The Harry Potter World.
After a brief fog, Vincent's consciousness came back.
He was moving already — following the rhythm the body had been in — and ran ten-odd steps before his brain caught up and he stopped himself. He looked around. A completely unfamiliar street. Clothes and shoes that were not his.
Wasn't I just holding that kind constable hostage? How did—
It landed.
He was back.
Back in the Harry Potter world.
Thank god.
He'd made his peace with being a woman in that other world, had committed to making something of himself — but if he could come back to this familiar place, only an idiot would choose to start over from scratch.
Still — what was I doing just now?
"Where is this? What's going on with the clothes? What was I doing?"
Three questions, one after another.
It came together quickly. While he'd been in the other world for three days, someone had taken over his body here. If he was right, it was almost certainly that woman's soul.
Compared to her situation — grabbed by pirates, disaster from the opening move — his hadn't been bad at all. He'd been at home. So what had she done with his body that ended up with them getting cornered by what looked like official personnel—
He looked around again. This time the surroundings made sense — this was several kilometres from Little Whinging. An entirely different area.
What did you come all the way out here for.
He looked down. A half-eaten chicken drumstick in one hand. He became aware of the taste still in his mouth. Cola in the other hand.
Right, fine.
I spent three days huddled with vagrants, stealing and scavenging to survive. And you apparently learned to buy clothes and food and also went sightseeing?
The pang of injustice was sharp. Why are you having a better time than me?
More importantly — if he was back, she was back too. In the middle of that standoff.
Oh no. Getting dropped into that situation out of nowhere — is she going to get killed?
Probably not — if her body could perform an instinctive teleport to escape drowning, she'd at least be able to run once she got her bearings.
"Forget it. Head home."
He shook his head, tapped the ring on his index finger, drew out a wand, confirmed no one was watching, twisted — Disapparated.
Back in the house, he left the drumstick and the cola on the dining table, walked into the bathroom, washed the grease off his hands and mouth, then looked up at the mirror.
And startled.
He leaned closer. His nose was swollen. The bridge looked bent and slightly crooked, turning what had been a reasonably decent face into something mildly absurd. He touched it. Pain shot through him.
"Who broke my nose?!"
So that woman got into a fight while she had his body?
Confused, he walked into the bedroom — and stopped.
The desk and chair were in pieces. Splinters across the floor. Bedsheets stained with blood, crumpled on the floor. A dent in the wall that hadn't been there before.
That's not a fight. That's a crime scene.
Vincent stood there, head prickling. He turned to grab his things and leave — and froze.
Dumbledore was standing behind him, as if he'd been there for some time. Watching.
His nose was slightly crooked too. A small bump still visible on his head.
It came back to Vincent all at once — the body swap had happened on the same day as the interview. Dumbledore had come, they'd had no language in common, and things had apparently gotten physical somehow.
Even I couldn't land a hit on Dumbledore. How did she manage it?
Dumbledore said, carefully, tone kept gentle: "Vincent. We need to talk. About what happened a few days ago — I owe you an apology." A brief pause. "But at the time I needed to confirm what was happening to you."
That told Vincent almost everything he needed to know about how events had unfolded.
He thought fast. Chose a strategy.
Play dumb.
"Professor?" He scratched his head, looking baffled. "Aren't you here to interview me?"
He dared to perform obliviousness in front of the greatest Legilimens alive for one reason — years of consuming the souls of other wizards had given him an exceptionally robust mental defence. Even Dumbledore could not read his true thoughts easily.
Dumbledore blinked. He had prepared over a dozen contingency plans, had considered every scenario. He hadn't considered this one.
"You're... all right?"
"I always have been?" Vincent glanced toward the bedroom. "I just woke up outside somewhere this morning — came home, found the bedroom like that. Professor, do you know what happened?"
Dumbledore considered for a moment. "You're telling me you don't remember the past seven days?"
"Seven days? I don't know what you mean, Professor."
Seven? That was a surprise — he'd only been in the other world for three days. Seven had passed here?
He let the shock show on his face, and stepped back in sudden alarm. "Does that mean... my amnesia is acting up again?"
"Amnesia?"
"It's..." Vincent's expression crumpled into something pained. "It's a side effect from when the Death Eaters tortured me with the Cruciatus Curse. The last time it happened was seven years ago. I thought — I thought I was finally past it."
Seven years ago was when he'd first arrived. There had genuinely been a disoriented period then.
Dumbledore's eyes filled with guilt. "Oh lord. All this time I never knew. I'm so sorry, Vincent, I'm so sorry..."
"It isn't your fault, Professor. If anything — if you hadn't arrived in time back then, I probably wouldn't have survived. Not like the Longbottoms. Or the Potters. I just... couldn't save my parents."
"..."
The guilt on Dumbledore's face settled into something deeper. After a long silence he looked at Vincent steadily. "Come with me to St. Mungo's."
"What about the interview?"
"We can do it there."
"All right, Professor."
…
Twenty minutes later, they stood before a worn-out department store on a nondescript street — the sign above the door read Purge and Dowse, Ltd. Dusty windows, a "Closed for Refurbishment" notice, an air of profound disuse.
In the shop window, a row of battered mannequins. One particularly unfortunate specimen — a fake eyelash dangling loose, dressed in a green nylon skirt.
Dumbledore addressed it directly. "I am Albus Dumbledore. I have brought a student for treatment."
The two of them stepped through the glass.
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries smelled nothing like a Muggle hospital's antiseptic sterility. The smell here was considerably more complex — potion-making required all manner of strange ingredients, and some of the plants involved, like Fanged Geraniums, gave off something disturbingly close to the smell of rot.
Vincent stopped in the waiting area. Dumbledore turned back. "Something wrong, Vincent?"
"...Just an old memory. I spent nearly a month here once, you know."
"I promise this will be quick."
"I hope so."
They took the lift to the fifth floor — Spell Damage. After a thorough examination, Healer Miriam confirmed there was no evidence that Vincent had been affected by a Memory Charm, an Obliviate, or anything related to memory manipulation.
She looked at Vincent. "Oh, dear. Before anything else, that nose. Good heavens — were you hit in the face by a troll's club?"
Vincent turned to Dumbledore with a look of pure innocence. "Professor — do you have any idea how that happened?"
To be continued…