. This was something else entirely. It was how it must feel, she supposed, to have never left your village and then arrive for the first time in the great city of Trier — except the gap here was wider still.
After a long moment, Bernadette murmured: "…Like exactly what I'm feeling right now."
The Lord of Mysteries world. Backlund.
When Vincent came to, he found himself in an unfamiliar room. The sound of waves was gone, replaced by the distant hum of a busy street outside. He went straight to the window and pushed it open — a lively, noisy road rushed in to meet him.
So she actually agreed to my request and moved to the city.
A few moments later, he settled onto the sofa. On the coffee table in front of him sat two tall stacks of books and several sheets of notepaper. He reached for Bernadette's letter, sat down, and began to read:
"Vincent — greetings."
"First, congratulations on receiving your own spirituality and being able to use my extraordinary abilities."
The handwriting on this line was notably deeper than the rest, pressed harder into the page.
Hm. Was Bernadette feeling a little off balance about that?
To be continued…