Alice knew everything that had just happened was real—no hallucination.
Dumbledore's words were full of red flags.
First: The soul in the Soul Shroud had been an old man in life—way older than Dumbledore looked. Yet Dumbledore had called him "child."
The guy had been in his twenties when they met, and Dumbledore had to be at least fifteen years older to talk to him like that.
Second: Dumbledore said it was already too late by the time they crossed paths. What he really wanted was to meet the guy at eleven—the age kids start at Hogwarts. That meant Dumbledore believed the dude's whole approach to magic had gone off the rails from the jump, and he wanted to set him straight from day one.
Third: Dumbledore stashed the guy's book in the Restricted Section—twenty-something years ago.
Alice's mind flashed back to her chat with the Grey Lady.
Twenty-plus years back, the Grey Lady had read a brand-new, super-evil book in the Restricted Section called Soul Theft. The author had written that his path had been wrong from the very beginning.
It all pointed to one thing.
The author of Soul Theft was almost certainly the same guy whose soul was now trapped in the Soul Shroud.
…
Alice zipped back to Hogwarts, dying to know what was actually in that book.
What exactly tied Dumbledore to this guy? Why did the Grey Lady hate the book so much?
She beelined for the library, went straight to the hidden compartment on the top shelf of row six, and popped it open. A stack of parchment stared back at her.
It wasn't even a proper book—just a handwritten manuscript someone had organized and slapped a title on: Soul Theft.
The second her fingers brushed the parchment, blood-curdling screams echoed in her ears. She yanked her hand back. Even though she'd braced herself, the sheer evil radiating off the pages hit her like a truck.
For one terrifying second, Alice craved power so bad she wanted to slaughter everyone in Hogwarts and stuff their souls into the Soul Shroud.
Thankfully, she jerked her hand away. The Soul Shroud inside her kicked into overdrive, anchoring her soul and snapping her out of it.
And yeah—that only made her more curious.
Alice steeled herself, leaned on the Soul Shroud's soul-suppressing power, and picked the manuscript back up. She flipped to the first page.
"If you're reading this, I'm probably dead.
Or rather, I'm definitely dead.
When I decided to write this, I ripped every scrap of soul knowledge out of my own head and asked a good man to sneak it into the school I always dreamed of attending.
Even if the body kept breathing after that, it wouldn't be me anymore. So the real me? Dead.
You're at that school—Hogwarts—right?
So, which house are you? Gryffindor? Hufflepuff? Ravenclaw? Slytherin?
Sorry, I never went to Hogwarts, so I'm clueless about the place. If guessing your house offends you, my bad.
Everything I know comes from the guy who hid this manuscript for me. He's… not exactly serious. Actually, he is serious, but I can't say his name.
Uh, I already know—Albus Dumbledore, Alice thought with a smirk, and kept reading.
This book about souls probably looks straight-up evil to you. But if you're Slytherin or Ravenclaw, maybe you'll think it's cool?
One loves dark magic, the other loves knowledge!
Gotta burst your bubble, though—this manuscript isn't pure dark magic, and it's not just knowledge either.
Magic is magic. No 'dark' or 'light.' If it works, it's good magic. The only difference is whether the wizard can handle it—or if they're just looking for a scapegoat for the crappy stuff they do.
Pretty funny, right? Some jerk does awful things and blames it on 'magic corrupting their soul'?
A truly proud soul uses magic. It doesn't let magic use them.
There's a ton in here I never got to test—my life's almost over. I hope you'll pick up where I left off.
Anyway, about me. Name's Galler Nicholas.
British, but never got my Hogwarts letter at eleven. Guess the Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance screwed up—haha, useless pieces of junk couldn't even spot a genius like me.
My magic started going haywire. My family tried to drown me. I fought back. Unfortunately, I killed them, and I've been on the run ever since.
No wand—cast by instinct. And instinct killed a lot of people.
That caught his attention. He came to arrest me, saw something off, and said he could tell I was in pain. Offered me a fresh start. Taught me a ton, tried to guide me onto the right magical path.
But it was too late. The early years wrecked my body with uncontrolled magic. I looked older than him.
Eventually I left, built my own system, and came back only to ask him to hide this manuscript at Hogwarts.
Oh, and keep an eye out—anybody named Tom Riddle still terrorizing the wizarding world?
Guy's philosophy is garbage. I tore it apart to his face, but I couldn't beat him, so I bolted before he lost his temper.
Still—couldn't beat him, sure, but not because my talent or ideas sucked. Just because I'd already trashed my own body. As for Tom Riddle? His ideas blow.
If he's still alive, tell him Nicholas says he's pathetic.
That's it from me. Remember, kid—keep my research going.
And if you ever meet someone named Galler Nicholas? Kill him. Hard. I poured every ounce of soul knowledge I had into this.
If that version of me realizes he's missing memories, he'll go full psycho. I know me."
Alice finished Galler Nicholas's final words. Yeah, he admitted to killing a bunch of people, but she could tell—he wasn't evil. He'd just never had a real shot at proper magical education.
She loved one line in particular:
A truly proud soul uses magic. It doesn't let magic use them.