"That's right!"
Patricia nodded. "Do you know Mr. Grindelwald?"
She tilted her chin up proudly. "Oh — and I've taken his surname now. Patricia Grindelwald."
"..."
Vincent kept his shock locked firmly behind his ribs. "Let me guess — the place you visit each time... is it called Nurmengard?"
"Oh? How did you know?"
"..."
How could I possibly not know!
What on earth is going on here?
Half an hour later, Vincent arrived at the entrance to the Headmaster's office on the eighth floor of the castle. The grotesque stone gargoyle moved at once to block his path.
"Password."
"Cockroach Cluster."
"Correct."
It hopped aside to let him pass.
"Is Dumbledore in his office?"
"He is."
Vincent took the spiral staircase two steps at a time, knocked a few times, and pushed the door open without waiting for a reply.
"Ah, good afternoon, Vincent."
Dumbledore was seated in his rocking chair, knitting a pair of fluffy socks with needle and thread in hand. "Working on your Christmas presents, in fact. What is it? You look rather urgent."
"Headmaster, do you know a girl named Patricia?"
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses. "I'm sorry — perhaps my memory isn't what it was. I don't believe I've heard that name. Is she one of this year's new students? Has she caused some trouble?"
"No." Vincent explained that Patricia was a young girl he'd met during "a certain difficult period" a few years back.
"I know. You needn't tiptoe around it. The fact that I was willing to bring you on as a professor means I looked into all of that — your methods during that time were somewhat... dangerous, but I understand you had no choice."
He paused, and his expression grew solemn. "I am sorry. Had I known sooner, you wouldn't have had to go through any of it."
"There's nothing to apologise for, Professor. You're a powerful wizard, not an omniscient god. You can't be expected to know everything while sitting in this school."
Vincent's own impression of Dumbledore had always been broadly this: the man was undoubtedly good — but not the simple, uncomplicated sort of good. He was deep, calculating, and accustomed to controlling outcomes. To achieve what he believed to be the best possible result, he was capable of sacrificing certain things — including himself. But a good man he remained, all the same.
"I'm getting off track. To the point — after being taken abroad by her family, she's returned two years later and is now living in Hogsmeade. She wants to attend Hogwarts. She also says that her surname is now Grindelwald."
"...???"
Dumbledore clearly stiffened. "Which Grindelwald?"
"The one you're thinking of right now. The one you defeated. The one locked up in Nurmengard."
"..."
Dumbledore slowly removed his glasses. "Could it be a coincidence?"
"Patricia says that Grindelwald is her grandfather."
"???"
Dumbledore shot to his feet. "Fawkes."
The phoenix Fawkes, dozing on his perch, ruffled his wings and alighted onto Dumbledore's shoulder.
The old man's face was grave. "Charles — forgive me, I must step out." And with that, man and bird vanished together in a burst of flame.
"Err..."
In quite a hurry, aren't we?
You're the greatest white wizard who ever defeated Grindelwald — surely you didn't need to bolt the moment his name came up?
Hold on...
Vincent suddenly thought of something. Could the real reason for that reaction be... the fact that Grindelwald was Patricia's grandfather?
Good grief — is this a soap opera?
Outside the Potions classroom, Ron watched as Harry furtively fished something out of his pocket and pulled it over the lower half of his face, and immediately grew curious. "Harry, what are you doing?"
"Nothing." Harry's voice came out slightly muffled. "I want to try something."
"What?"
Hermione and Neville both looked over, equally puzzled.
"You all know Snape has it in for me," Harry said in a low voice. "Always finding excuses to dock my points, always giving me detention. Last time Professor Moriarty gave me a suggestion..."
"A — a face mask?"
Hermione's voice went up a full octave. "That makes no sense! It's not as though Snape won't recognise you just because you're wearing a mask."
"I... thought Professor Moriarty was joking too, at the time. But I'm at the end of my rope." Harry balled his fist. "Last week I was either writing Potions essays or sitting in detention — the entire week, including the weekend! A whole week, completely wasted!"
"Still — I really do think it was just a joke."
Ron muttered, "My bet is that giant bat finds some excuse about disrespecting a professor, docks you a mountain of points, and makes you clean the toilets. I've got that overgrown bat completely figured out."
"Oh?"
Suddenly, an oily, cold voice seemed to materialise directly behind Ron's ear.
Ron's body seized up. Neville looked as though he'd turned to stone.
He turned his head slowly, and found Snape staring at him with undisguised malice. "Talking about your professor behind his back, Mr Weasley? Five points from Gryffindor."
"And the rest of you." Snape's gaze swept the group. "Knowing full well a fellow student was disparaging a professor and doing nothing to stop it, I'll likewise be—"
His voice cut off. The sharp, cold look in his eyes suddenly went blank. For just a moment, he simply stared at Harry — who had turned around to face him. At those eyes.
Those green eyes.
They really were... they truly were the absolute image of hers.
"...adding five points."
With that, Snape finished his sentence.
Everyone present stood dumbfounded. They blinked, wondering if they'd heard wrong.
Snape had just awarded them points?
With that reasoning?
"..."
Snape came back to himself. He wrenched his gaze away from those green eyes with visible reluctance, and his voice went cold once more. "The points I just gave — disregard them. I misspoke. The actual ruling is—"
Then he saw those green eyes dim, and the words already climbing his throat refused to come out.
He swallowed them.
"—forget it. Get inside and sit down!"
He swept off into the classroom in a billow of robes.
"R-right..."
Ron was gobsmacked. He clapped Harry on the shoulder again and again. "Bloody hell — does that... does that mask actually work?!"
Hermione still had only one thing to say: "That makes no sense!"
Harry was feeling a bit dazed himself. He'd never been particularly slow on the uptake, and he knew something was clearly lurking beneath the surface — but asking Snape? He'd never get a straight answer. Which left only one option: ask Professor Moriarty.
That evening, after dinner, Vincent exchanged a brief account of recent events with Bernadette in the Realm of Chaos. Afterwards he settled into his office and got back to work on the ancient rune parchment.
He could recognise most of the runes on the parchment — but only at the level of identifying individual letters, a lingering remnant from when the original occupant of this body had taken Ancient Runes as an elective. Any deeper understanding — imprinting them, mastering them, using them to cast spells — was completely beyond him.
"Odd."
"How did the original use Ancient Magic, then?"
Wait — no, that's not right.
He suddenly recalled: Bernadette had mentioned during their exchange that Professor Burbage believed Ancient Runes and Ancient Magic were two entirely different things.
Ancient Magic referred to a specific and extraordinary type of magic. Ancient Runes were simply the method by which ancient wizards studied and mastered magic.
Ancient Runes could be learned by anyone. Ancient Magic, however, was restricted to a particular group: you had to have been a Squib before the age of fifteen.
That made it even stranger. The previous inhabitant of this body had been a perfectly ordinary young wizard who started Hogwarts at eleven — clearly failing to meet the prerequisite for Ancient Magic. So what exactly had he used that day? That magic which devoured souls?
If it was Ancient Magic, it made no sense. If it wasn't, then what on earth was that soul-devouring spell?
To be continued…
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