Harry Potter world.
On the last day before Christmas break ended, the young witches and wizards who'd gone home came trickling back to Hogwarts, and the castle, which had been quiet for two weeks, grew lively again.
For most of them, the holidays at home meant no early-morning classes and no late-night essay-writing, but also no one their own age to play with. The kids who'd experienced the game console especially had been itching to come back practically from the second day onward.
Early that morning, Bernadette finished the breakfast sent by the house-elves, then started testing the dumb cat — after weeks of intensive learning, it was finally time for assessment.
Not that it was a formal exam, of course. She simply asked it questions and had it write the answers.
Which it could now do. After this stretch of intensive study, the cat was capable of basic written communication. From that angle, calling it "the dumb cat" was perhaps no longer quite right.
Bernadette held the long staff and looked at the cat sitting on the desk. "Did you have your magical abilities from birth?"
The cat blinked, shook its head, and wrote in clumsy, uneven strokes: "I forgot."
"Does this staff have uses beyond growing catnip?"
It thought, then nodded, and wrote: "Yes, but I forgot."
After a pause it added: "I've forgotten a lot of things. All I know is that the staff grows the leaf that makes me feel very comfortable, so I have to stay with the staff."
"But I often hear a voice. It's like it's telling me to do something."
Bernadette was mildly surprised. "What?"
It shook its head. "Can't hear it clearly. Can't remember it. I don't know anything else."
"What a useless cat."
Hearing that, it immediately took offence and wrote: "I'm not a cat!"
"Right, why don't you look in a mirror and say that."
"I genuinely am not a cat. This form I'm in is a transformation. I don't look like this originally."
That actually sparked a flicker of curiosity. "What were you originally? Also an animal? Or are you actually an Animagus?"
"Forgot."
It shook its head. "All forgotten. Whatever. Being a cat is fine. When I act cute people give me nice things to eat and play with."
At that, it stared up with big hopeful eyes: "Can I go play games now?"
Bernadette kept her gaze fixed on its blue eyes, her magical power flowing, attempting Legilimency — but just as with the many previous attempts, she saw nothing.
Whether that was because it was a cat, she couldn't say.
She'd also considered the Pensieve, but that required the subject to actively extract their own memories and pour them into the basin. And this cat simply didn't have that ability.
Bernadette frowned. She opened her notebook and wrote down the words "Memory Magic."
Memory magic in this world was every bit as mysterious as time magic. What most people knew boiled down to Legilimency, Obliviate, Occlumency, the Pensieve, and the Remembrall as a related artefact. And then there was the production of Wizarding portraits, which was in its own way a form of memory preservation.
But memory magic seemed to go far deeper than that. According to certain ancient texts, the most advanced wizards could use it to construct a Memory Palace — which could both store memories and trap enemies inside, serving as a battlefield for mental combat. Something not entirely unlike the high-Sequence Spectator pathway's Beyonder abilities.
Unfortunately, like time magic, the craft had been lost to history.
Boom.
Just then, the fireplace flared green. From within the flames rose a head that bore seven or eight points of resemblance to Lucius Malfoy: "Quirrell has accepted my invitation. He'll come to the Malfoy estate tonight."
"Understood. Thank you."
Lucius's expression was full of worry. "Are you sure this is all right? It's… him we're dealing with."
He was honestly starting to regret it. The Malfoy family code when faced with any danger or opportunity was flexibility — don't commit, read the wind, pick the winning side.
And somehow he'd blundered into playing errand boy against Voldemort.
Yes, Lucius knew Moriarty was extraordinarily powerful. But powerful didn't guarantee victory. Consider Dumbledore — widely acknowledged as the greatest white wizard alive. Everyone, including Voldemort himself, understood that Dumbledore was stronger. Yet in their last encounter, Dumbledore had never managed to gain the upper hand. Why? Because Voldemort had no floor.
Could Moriarty — a young man barely in his early twenties — actually match Voldemort?
Then again, after witnessing what Moriarty had shown him, Lucius hadn't dared refuse. Especially after he'd so easily admitted to having personally killed Chadro.
"I hope… everything goes smoothly."
...
7 PM. Lucius had finished an early dinner and was sitting alone in his dim study. His eyes went through the motions of turning pages, but not a single word went in.
The clock on the wall ticked, ticked, ticked. Every second was its own small agony.
An unknowable amount of time passed before — crack — a figure appeared in the room. Black robes, hood up. In the pale moonlight falling from the window, the sneering face of Quirrell came into view, nothing like the timid creature that usually haunted the Hogwarts corridors.
"Give it to me."
Quirrell held out his hand, commanding.
Lucius knew what he meant. The reason he'd managed to bring Quirrell here tonight at all was by dangling bait: the diary Voldemort had entrusted to him years ago.
Lucius had never actually known what secrets lay inside the blank-looking diary. But he clearly remembered the gravity and care with which Voldemort had handed it over — which was more than enough to suggest its importance.
"But first, I'd like you to prove yourself, Professor Quirrell. Prove you're a loyal Death Eater. Prove you are the spokesperson the Master has chosen. After all, this object was personally entrusted to me by the Master — even if it has shown some unusual signs recently, without the Master's direct command, I cannot simply hand it to anyone."
Quirrell smiled. "Oh? You made a point of telling me the diary was showing unusual signs — wasn't that precisely because you wanted someone to take the hot potato off your hands? Lucius, I understand you better than you think."
Lucius's expression shifted.
"Give it to me. I don't have time to waste."
"..."
After a brief internal struggle, Lucius raised his wand, pointed it at the desk drawer. The drawer shot open with a bang, revealing a faded, worn diary inside.
Quirrell extended a hand, and the diary whooshed into his grip. He turned on his heel to Apparate away without another word.
"Wait!"
Lucius called after him: "Is the Master truly alive? Where is he now?"
Quirrell glanced back with contempt. "So you can go to the Ministry and tip them off?"
"Quirrell!"
Lucius raised his wand furiously. "You think I wouldn't hex you?"
"Then try." Quirrell said, unbothered. "Let's see whether it's you — a nobleman who's spent the last decade lounging in comfort — or me — personally trained by the Master — who comes out on top."
"..."
"Hmph. Wait. The Master will make his return soon enough."
With that, Quirrell's form twisted and vanished.
Clap. The diary hit the floor.
But Lucius had no attention to spare for it. He stared blankly at the spot where Quirrell had been, and only after several seconds did he crumple sideways into his chair, cold sweat soaking through him. I just… raised my wand at Voldemort?
How much fake liquor had I drunk to do that.
"Moriarty… why didn't she move? Don't tell me she backed out on me."
Well — no. I only handed over the diary. Even if Moriarty has changed her mind, the Dark Lord won't think I betrayed him.
BOOM.
Just as the thought formed, a tremendous explosion went off somewhere outside the manor. The dazzling flash lit the surrounding sky a vivid, burning red.
Because Bernadette had already moved — the moment Quirrell Apparated away, she'd followed the same method she'd used to eliminate Chadro, catching him in the single most unguarded split second with the Words of Order:
"You kill. You are guilty."
To be continued…
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