Ten minutes later, Basil stood by the window, staring down at the cold corpse beneath the tree.
Before he could even process the shock of the kill, a ding echoed in his mind.
[Defeated Death Eater Fenrir Greyback. Obtained: Corrupted Soul (1). Create Echo? Yes/No]
An Echo?
In the game, Echoes were the result of a temporal disturbance caused by a "Time-Turner Thief" (some wizard who stole a bunch of Time-Turners). Before being caught in the Forbidden Forest, the thief smashed the devices, and the Reversal Spell mixed with the Sands of Time, creating anomalies.
Because the player was a dimension hopper, they could extract "Echoes" from the Forbidden Forest—residual imprints of famous wizards from different points in time.
But now that the game was real, it seemed different.
Basil didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
The sound of spinning gyroscopes filled his ears.
[Ding! Obtained Corrupted Echo: Fenrir the Wolf]
"View details."
The [Magic Book] opened. The Echo slot on the left was no longer empty.
A portrait of Fenrir Greyback appeared.
Below the portrait, text was engraved:
> [Passive: Fenrir the Wolf]
> Converts 10% of True Damage dealt by basic attacks and spells into Health.
> Lifesteal cap: 1000 HP. Cannot increase further once reached.
> Excess healing becomes Temporary Health (Shield) to absorb damage.
> Active Ability: Transform into a Wolf/Werewolf.
> Wolf Form: Basic attacks apply 'Lycanthropy Curse'.
>
>
Below that were eight card slots, each with a +3 level bonus.
Another wave of information flooded Basil's mind, and he quickly analyzed it.
"Hmm, this is different from the game. The bonus slots aren't random anymore. They correspond to the eight spells the Echo's owner was most proficient in."
"But the slots are empty. They don't reveal the specific spells."
"I have to flush them with Mana or fill them with Soul Dust to reveal them."
"Once revealed, I automatically obtain the corresponding card for that slot."
"Also, there are new qualities: Holy and Corrupted."
"Echoes of these qualities have +3 bonuses on all slots."
"Echoes no longer need leveling up, but they also don't provide flat attribute bonuses anymore."
"The method of obtaining them has changed too."
"I can get them by either 'Making Friends' or 'Murder and Soul Siphon'."
"What the hell is 'Making Friends' supposed to mean in this context?"
"'Murder and Soul Siphon' depends on the fame and power of the wizard. Killing them grants a Gold, Holy, or Corrupted Echo."
"If I dismantle an Echo, I get Soul Dust and cards based on the wizard's known spells and talents."
...
He didn't know how much time had passed.
WHOOSH.
The fireplace suddenly roared to life, the flames turning emerald green.
Basil's train of thought was interrupted.
A gloomy man stepped out of the green fire. He whipped his cloak around him dramatically. "Granger brat. I hope you haven't wasted my time. Speak. Where did you find traces of Greyback?"
Basil was dumbstruck.
In his imagination, the person stepping through the flames should have been Professor McGonagall—stern but caring, maybe biting her lip in worry, asking in a trembling voice, "Child, are you alright?"
At worst, it would be Dumbledore, channeling that intense, fiery concern he showed Harry in the Goblet of Fire movie: "GRANGER! BASIL GRANGER! DID YOU PUT YOUR NAME IN THE—I MEAN, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! WHERE IS GREYBACK?!"
Then, he'd grip Basil's shoulders firmly.
But instead, he got... this guy. All black. Looking like a giant bat.
Even if this world was a mix of the movies and books, that big bat had to be Snape.
But was this really Snape?
He didn't look like Alan Rickman—that stern teacher who hid a gentle heart under a cold exterior. This man looked like he just got released from Azkaban.
Greasy hair, sallow skin, an aura of pure gloom and terror. He was the quintessential Dark Wizard.
Even more ridiculous was that Basil's "Puppy Dog Eyes" attack was completely blocked.
Basil was confident in his looks. Even the grumpiest old geezer at the Leaky Cauldron would melt if Basil blinked his big, sparkling blue eyes at them.
But not Snape.
When he didn't get an immediate verbal response, the muscles in Snape's face twitched, as if he were looking at something filthy.
Snape began to survey the small wooden cabin.
His eyes immediately locked onto the golden book sculpture Basil was still keeping his hand near.
"Oh. A Portkey. Decent alchemy. Reusable, smoother ride. You're vigilant. Good... very good. Perhaps you aren't lying."
He raised an eyebrow and sneered. "So, you were just scared witless. Hmph. Hufflepuff."
"No, sir." Basil's face fell.
"I suggest you get used to it early. Address me as Professor Snape."
"Professor."
"Fine. Let's see where that filthy werewolf is hiding."
Snape ignored Basil's slight rudeness. He seemed to view Basil as a mildly annoying horned toad—something to be dissected with cold words, gutted, and boiled down for potion ingredients.
"Ahem," Basil cleared his throat. "Professor, if you just look out the window, you wouldn't have to—"
Basil smiled smugly, enjoying the suspense.
"Outside?" Snape turned and walked to the window.
Hiss.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth.
Lying in the bushes was a corpse.
Fenrir Greyback.
The body was riddled with wounds. The lower half, in particular, was a mangled mess.
Snape whipped out his wand instantly, pointing it at Basil. "What game are you playing?!"
"Professor," Basil sniffled, putting on a pitiful, innocent act, "I... I don't know! He must have triggered the protection spells my grandmother left behind. The big tree... the grass... they all came alive!"
"Came alive?" Snape narrowed his eyes, murmuring, "Granger. The cheating Grangers."
He instantly recalled where the Granger family's talent in potion-making came from—their eerie affinity for plants.
That was why the founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers was Hector Dagworth-Granger, and not his own equally brilliant ancestor, J. Evans... no, wait, not her... his ancestor from the Prince line.
The Princes always considered it cheating. Even his mother—sweet, family-ignoring Eileen Prince—had scribbled "Cheating Grangers" in the margins of her potion textbook.
"Fine. I think I understand."
While thinking, Snape had cast a Sensory Charm. He saw and smelled the blood on the redwood branches that matched the corpse perfectly.
"You understand what?" Seeing Snape turn to leave, Basil panicked. "Wait! I need to apply for the Poverty Assistance Fund! I'm an orphan!"
"Hogwarts does indeed have a fund to help students purchase textbooks and robes. However..." Snape looked Basil up and down, forcing a grotesque smile. "For a family as prominent and wealthy as the Grangers—who are extravagant enough to use solid gold for a Portkey—I hardly think you qualify for aid."
Snape swirled his cloak again, looking like a giant bat gliding away, and vanished into the green flames of the fireplace.
"Son of a—!" Basil stomped his foot in rage.
"That bastard! He's not just physically gross—looking all sticky and greasy, hair like he washed it with bacon fat..."
"He's a bad person, too!"
"And he loves swishing that cape! He insults Hufflepuff, insults my family, and then swish! He does it again!"
"Disgusting! He's a grown man!"
"I am but a child!"
"He insults a kid and his dead family, then struts out of the room like he's modeling on a Chanel runway!"
Basil fumed.
"Most importantly... my financial aid! Am I going to be the first Transmigrator in history who has to go to Hogwarts with his parents' old books and a secondhand wand, skipping the trip to Ollivanders entirely?"
Well, at least Hogwarts textbooks haven't changed in a century.
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