At that moment, footsteps approached — Madam Pince, carrying a thick volume, which she held out. "This is a book I bought when I was trying to learn Chinese some years ago. If you don't mind, you're welcome to use it."
Bernadette smiled with genuine gratitude. "Mind? Not at all — you've been an enormous help!"
Back in her office, Bernadette threw herself at the books without a moment's delay, diving straight into learning mode. But this was different from learning English before, or Futhark, or Giant's Tongue in years past — her progress was agonisingly slow.
The reason was that every other language she had ever learned, however different on the surface, had shared certain underlying features — all built on the same basic architecture of alphabet, word, phrase, sentence.
Chinese was nothing like that. It was an entirely different system, with no overlap she could exploit.
That said, it wasn't beyond her ability to self-study. She had an excellent memory, and even grinding through by brute force, she could master the language bit by bit — it would simply take more time.
Snap.
Several hours later, Bernadette pressed the dictionary shut with a firm thud and rubbed her aching temples. She felt as though her mind had been force-fed an endless procession of "square-shaped characters" — each one comprehensible in isolation, but the moment they were combined, instant chaos.
She exhaled slowly and deeply.
I'm being too impatient. Learning a language had never been something that could be rushed. Impatience only made the work twice as hard for half the result.
She closed her eyes and rested for a while, pressing her temples. Then she glanced at the tattered Chinese book on the desk, and a thought struck her: the cat...
She hadn't forgotten. It was that cat which had first led her to discover the existence of "Roselle's script." She still hadn't worked out why the cat had stolen her wand.
Bernadette stood up. "I'll go and find Hermione."
The timing was perfect — dinner was just beginning.
When Bernadette arrived in the Great Hall, she noticed none of the other professors had come down. She suddenly remembered the man mentioning, during one of their earlier swaps, that most professors took meals in their own offices — ordering ahead from the house-elves, who delivered the food at the appointed hour. Not joining the students was partly a matter of preference for quiet, and partly so as not to make the students self-conscious.
Just as that thought formed, she felt someone's gaze on her. She turned, and caught Harry hurriedly dropping his head; Hermione, beside him, was waving.
Remembering Dumbledore's words, Bernadette walked over and, to the astonished looks of the young Gryffindors, sat down across from Harry.
"Good evening, Professor."
The young witches and wizards around her immediately greeted her. Bernadette returned each greeting in turn, then looked at Harry and the others. "How was the weekend?"
Ron swallowed a mouthful of food hastily. "I've been writing the essay, Professor!"
Neville raised a tentative hand. "Me — me too."
"Finished?"
"Almost — just a tiny bit left."
Ron held his fingers close together. Then elbowed Harry. "Professor — Harry had a terrible weekend."
Harry protested immediately, "I did not!"
Hermione pressed her lips together primly. "And who was it that went on and on about how he'd betrayed Professor Vincent, and how he'd angered Professor Vincent, and how he wanted to march into the Headmaster's office and argue with the Sorting Hat..."
Ron gave a small cough. "Ahem — Hermione."
Hermione came to herself — they were sitting at the Gryffindor table. If anyone overheard that Harry Potter had actually wanted to be sorted into Slytherin, there would be disappointment, perhaps resentment.
Harry gripped his fork. He said quietly, "Professor, I swear that when I was talking to the Sorting Hat, I genuinely said..."
"I know."
Bernadette cut him off. "Harry, do you remember what I told you before? You're sometimes too sensitive — too quick to imagine the worst. In future, if something like this comes into your head, don't dwell on it. Just ask me directly."
Harry's eyes lit up immediately. "I will!"
Bernadette gave a small nod, then changed subject without warning: "And your essay?"
"..."
The brightness drained from Harry's face. He became stuttering. "I... I still haven't found anyone to collaborate with."
"Haven't found someone, or haven't tried?"
Harry's face reddened rapidly. "I... at first I really couldn't find anyone, and by the time I thought to look again, the only person left on the Slytherin side was someone I didn't think I could work with."
"Ah — hard to guess who that could possibly be. Malfoy, is it?"
"..."
Bernadette turned toward the Slytherin table, spotted Malfoy already peering over, and raised a hand. "Malfoy. Come to my office after dinner."
"???"
Malfoy blinked. You're over there talking to Scarhead — what does that have to do with me?
"Tonight, if the two of you haven't finished the essay by the end, you needn't bother going back to your dormitories. My office has a small bed — there's room enough for two to squeeze in for the night."
"Ah?"
Bernadette turned to Hermione. "Hermione — could you bring your cat to my office later? I have a few questions I'd like it to help me with."
"..."
Hermione's face fell at once, and she said in a small voice, "Crookshanks... has gone missing. Nearly a whole week. I've searched everywhere in Hogwarts — nothing."
Nothing?
Hmph. This is the cat deliberately avoiding me, is it?
Bernadette understood immediately. But unless the cat truly no longer cared about her wand, it would come back eventually.
"Don't worry — it'll turn up."
"Really, Professor?"
· ·
Elsewhere, at that same moment.
"Crookshanks" — now transformed into a pristine white Persian cat — was weaving between a group of young witchlings, begging for food and ear-scratches, playing the charming stray with well-practised ease. Every so often it yawned, and the light in its eyes was faintly dim.
It slipped one paw surreptitiously into the pouch in its belly, scrabbling around with purpose. Then raised the paw to its nose and inhaled deeply — and was disappointed.
The leaves are all gone. I want... I want just one more puff.
One day without it and I ache all over. It's been so many days now.
Mroww.
· ·
After dinner, Bernadette returned to her office. While waiting for Harry and Malfoy to arrive, she went back to the books on ancient magical script that Vincent had prepared for her — she needed to give her mind a change of scenery.
"Hm?"
She made a discovery in no time — one that echoed what Vincent had noted: if the earliest magic had genuinely been invented through combinations and fusions of ancient magical script, then magic and "witchcraft" did seem to share a certain common ground.
Ancient magical script — sometimes called ancient runes in this world — had two main accounts for its origin in popular wizarding theory. The first held that remote ancient wizards had through some means arrived at and codified a system of characters with miraculous power. The second held that the god-king Odin had hung himself upon the World Tree and, through that ordeal, perceived these miraculous characters.
Hogwarts did offer a course on the subject, but only at the theoretical level — enough to read certain ancient texts. The actual power contained within ancient runes was not covered.
But according to what the man had written, the Ancient Runes professor, Bathsheda Babbling, might well have grasped the true power of ancient runes — and might be capable of channelling ancient magical workings through them.
As for Dumbledore — as the greatest white wizard alive, he had surely studied ancient runes in depth. But she would not advise too frequent contact with that old man. He looked harmless enough, but his designs ran deep and his wisdom was formidable, and his Legilimency was genuinely terrifying. The more time spent with him, the more likely a slip.
Bernadette agreed with this entirely.
She flipped rapidly through the book, filtering out anything irrelevant, until her finger stopped on one passage: to grasp the power of ancient runes, one must begin by physically inscribing each character. In the act of inscription, one must channel magic with a certain rhythm, a certain pattern, a certain hidden quality, so that the rune etched into the surface becomes imbued with magic. Then commit to memory the rhythm, pattern, and hidden quality that gave that character its power — until the physical inscription is no longer necessary, and the character can be traced by hand alone. Finally, even the hand-tracing becomes unnecessary — a thought alone will invoke the power of that character. Only then can one be said to have a preliminary grasp of a single runic letter.
"..."
Bernadette fell into thought. The first and second steps she could follow — but the leap from the second to the third was enormous, and that was still only a single letter. After the letters would come words, after words phrases, and then every permutation and combination — the full circuits and arrays of ancient runes.
And yet...
Light slowly kindled in her eyes. That does sound like rather a challenge.
Unlike the rote memorisation she'd been grinding through, this kind of learning was genuinely interesting.
Unfortunately, this book only explained the underlying principle of mastering ancient runes. The specifics of how to do it were left deliberately vague — allegedly because ancient wizards had always taught through direct oral transmission between master and student, and the knowledge was strictly forbidden from being passed on freely.
The law was not to be passed on lightly — its obvious downside being that over the long sweep of time, entire lineages of knowledge could be severed in a single generation and lost forever. This was also, in part, one of the reasons the four founders of Hogwarts had joined forces to create the school.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A knock at the door.
Harry and Malfoy were standing at the entrance, pointedly maintaining as much distance from each other as possible, radiating mutual disdain.
"Come in — finish the essay as quickly as you can."
Bernadette sat them side by side at the desk, then began to pack up her things.
"You first, Chosen One." Malfoy opened his mouth and out came something snide.
Harry closed his fingers. "No — after you. Pure-blood wizard."
"Oh, please. You lived in the Muggle world for eleven years. On the subject of Muggles, surely you have the advantage over me."
"But the assignment calls for the perspective of 'a true wizard' on Muggles — and I'm not sure I entirely qualify."
"Not qualifying means you need to write even more."
"Harry Potter!"
"Draco Malfoy!"
Thwack. Thwack.
Bernadette gave them each a firm tap on the head. "Gentlemen. I asked you here to write, not to chat."
"If neither of you knows where to begin —" she pointed to each in turn, "— write your own sections separately first, then exchange and revise the other's, then combine them."
She paused, then turned to Malfoy. "Draco — tell your father I'd like a word with him."
"Ah?"
"Grown-up business; no need for you to concern yourself. Just pass the message."
"...Alright."
This was Bernadette's real reason for calling Malfoy over. When she'd encountered him and his father in Diagon Alley before, she hadn't yet understood what the elder Malfoy had meant. Now, having read through Vincent's notes, she had a good idea. If that was the case, she didn't mind establishing contact with Lucius Malfoy through Draco — to find out exactly what those pure-blood families who had a grudge against Vincent were planning to do about it. Forewarned was forearmed, and better to prepare in advance.
Hmph. She was not about to be outdone by that man again.
"You may not leave until the essay is done. There's a bed through there" — she pointed to the side door — "if you truly can't keep your eyes open, you can sleep. Though I've set no minimum length, so how late do you really need to be up?"
The two of them said nothing. If each wrote their own section, it wouldn't take long. The collaboration was another matter entirely.
She pulled the door open — and three small figures stumbled in and sprawled across the floor.
Ron recovered first, waving cheerfully. "Good evening, Professor."
Hermione and Neville immediately dropped their heads. "Good evening, Professor."
"You came to keep Harry company?"
"Yes..."
Bernadette said evenly, "I rather think Harry already has Malfoy for company. Off to bed, all of you."
"Yes, we'll just go."
Three deeply apologetic glances at Harry — and then they fled. A moment later, distant footsteps and an indignant voice: "Stop right there, you lot! I see you! I saw all of you!"
Shortly after, Hogwarts's caretaker, Argus Filch, came puffing and panting around the corner. He stopped short at the sight of Bernadette. "Oh — good evening, Professor Vincent."
"Mm."
Bernadette remembered this man: someone who possessed a magical aptitude but couldn't cast spells — a Squib, as wizards called it. Oh — nearly forgot, I'm a Squib too.
No. I can at least cast Lumos.
"Did you happen to see several unruly students pass by just now?"
She pointed down the other corridor. "That way."
"Thank you kindly."
· ·
Leaving her office, Bernadette made her way back to her bedchamber. The night-time castle was perfectly still — the air of a haunted manor. Not merely the air; there were real ghosts here, though they differed greatly from the malevolent spirits of her own world. These were the residual souls of the dead, and they posed no danger.
Ghosts, in practice, could barely affect the physical world at all. They were no threat to anyone.
She climbed to the fifth floor, turning the staircase corner — and stopped.
A faint scent of blood reached her. Not human blood — but blood all the same, threaded through with a thin trace of magical energy.
Bernadette went still, watching the corridor ahead. Her senses sharpened: the blood-smell was within five metres.
The other presence seemed to halt as well. The two of them remained on opposite sides of the corner without moving.
She gripped her "wand" and let her magic surge into it, full and ready.
Then a pale mist billowed out without warning, spreading rapidly in all directions. Bernadette stepped back sharply. Rapid footsteps receded into the darkness.
"Gone?"
She didn't move rashly, waiting until the mist had fully dissipated and the blood-smell had faded entirely before stepping carefully up onto the fifth floor and looking in the direction the footsteps had retreated.
Not human blood. But that person ran the moment they sensed me — guilty conscience, hiding something. Nothing good was happening here.
Bernadette frowned. Wasn't Hogwarts supposed to be protected by the greatest wizard alive, thoroughly safe? This was only the second week of term, and she had already walked into something like this.
I don't want to meddle. And I would prefer you not to make trouble for me either.
· ·
The next morning.
Ron was watching Malfoy, who had face-planted onto his desk and fallen asleep, and quietly asked Harry, "How late did you two stay up writing?"
Harry yawned. "Three or four in the morning, I think. I can't remember when I actually fell asleep."
"And you wrote until that hour, and the essay is still that short?"
He glanced at Hermione and said, "Hermione's essay is almost ten times longer than yours."
"To be precise," Hermione said, sitting up straighter with a trace of smugness she couldn't quite suppress despite still being subdued about Crookshanks, "I feel I had many more ideas I didn't get to include — but the assignment requires collaboration with a Slytherin, so I couldn't just write it all by myself." She paused, then asked, "Harry — surely the essay didn't give you much trouble?"
Harry closed his fist. "Professor Vincent asked us to write separately first, then swap and revise each other's work, then combine it. But every time I wrote something, Malfoy basically crossed out the entire thing. And so I crossed out everything he'd written. We wrote as much as we crossed out — and the only reason there's anything at all on the parchment is that we both eventually fell asleep."
"Oh..."
Hermione looked away with a private twitch of guilt — she had done something rather similar.
Ron found himself looking upon his Slytherin collaboration partner with a new and sudden warmth.
· ·
Not long after, Bernadette walked into the classroom. She offered a brief and honest assessment of the essays — universally poor, but as a first attempt at understanding the Muggle world, a kind of progress nonetheless.
On the strength of that improvement, they had earned the right to watch Back to the Future: Part II. The young witches and wizards who had spent a week on tenterhooks erupted in quiet delight.
Once she started the film, Bernadette sat to one side and resumed her research on ancient runes.
The days that followed fell into much the same rhythm — this was, in fact, the "strategy" Vincent had worked out from the very beginning.
His reasoning, which he'd explained, was that the core purpose of Muggle Studies in the early going was to ignite these young witches and wizards' curiosity about the Muggle world — and films, while hardly what one would call rigorous education, could both introduce them to Muggle life and kindle genuine interest, in a way that dry theorising never could. Not responsible, technically — but not wrong in its results either.
Bernadette's own verdict on this approach was: were it not for Professor Quirrell to compare against, I would unquestionably be Hogwarts's most derelict and least distinguished professor.
I'm sorry, young witches and wizards.
If your studies or your futures are damaged by my neglect of duty — feel free to go and find that man to answer for it.
· ·
The LOTM world. The following day.
Vincent sat at the desk by the window, holding the attorney's letter, cheek propped on one hand, reading it through while his thoughts ran elsewhere — not on the letter's contents, which were simple enough: an overview for whoever came to take over at Dolin & Associates, so that the successor could seamlessly continue gathering intelligence in Backlund for the Moses Ascetic Order.
The only truly useful piece of information was this: according to the late attorney Dolin's account, the Moses Ascetic Order was not a monolith. A small faction within it — those less affected by the Hidden Sage's influence — had banded together, still acting by the organisation's founding principles: do as you will, but do no harm.
Recently, however, the Hidden Sage had been channelling knowledge into them with increasing frequency, and they feared they couldn't hold out much longer. The thought had led Attorney Dolin to a different idea: defecting to another power.
But the letter only touched on this briefly — Dolin had written it without any expectation of dying, and naturally hadn't thought to be exhaustive.
"Stephen — tell me about your family."
Vincent turned slightly.
Stephen, who had barely slept all night, was dozing off and gave a sharp start at the sound of his queen's voice. "My family? There's nothing special about my family..."
To be continued…
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