Viktor carefully returned the Snidget nest to the suitcase.
He settled back into the chair and opened the book Grandpa Newt had sent—flipping to the sections with already-documented rune sequences for various magical creatures' innate abilities.
Many of these rune combinations clearly echoed modern spells.
The Invisible Beast's concealment runes corresponded almost perfectly to the Disillusionment Charm.
The Diricawl's escape runes aligned with Apparition.
The Matagot's mind-probing runes mirrored Legilimency.
And when these innate abilities were channeled through Ancient Runes instead of the creature's natural magic,
the power could reach eight or nine tenths of the original—sometimes even more in ideal conditions.
The downside? The casting process was slow, complicated, and ritualistic.
That was the massive advantage of the modern spellcasting system over Ancient Runes and older magics:
speed and simplicity.
First-mover advantage couldn't be overstated.
The book also touched on the connection between Ancient Runes, magical creatures, and arithmancy.
Not the innate Seer-type divination that saw the future,
but the post-modern arithmancy that rose after standardized spellcasting became widespread.
Arithmancy converted variables into numbers, ran complex magical calculations, and produced a final digit.
That digit could then be interpreted through the lens of the creature tied to it in Ancient Runes—each number linked to a specific magical being.
Zero: Invisible Beast
One: Unicorn
Two: Horned Serpent
Three: Runespoor
Four: Hag's Bird
Five: Five-Legged Beast
Six: Salamander
Eight: Acromantula
Nine: Hydra
And the most mysterious digit of all—seven—remained blank. No creature had ever been confirmed to represent it.
Among researchers, theories abounded.
One particularly interesting (and controversial) hypothesis claimed that the only being capable of embodying the magical number seven—symbol of mystery, miracle, and the unknown—was the wizard themselves.
At first the idea gained traction.
The proposing wizard even invited dozens of others to undergo Rune Manifest on themselves.
The resulting rune sequences were wildly different for each person—seemingly supporting the "wizard as number seven" theory.
But the pure-blood establishment quickly suppressed it.
They considered it insulting to equate noble wizards with "mere magical creatures."
Without concrete proof, the hypothesis was buried.
To this day, the number seven in Ancient Runes remained an empty slot—unknown.
Viktor personally found arithmancy far more reliable than tea-leaf reading or crystal gazing.
It felt like magical big-data analysis: turn variables into numbers, compute, interpret the result through shared cultural/archetypal symbols (i.e., creatures).
Done correctly, the predictions were surprisingly solid.
He was deep into mapping the Diricawl's escape rune cluster when urgent knocking rattled his office door.
Viktor set the book aside, walked to the front office, and opened it.
A redheaded boy—sweaty, breathless, eyes wide with panic—stood outside.
The moment he saw Viktor, he blurted:
"Professor Viktor—you have to come quick! My brothers Fred and George—they've turned into ghosts! They're flying around the castle right now with Teaching Assistant Tom and Peeves!"
Viktor's expression froze.
Fred and George became ghosts? And they're running around with Tom and Peeves?
He'd only let Tom out to play for a little while.
How did the cat manage to kill two students in under an hour?
No time for questions.
"Where are they right now?"
"When I came to find you, they were in the Great Hall!"
Viktor yanked his broom from his pocket, mounted it in one fluid motion, and shot toward the Great Hall.
He barely reached the entrance before the sound hit him:
a mix of student screams, cheers, and unmistakable maniacal laughter—Tom's yowls, Peeves' cackles, and the twins' delighted whoops.
He stuffed the broom away and stepped inside.
The sight made his vision darken for a second.
High above the tables floated a brightly colored toy train—chugging through the air in cheerful loops.
Sitting atop it in a perfect line:
Tom (wearing a tiny conductor's hat, at the front).
Peeves (cackling wildly).
George.
Fred.
The train whistle blew—toot toot!—and rainbow bubbles erupted from the smokestack.
Tom threw his head back and howled with laughter.
Peeves lobbed moldy bread rolls and chalk stubs at unlucky students below.
The "ghost" twins—translucent, floating slightly above their seats—waved enthusiastically at the gawking crowd while reaching into their robes and raining down prank items:
"Step right up, folks! Don't miss Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' latest line!"
"Fanged Frisbees! Trick Wands! Punching Telescopes!"
"Every prank you could dream of—get 'em while they're hot!"
Viktor pinched the bridge of his nose.
Of course.
They're not dead.
They're just in ghost mode.
And having the time of their lives.
Somewhere in the background, Percy was probably having a heart attack.
And McGonagall… well.
She was going to need a very strong cup of tea.
Viktor sighed, already reaching for his wand.
Some days it really paid to be the professor with the chaos cat.
Today clearly wasn't one of them.