The two officers led Vincent on quite a long walk before arriving at a noticeably more rundown part of the city. From a distance, he could already see a line of shabbily dressed people queuing in front of what looked like a church, waiting to collect food.
"You... from now on... come here... with them... to collect food... and find somewhere... to sleep..."
The lazy officer gestured as he spoke. This time Vincent managed to roughly piece together his meaning and nodded quickly with a grateful look.
The younger officer, after a visible internal battle — jaw tight, clearly in pain — fished a few coins out of his pocket and pressed them into Vincent's hand. Then he walked away fast, like he was afraid he'd change his mind if he stayed a second longer.
The way he moved, you'd think parting with those coins had nearly cost him his life.
Meanwhile. The Harry Potter world.
Bernadette kept her sharp gaze fixed on the white-bearded old man in front of her, which left Dumbledore increasingly puzzled — puzzled enough that he actually looked down at himself, wondering if something was off with his appearance.
Otherwise, why would Vincent — a prospective Hogwarts professor, here for his final interview — be looking at his own headmaster like a complete stranger?
Just then, Bernadette felt an odd sensation rise from somewhere below her abdomen. It had been nagging at her since she'd woken up on the bed, though she'd had no time to think about it until now. Now, however, she was finding it rather difficult to keep ignoring.
Since ascending to a Demigod, she had long since stopped needing to worry about such basic bodily matters — unlike a certain Toilet God of legend, who apparently still needed to visit the bathroom even after becoming an angel.
For an ordinary person, nature calling was the most natural thing in the world. The trouble was that it was happening now, of all moments, while she was facing down a stranger of unknown intent. It was genuinely mortifying for someone of her standing.
"Ah, I see," said Dumbledore.
He'd noticed her discomfort. He gave a small shrug and said, "I can see I've come at quite an awkward time. I fully understand the feeling — it reminds me of the time I was woken by the urge in the middle of the night, and had just found the bathroom when I discovered Peeves hiding in the corner, watching me. A thoroughly unpleasant experience. Fortunately, I later found a perfectly discreet spot, and I've never had to worry about it since."
"Oh, do forgive me — one tends to ramble at my age. I'll step outside."
With that, Dumbledore smiled warmly and pulled the door open.
The moment it closed behind him, his expression changed.
Vincent had been... off. He had hidden it well, but Dumbledore had still caught it — that unmistakable bewilderment in his eyes while being spoken to. A confusion that went far beyond interview nerves.
It was almost as though he hadn't understood a word.
Which made no sense. Vincent was of Chinese descent, yes, but he had grown up in England. There was no reason on earth he wouldn't understand English. And beyond that, the way Vincent had looked at him — the wariness, the careful scrutiny, as though regarding a complete stranger.
Dumbledore knew Vincent's history well. Both parents lost fighting Voldemort. The boy himself nearly driven to madness by the Cruciatus Curse, tortured by Death Eaters. As one of the very few Chinese members of the Order of the Phoenix, Vincent had always been a source of deep, quiet guilt for Dumbledore.
It was precisely because of that guilt that — despite Vincent having been forced to withdraw from Hogwarts in his third year and never completing his education — Dumbledore had agreed to consider him for the position. He'd even come in person to conduct the interview.
But this behavior today...
Was it the Imperius Curse?
Behind his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore's gaze grew distant and thoughtful.
The moment the old man left the room, Bernadette could no longer hold it in. She moved quickly to the bathroom, stepped up to the toilet, and—
Despite all her mental preparation, actually having to... handle things... with her own hands still produced a deeply awkward experience.
Splash.
One minute later. Finally over.
She let out a small breath of relief — then immediately shivered.
She quickly looked away, adjusted her clothing, and pressed the flush. As she did, her thoughts were already moving.
From what little she'd gathered, the white-haired old man clearly knew the original occupant of this body, and not superficially. Which meant her behavior earlier — the guarded stance, the silence — had obviously been suspicious. But she had no way to communicate. She didn't understand his language, and she couldn't speak it.
She knew exactly what the problem was. She just had no solution.
Wait.
What if she pretended to be deaf and mute — claimed that illness had taken her voice and hearing? It wasn't a particularly clever plan. But she couldn't think of anything better in the short term.
Creak.
She pushed open the bathroom door and returned to the living room. Dumbledore was already back, sitting on the sofa and turning over a small black rectangular object (a television remote control) with obvious curiosity.
He looked up at the sound. "Vincent, is this the... television you mentioned to me before? I've heard of it for years but never had the chance to see one in person. You said you wanted to incorporate it into the Muggle Studies curriculum?"
"...%&@#...%&@...&%#..."
That was all Bernadette heard. She weighed her options for a moment, then committed to the plan. She opened her mouth and made a vague, indistinct sound, first pointing to her throat, then to her ears.
"Oh, Merlin's beard."
Dumbledore stood immediately, face full of concern. "You mean — you've fallen ill? You can't speak, and you can't hear?"
I just indicated that I can't hear, and you're still talking at me.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Dumbledore clapped a hand to his forehead with an apologetic look, then drew his wand and conjured a quill and a sheet of parchment. He let the quill write on its own — quickly and neatly — then held the parchment out to Bernadette: Have you been to St. Mungo's? What did the Healers say?
Then he offered her the quill.
"..."
Damn. She'd completely forgotten that a deaf-mute could still write.
Bernadette cursed herself inwardly: This wretched, feeble body must be slowing down my thinking.
Dumbledore watched her quietly. Even as he did, the quill moved again on its own: What's wrong, Vincent? Have you run into some trouble?
Bernadette looked up — and met his eyes.
Those eyes. Clear as seawater. And then, like two deep whirlpools, they began to draw at her gaze, pulling it in against her will—
Her mind sharpened all at once. She felt it clearly: an unknown energy attempting to force its way into her mind.
This old man is using a supernatural ability on me!!
Bernadette snapped her eyes shut. In one fluid motion she stepped back, grabbed the mop, and swung it straight at Dumbledore's head without a moment's hesitation.
She had no way of knowing his intentions. When in doubt — strike first.
To be continued…