Crookshanks set his jaw and shoved at the staff with everything he had — but it was still that one stubborn last inch that refused to budge. In that instant his mind went perfectly clear. He pulled the staff back out, dropped to the floor, and lunged for the scattered treasures he'd just thrown out, desperately trying to scoop them back up with not nearly enough paws.
The footsteps drew closer.
A wave of despair washed over him. This was a disaster. No staff — and so many hard-won treasures lost in the bargain. Years of careful collecting, gone.
"Waaah. T_T"
He stuffed a few Galleons back into the pouch, cast one last longing look over his shoulder, and bolted.
Out in the corridor, Hermione spotted him immediately and scooped him up at a jog. "Crookshanks — no more running off."
"Mrrow."
Crookshanks buried his face in her robes so no one could see him cry.
Harry looked up at Bernadette with barely contained excitement. "Mr. Vincent — what subject will you be teaching at Hogwarts?"
"Muggle Studies."
"What's that?"
Ron chimed in helpfully. "It's a class about Muggles. Dad's absolutely obsessed with Muggle stuff."
Harry understood at once. A class about non-magical people? Hogwarts actually had a class for that?
"Will you be teaching us as well?"
"Yes."
Hermione couldn't help herself. "According to Hogwarts: A History, Muggle Studies is an elective that isn't available until third year…"
Bernadette glanced at her. "That was the case before this year. Starting this term, it will be a compulsory subject beginning in first year."
"Why?"
"Because I'm here."
At this, Neville's eyes lit up with belated recognition. "I remember now — Professor Vincent is teaching Muggle Studies!"
"…"
As the group stepped back toward the compartment, Bernadette stopped dead in the doorway — for a moment she genuinely wondered if she'd walked into the wrong one. One look at her staff still hanging on the wall confirmed she hadn't.
So what exactly explained the gleaming carpet of gold and scattered debris covering the floor?
Ollivander had mentioned that the staff could coax nettles from the earth. He had said nothing about it producing Galleons.
"Wow — there are so many Galleons!!"
The gold light filling the compartment left all four children momentarily dumbstruck. Ron was the first to recover. He dropped into a crouch, snatched up a coin, and bit it. "It's real!"
Harry immediately caught on and turned to Bernadette, alarmed. "Mr. Vincent — someone must have tried to rob you! Quick, check if anything's missing."
"Mm."
Bernadette gave a composed nod. "Help me pick these up."
"On it!"
Ron dove in with the most enthusiasm of all — this was more gold than he'd ever laid eyes on in one place, and just getting to touch it was its own kind of thrill, never mind that none of it was his.
Harry and Neville knelt down and joined in. Only Hermione hesitated for a few seconds, swallowing back the question that rose to her lips. Surely a single spell would sort all this out in an instant — why bother picking it up one coin at a time?
The professor must have his reasons.
Six or seven minutes later, every last coin and piece of "junk" had been gathered and set on the table. Ron was practically glowing, the tip of his nose gone pink. "Four hundred and twenty Galleons — Professor, you're loaded!"
His dad's monthly wages came to only a few dozen Galleons. This pile alone would take the family a year or two to save — and in truth, with so many mouths to feed, the Weasleys barely broke even each month. There was never much left over.
Bernadette opened her trunk and began scooping the Galleons in by the handful. With every handful, Crookshanks — still pressed against Hermione's chest — died a little inside, barely restraining himself from hurling across the compartment and fighting this coin-pillaging tyrant to the last.
When it was done, she gave each of the four children ten Galleons as a thank-you. It had been unexpected money from the start — there was nothing to feel guilty about.
The four tried to refuse. Bernadette put on her most professorial manner and forced the coins on them.
As for the miscellaneous "junk," she had no idea what any of it was worth, so she bundled it up in a sheet and left it on the floor.
Ron was in high spirits. When the trolley came by, he spent grandly — buying enough sweets to feed the whole compartment — and ate with the greatest contentment of all, cheeks puffed out, still introducing Harry and Hermione to the various magical treats between mouthfuls.
Bernadette sampled a few herself. The Chocolate Frogs were surprisingly lifelike, Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans were exactly what they claimed to be, and the Cauldron Cakes were genuinely enjoyable. No wonder children loved them so much.
What caught her attention most, though, was the card that came with one of the Chocolate Frogs: Nicolas Flamel — inventor of the Philosopher's Stone, an immortal who had already lived well over six centuries and showed no signs of stopping.
In her own world, even demi-divine Extraordinaries rarely survived beyond five centuries without access to very particular means. Yet here was a man who had apparently blown straight past that ceiling.
Perhaps the magic of this world was not as simple as it appeared.
The shared sweets and easy conversation did their work. With Bernadette's presence keeping things civil, Hermione's sharper edges stayed mostly hidden, and the four children warmed to each other quickly. Whatever had happened earlier, Ron had already put it behind him.
"Have any of you thought about which House you might end up in?"
Ron tucked a toffee into his cheek and spoke through it. "What do you reckon?"
Harry shook his head. "I've got no idea — I couldn't find anything in the books about how the Sorting works. What's it actually based on? Do you know, Ron?"
"I asked Fred and George, but they wouldn't tell me. All I know is, whatever happens — I am not going into Slytherin. That place turns out nothing but trouble. I'm telling you…"
Ron lowered his voice and launched into a hushed monologue.
Harry, having heard him out, gave an emphatic nod. "Then I don't want to end up there either."
Hermione frowned. "I disagree. Slytherin is one of the four Hogwarts Houses — it can't simply be a production line for dark wizards."
Neville raised a tentative hand. "My gran really dislikes Slytherin. She said You-Know-Who and most of his followers came from there. She told me I absolutely have to get into Gryffindor, because that's where Mum and Dad were." He searched his memory with effort. "And I think… Gryffindor and Slytherin are rivals? Or something like that."
Ron nodded with great authority. "Our whole family has always been Gryffindor — even Dumbledore himself was Gryffindor. But that Malfoy — both his parents were Slytherin. You've seen how awful he is. So yes, I stand by everything I said."
Harry turned to Bernadette with curiosity. "Mr. Vincent — which House were you in?"
"Slytherin."
Ron choked on his toffee.
…
The world of the Crimson Fёte. Backlund.
Day three of the swap — the final day.
To be continued…