The concept of being cuckolded had, naturally, first entered the Loen cultural lexicon through Emperor Roselle himself — though in the open society of Intis, it had never been considered any kind of serious matter.
But this was Loen.
The cold smirk on Roy's face froze solid.
The room went so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.
Faced with over a dozen pairs of eyes, he felt himself transported back to his life before Backlund — adrift in the towering swells of the Raging Sea, as if the next moment might swallow him whole into the black water below.
Several minutes later, watching this habitually brash and imperious Deacon of Punishment spiral into silent ruin and then get struck flat by a bolt of lightning of his own making, Executioner Bernard felt more satisfied than he had in years.
He retrieved the silver mirror Arrodes, cleared his throat, and looked around the room. "Ahem. Who has the next question?"
The Night Watch team and the Punishment team took a simultaneous step back.
Several younger members of the Mechanical Heart exchanged glances and bit the bullet. "Deacon, I'll—"
"Never mind. I'll do it."
Bernard waved them off, and with his right hand gently smoothed the surface of the mirror. He asked respectfully, "Honoured Arrodes — who is the master of this spirit realm creature?"
The surface of the silver mirror rippled again. A woman of unremarkable appearance appeared in the image.
"By the principle of equivalence, it is now my turn to ask a question."
Despite having steeled himself, Executioner Bernard's face went a shade paler. "…Very well."
"Are you… truly in love with him?"
The world of Harry Potter.
Several hours later, the train slowed and finally ground to a halt.
Passengers jostled and pressed toward the doors. Bernadette shepherded the four children down onto a tiny, pitch-dark platform, where the night chill had every young witch and wizard huddling into themselves like a row of half-frozen quails.
She glanced across to the black surface of the lake in the distance, catching the faint glitter of reflected stars. First-years at Hogwarts followed in the footsteps of the school's four founders, crossing the Black Lake by boat to reach the castle.
At that moment, a large figure came striding toward them with a lantern swinging in hand. He bellowed into the dark: "Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here! Harry, over here — yeh alright?"
"Over here, Hagrid!"
Harry waved enthusiastically and turned to Bernadette. "Mr. Vincent — I'll see you at the castle."
"Mm."
Bernadette picked up her trunk — heavy with Galleons — and followed the second-years and above down a narrow path to where a line of carriages waited, pulled by black, leathery-winged horses.
She already knew what these were. Thestrals — creatures said to be an ill omen, visible only to those who had witnessed death firsthand.
Death, for the Queen of Mysteries, was little more than an occupational hazard.
Bernadette settled back quietly in her seat, watching the winding path ahead as it led toward the glowing castle. The night breeze drifted in from the surrounding forest. When the carriages finally arrived at the courtyard before Hogwarts, the young witches and wizards were met by their respective House prefects, who led them inside — through twisting corridors and up staircases — to the Great Hall.
Some ten minutes later, Bernadette took in the Great Hall for the first time. Four long tables stretched through its centre, each belonging to a House. Thousands upon thousands of candles floated overhead, filling the hall with warm gold light, and when she looked up, the ceiling above was an inky black scattered with stars — enchanted, she recalled, to mirror the sky outside.
Her gaze drifted up to the long table on the raised dais at the head of the hall. That was where she would be sitting come the start-of-term feast.
"Vincent Moriarty!"
A voice cut across the hall — cool and pointed, the name spoken in a way that somehow conveyed a wealth of barely-concealed contempt using only three syllables.
She turned. A man in black robes was approaching — lank, sallow-skinned, with eyes as flat and lightless as standing water. "I imagine Dumbledore has finally lost his mind, hiring a dropout to teach at Hogwarts. After all, a brain that never received a proper education is, frankly, no different from a troll's. Would you not agree?"
He cast a look at the staff in Bernadette's hand, and his expression sharpened with fresh disdain. "And what exactly is that? A troll's club?"
Severus Snape. Head of Slytherin. The very professor Vincent had specifically warned her about — a man whose character and temperament were, to put it charitably, deeply unpleasant.
His character she had yet to fully assess, but his temperament, she had now seen for herself.
Her father had told her from a young age: if anyone ever claims they have a sharp tongue but a kind heart, you give them a good hard slap. Because if they've said every cruel thing they wanted to say and still expect to be seen as a decent person, they have a very high opinion of themselves indeed.
Words cut deeper than the sharpest blade.
But she was playing "Vincent" right now. She couldn't simply knock him across the room. She held his gaze for a few seconds, then said quietly, "Dumbledore probably felt sorry for me. Out of pity for the way my parents died, he gave me this chance."
"If I'd been fortunate enough to grow up with my parents beside me, the way you were, Professor, I expect I wouldn't have been expelled so young — or find myself compared to a troll."
"Don't you think so, Professor?"
The muscle in Snape's cheek gave the faintest twitch. He stepped half a pace closer, his voice dropping to something cold and controlled. "Why have you been getting close to Harry Potter?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Bernadette blinked, genuinely thrown. Harry? What does Harry have to do with any of this? Vincent didn't mention anything about that.
"I'm afraid I don't quite follow, Professor." She raised an eyebrow. "I simply noticed that the boy had lost his parents the same way I did — that he'd been bullied, that he had no one. So I paid him a little attention. You know Harry, apparently. Surely you're aware of what kind of life he's been living these past years?"
"…"
"By the way, Professor — do you know how his parents died?"
"…"
The muscle in Snape's cheek twitched again, more visibly this time. After a long pause, he dropped his gaze and muttered "See that it stays that way" — and walked away at a pace that could only be described as a retreat.
"Strange."
What exactly was the nature of the relationship between Snape and Harry? And that look that had crossed his eyes just now — that particular blend of hatred and something that looked very much like concern — what was that about?
"Oh, Vincent, there you are."
A tall, dark-haired witch in emerald-green robes came striding over. "Stop standing around looking lost — the first-years will be here any moment. Go and get yourself settled over there."
"Of course, Professor McGonagall."
Hmm.
Bernadette suddenly became aware of several gazes, distinct from the rest, cutting through the crowd of young students toward her. She noticed them precisely because of what they carried — not curiosity, not admiration, but something that mixed resentment and dislike with a thread of fear.
She turned to look, but couldn't locate the source.
She made her way to the staff table, where several professors were already seated. Pomona Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff. Filius Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw — small and neat, with a trace of goblin ancestry, she guessed. And a man whose head was wrapped in a turban and who smelled, even from a considerable distance, strongly of garlic. Vincent hadn't mentioned that one.
After a few more minutes, Dumbledore, Snape, and the rest of the faculty drifted in and took their seats, exchanging friendly greetings all around. The silver-bearded old man she'd mentally filed as "the one Vincent left stranded on an island" caught her eye and gave her an unmistakable wink — thoroughly unrepentant, in the manner of a very old man who had long since stopped caring what people thought of him.
"Ohhhh!"
A ripple of excited murmuring swept the Great Hall. Professor McGonagall had led the first-year students in. Bernadette picked out Harry immediately — his face serious and taut with nerves — along with a visibly anxious Ron and Neville, who was pale-faced and appeared to have already lost something.
Only Hermione seemed to be taking it all in, head turning left and right, chattering under her breath in quiet excitement. She was no longer carrying the orange cat.
McGonagall set a small, four-legged stool in front of the assembled first-years and placed a battered, patched, and profoundly dirty hat on top of it.
"Settle down, everyone!"
At McGonagall's command, every last mouth snapped shut. The Great Hall fell utterly silent. After a moment, the Sorting Hat stirred — and sang a lengthy introduction of itself. Then the Sorting ceremony began.
The first-years who had spent the past hour dreading it let out a collective sigh of relief. No wrestling trolls, no daring expedition to Azkaban, no Killing Curse to survive. All they had to do was put on a very dirty hat.
Suddenly the hat didn't seem so bad at all.
Bernadette found herself quietly amazed. That alchemical construct has clearly developed genuine sentience — it behaves less like an object and more like a wise, independent being. Even an alchemist of the Omniscient Pathway, or an ancient alchemist of the Planter Pathway, would find that extraordinarily difficult to achieve.
The magic of this world really did not play by any rules she knew.
McGonagall stepped forward, parchment in hand. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool."
She scanned the first-year students, and called the first name: "Hannah Abbott!"
To be continued…
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