Early the next morning, the Christmas holiday officially began. The Great Hall became cold and deserted; the students didn't even eat breakfast before hurrying off and leaving the school in a rush.
This year, even fewer students remained at school for Christmas than last year.
Including the professors who stayed behind, there were only a dozen or so people in total. It was the same "1+1" pattern— the deterrent effect of Sirius Black and the Dementors was no less than that of the Heir of Slytherin and the Basilisk.
If nothing unexpected happened, Sybill Trelawney would make her prophecy about "thirteen at the table" at the school's Christmas feast.
Unfortunately, Eda wouldn't be able to hear Professor Trelawney's prophecy. After saying goodbye to Fred and George, she went alone to the other side of the Channel.
When Eda returned to Paris and came back to the house near the Champs-Élysées, a feeling of coming home rose from the bottom of her heart.
The house-elf Agnès would stand at the door waiting for her and say, "Welcome home."
Her grandmother, Vinda Rosier, would sit in the seat closest to the entrance, greet her with a smile, and then gently pull her into an embrace. This was a home that belonged only to Eda, a home where someone would always wait for her no matter how late she returned.
A traveler returning home, a weary bird returning to its nest—perhaps that was the feeling.
Eda couldn't quite put it into words. She only felt that crossing the sea from the Scottish Highlands back to this place made all the bumps along the way worthwhile.
At dinner, as if afraid that Eda had grown thin from hunger at school, the house-elf Agnès prepared a grand table full of French cuisine, using her actions to look down upon her British counterparts.
French oysters, foie gras, escargot, black truffles—everything was there.
In addition, there was red wine from Médoc to accompany the meal.
Eda knew little about wizarding red wine, but she did know that many of the top wineries in the Muggle world came from Médoc.
Whether it was self-important wizards or ever-advancing Muggles, they shared common ground when it came to luxury and enjoyment. After all, setting aside the existence of magic, everyone was human at their core, and anyone could lose their life to a single bullet.
After finishing the carefully prepared dinner, Vinda and Eda went together to the newly built balcony on the top floor of the house, admiring the winter night view of Paris.
Eda liked the spot by the window very much; she could read there, or watch people, or simply take in the scenery.
Leaning against the balcony railing, Vinda gently swirled her glass and said, "Do you like it? This is Agnès' Christmas gift to you. She even had this place raised higher, so your view won't be blocked by the surrounding buildings."
The balcony jutted out abruptly from the house, looking rather out of place, almost in conflict with anyone's sense of aesthetics. Its existence seemed to serve only one purpose: to allow the owner to better enjoy the scenery outside. Everything else was apparently irrelevant.
Eda had seen the architectural styles of the wizarding world before. She felt that the Burrow had been built that way simply because there were too many children to fit inside, so it had been stacked higher and higher layer by layer.
Most houses in the wizarding world could be described as illegal constructions—haphazard additions and bizarre shapes were common. Wizards seemed to believe that practicality was the true meaning of a house's existence; beauty did not come first.
The house-elf Agnès also put practicality above all else. She had built the balcony to be very comfortable, and the cold air outside could not blow in; every detail had been carefully considered.
But perhaps house-elves really did have nationalities, because Agnès' aesthetic sense was fairly decent—the slightly abrupt balcony could not be seen from the outside of the building.
Eda followed suit, gently swirling the red wine in her glass. Looking at the night outside the window, she said, "I'm almost reluctant to leave this place now. I don't even feel like going back to school."
To hell with the Dementors. To hell with Azkaban's top student, Black. Was French cuisine not delicious enough, or was the red wine not good enough?
"I'm very happy to hear that," Vinda said with a smile and a nod, "but school still has to be attended. Otherwise, this house will have an uninvited guest. Honey is nice, but I don't like bees at all—especially the buzzing sound they make when they fly."
Her grandmother's words were full of implication—just how deep was her resentment toward Dumbledore? After the summer's "The Story My Grandmother and the Dark Lord Had to Tell," was there now a sequel? Perhaps it should be called "The Story My Grandmother and the White Lord Had to Tell."
One could eat recklessly, but one could not speak recklessly. If Vinda could hear Eda's inner thoughts, she would probably let her granddaughter learn what it meant by, "A whip in Grandmother's hand, striking down upon her granddaughter—twelve slashes in a row, every one a critical hit."
There was no particular story between the Rose of France and the Flower of Takamura. Their lives had merely intersected because of the appearance of one crucial man.
If Vinda had once been filled with resentment toward Dumbledore, that hatred had long since been diluted by time. As the years passed, her view of him had changed. It was difficult not to feel respect for such a person. But that did not affect Vinda's desire not to see Dumbledore.
Eda inhaled the aroma rising from the red wine in her glass and said, half complaining and half coquettish, "If this continues, I'll be spoiled."
"That's exactly the point. Only then will you not be sweet-talked away by some wild boy outside, not have your soul hooked and your steps tripped by a few clever words." Vinda reached out and gently brushed Eda's hair behind her ear. "Besides, children who can be spoiled are never truly good children. Being spoiled is just their disguise and excuse."
Nothing in the world was absolute. Vinda's words were somewhat absolute, but there was still some truth in them.
"Grandmother, if three underage wizards—would it be possible for them to successfully stop a werewolf's rampage during its transformation, without killing or seriously injuring it?" Eda asked, looking at the moon that was gradually becoming full. "Oh, and among them, one is a male Head Boy, one is a prefect, and the remaining one is slightly stronger than average."
When it came to dealing with a transformed werewolf, Eda alone would be enough. She had plenty of ways to handle that little furry problem. But she couldn't use herself as the hypothetical standard—placing three versions of herself of the same level in front of a werewolf would be far too unfair to Professor Lupin.
"Is there a werewolf at your school? Should I take this opportunity to send Dumbledore a Howler?" Vinda's eyes suddenly lit up.
Vinda did not know about the werewolf. To others, a werewolf might be very dangerous, but she had confidence in Eda. The Howler that hadn't yet been sent would most likely be an excuse to make an issue of it and settle a personal score.
"The chances aren't high. A werewolf that has lost its reason is a terrifying opponent. Its sharp claws and fangs, along with its swift speed, are all lethal weapons," Vinda continued. "When facing a werewolf, it's best to be prepared to kill. A wizard who has transformed into a werewolf is no longer human, but a beast even more vicious than a real wolf."
Vinda's thoughts coincided with Eda's own. She also felt the chances were slim. Judging by herself—if her friend were a werewolf, Eda would certainly try every possible way to help her friend, do everything in her power to protect him, and do everything she could to prevent what he feared from happening.
But when facing an extremely dangerous werewolf, what could three underage wizards possibly do?
Unless they were like her—able to suppress the werewolf's strength without injuring it. Or unless they had some special method, some secret unknown even to Dumbledore.
The answer seemed to be right before her eyes, yet as unreachable as the moon reflected in water or flowers in a mirror. Was such a difficult idea really feasible?
The pleasant sound of glasses clinking interrupted Eda's thoughts. When she came back to herself, she saw that Vinda's goblet was already empty.
"When thinking about something, if you run into a bottleneck or a misunderstanding, then stop and do something else. The effect may turn out surprisingly good," Vinda said. "I believe you understand this as well."
Eda nodded and stopped thinking about school matters.
She raised her glass and took a sip of the rose-colored liquid inside. She was quite certain that her technique for swirling the wine still needed improvement.
"Does Hogwarts really have a werewolf? A student, or a professor?"
At this moment, Vinda did not seem like a powerful elderly woman at all, but rather very much like a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old girl.
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