"Alright."
Then Vincent remembered something. "Actually, Professor — you'll know that when the amnesia hits, I lose everything. Including language. So I was wondering — is there any spell, or alchemical object, that might help me understand what people are saying when that happens?"
A rueful look. "I'd rather not have the next episode end in another... misunderstanding. Because we couldn't understand each other."
"Hmm."
Dumbledore considered. "There is a creature called the Babel Fish that apparently has something of that capability, but in terms of spells or alchemical objects specifically — let me put the question to a few old friends."
"Thank you, Professor."
A nod. "Right then. Shall I see you home?"
"Professor. I'm not a child."
He didn't push it. They left St. Mungo's and went their separate ways — Dumbledore back to Hogwarts, Vincent back to the house in Little Whinging.
The moment he stepped inside, the box of potions slipped from his hand and drifted calmly toward the cupboard. The doors swung open on their own, the stacked plates inside shuffling aside with a cheerful series of clinks to clear space at the very back.
Then his clothes peeled themselves off, toddled over to the wardrobe in an ungainly shuffle, and hung themselves inside. A black sleep shirt wriggled out, floated over, and settled itself gently around him — smoothing its own creases as it went.
He glanced toward the bedroom, snapped his fingers. The broken desk and chair reassembled themselves in reverse, splinters reforming into furniture. The bloodstained sheets floated into the washing machine on their own, and the machine clicked on.
One sweep of both arms — Scourgify, then a Whirlwind Clean — spread through every corner of the house. Dust and grime lifted and vanished. He sank into the sofa with a breath of real satisfaction, and summoned a thermos of wolfberry tea.
He took a sip and smiled.
This is magic. This is living.
Then the Sneakoscope on the table began to shriek and spin.
A second later —
The front door exploded inward. Three police officers rushed in with guns drawn.
"POLICE. HANDS UP!"
The contentment on Vincent's face froze solid.
It took him less than a second. These officers had to be connected to the woman who'd been inhabiting his body.
The lead officer produced an arrest warrant. "Vincent Moriarty — you are hereby arrested on charges of robbery, theft, and breaking and entering. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used as evidence against you."
Vincent raised his hands. Worth a try. "Officers, there must be some misunderstanding. If you'd looked into my background at all, you'd know I'm not short of money. Why would I possibly—"
"No misunderstanding!" A young officer's face was red. "We've been after you for seven straight days. Seven. In that time you have stolen eight roast chickens, six sausages, nine drumsticks, six boxes of roast pork, eight cans of cola—"
He rattled through the list with the zeal of someone who had been personally wronged, then jabbed a finger at the chicken leg and cola still sitting on the dining table.
"Those. You grabbed those right in front of me less than an hour ago."
"..."
Ah. So that's why she was so good at it.
I steal bread in your world. You steal chicken legs in mine. Truly a beautiful future for us both.
Vincent sighed. "I understand. But I do still think there's been a misunderstanding somewhere."
Officers: ???
Ten minutes later, the officers filed out and turned back to bow.
"I apologise, sir. We made an error. Sorry for the inconvenience — any damages will be fully compensated."
Vincent waved them off with a smile. "No trouble. It happens. Just as you sometimes can't tell us East Asians apart — I have a similar problem with English faces."
Handling a few Muggle officers was straightforward enough for an adult wizard. A Confundus, a Perturbo, a light touch of memory adjustment. Information spread slowly in this era. A quick visit to the station and a few shopkeepers would clean up the trail.
He'd been ready to credit her — managing to buy clothes and food and go sightseeing, all without speaking the language. As it turned out, she'd been exactly as hopeless as him.
No — more precisely: the reason he'd become a career criminal in that world was her body's instincts, not his own choices. But thinking about it further — she was comfortable stealing, had managed to injure Dumbledore, and had been living on a pirate ship despite apparently possessing supernatural power.
Which raised a question.
What if she wasn't a kidnapped heiress at all. What if she was the pirate?
That gave him pause.
If his counterpart was a pampered noblewoman, he might be able to manage things through careful persuasion, nudge the situation in a direction that kept both of them safer.
If she was a ruthless, experienced pirate, that was considerably more complicated.
On the other hand — everything she'd taken over the past few days had been food. Just food. So she was probably, possibly, more or less not a purely chaotic evil entity.
...Probably.
Wait. There was a flaw in his reasoning.
It didn't matter what kind of person she was. If they were going to keep swapping every seven days, they were bound together — what benefited one benefited the other, what harmed one harmed the other. The only sensible move was to build trust as quickly as possible and find a way to cooperate. That was in both their interests.
If either of them started scheming against the other from the beginning and broke that foundation, fixing it later would be nearly impossible.
On top of that, convincingly impersonating each other required full intelligence-sharing — habits, secrets, context. Everything.
Well. Apart from being a transmigrator, he didn't have that many secrets to protect.
He took a slow sip of his wolfberry tea.
He hoped she'd land on the same conclusion. He had no appetite for a battle of wits with someone who could hijack his body every few days. Nobody won that game.
Then a thought landed, and his brow creased. All of this assumed they could actually communicate. If they couldn't—
"ARGH."
He put his head in his hands.
"God, you might as well have just turned me into a woman permanently."
The Lord of the Mysteries World.
Bernadette lay against the headboard of her palace bedroom, a thin, close-fitting dress on, parchment in hand. She wrote slowly, thinking as she went — her name, her position, a general outline of her personality, certain habits and mannerisms.
It aligned with what Vincent had been working out on the other side. For the long term, the next swap needed to at least begin establishing trust between them.
Once she'd finished her introduction, she moved on to conditions.
Not three conditions. More. Her core demand, naturally, was that he stay on the island for the entire duration of each swap. But she didn't put it as an order — she framed it from his perspective, walking through the dangers and complexities of the outside world. Staying wasn't a restriction on his freedom. It was to give him time to use the language scroll and work through Intisian, Ruen, Hermes, Old Fussing, Giant, and Elvish, so he could properly impersonate her without being caught out.
She was aware she'd padded that list. The number of languages was, to a mild degree, strategically inflated — each one buying her a few more days of insurance. She'd also taken care to slightly overstate just how essential fluency in all of them was.
An hour later, she looked at the densely written parchment, ran a finger slowly along her chin, thought it over, and crossed out a few sections. Then she nodded.
All that remained was stocking enough food and supplies so he wouldn't need to worry about basic survival while on the island. After that, there shouldn't be anything left to go wrong.
To be continued…