THWACK!
The blow carried the full force of a combat grandmaster's technique — but it slammed to a dead stop against a semi-transparent Shield Charm that materialized about ten centimeters from Dumbledore's head, and nearly bounced clean out of Bernadette's hands on the rebound.
Dumbledore looked at her steadily. His tone remained gentle. "Easy, Vincent. You know I mean you no harm. I simply want to know what's happened to you."
He raised both hands to show he wasn't holding his wand.
All gibberish to Bernadette. She didn't attempt a second strike — instead she spun and sprinted toward the bedroom. She'd mapped the room the moment she first woke up. The window was right there. One jump and she was out.
She almost made it to the doorway before her instincts screamed. She twisted sharply and dodged a volley of spells — then a flash of red light came straight at her face.
Bernadette swept the mop up to deflect it. The mop snapped in two as the Stunning Spell connected, and she stumbled back several steps, head swimming. Dumbledore had held back considerably. Without that restraint, the result would have been far worse.
"Vincent. I only want to take you to St. Mungo's."
He still hadn't given up on words. If he could avoid casting harmful spells at one of his students, he would.
Bernadette dug her nails into her own arm, sharp enough to sting, forcing her head to stay clear.
Then she noticed something. In those brief flashes of red light that had grazed her — something had entered her body alongside them. An unfamiliar energy. Except it hadn't come from outside. It had always been there, dormant, simply waiting to be found.
She had no idea how to channel it the way the old man did. But she had years of experience working with Spirituality, and she had an idea — crude and blunt, but workable.
She backed toward the bedroom window again. Around her, furniture — the cabinets, the desk, the sofa chair — began to warp and twist, ropes shooting out from them toward her. Bernadette weaved, dodged, snatched up half of the broken mop, and poured everything she had into forcing the energy inside her body to move—
"Expelliarmus!"
Dumbledore's wand flicked and disarmed the half-mop before she could release it. But she'd already expected that. The other half came in from a blind angle at full force.
CRACK!
The Shield Charm split. Dumbledore's own Iron Shield had cracked from the impact — but the rebound sent that half-mop flying back at twice the speed.
Bernadette had no time to react. It hit her square in the face. She flew backward three or four meters and crashed into the wall, and didn't move.
"Oh no—!"
Dumbledore's composure broke. He could control the power of his own spells — but not the rebound force from a Shield Charm. That was determined by the strength of the incoming strike. And that half-mop had cracked his Iron Shield. A direct hit to the face from something that powerful could easily be fatal.
If Moriarty finds out I've killed their son...
The old man felt genuine fear. He rushed to Bernadette's side, cradled her bloodied head in his hands, and began checking her condition.
At that moment, Bernadette's eyes opened.
In the instant that relief lit up Dumbledore's face, she moved — a rolling motion, both legs swinging up to lock around his head, and then she squeezed.
The century-old wizard had no time to cast a Shield Charm. The world went dark. His body went slack and crumpled to the ground.
Bernadette released him immediately. She snatched the wand from his hand and flung it out the window, then brought the stub of the mop handle down firmly on the back of his head for good measure. Only then did she step back.
Dumbledore lay unconscious, a large bump already rising on his skull.
"Hss — hss~"
Her face throbbed in waves she couldn't suppress. She knew without checking that her nose was broken. The last time that had happened, she'd been small — her father Roselle had been giving her a shoulder ride and walked her face-first straight into a tree branch.
She pinched her nose, gritted her teeth, and snapped it back into place. Then she tore a strip of bedsheet to wipe the blood from her face and walked straight out of the bedroom without slowing — through the living room, out the front door, and into the open air.
The moment she stepped outside, a foreign world stretched out before her. The ground felt unsteady beneath her feet.
She stood still and took it all in, her heart utterly blank.
Have I truly arrived in another world?
Am I truly going to live here from now on?
Can I truly never go back?
The crew of the Dawn. The members of Element Dawn. Father... does all of it have nothing to do with me anymore?
She walked without any particular destination, lost in thought, until she found herself in front of a massive four-story building (a supermarket). People streamed in and out carrying bags.
In the square out front, boxy metal objects sat parked in rows. More pulled in and out at intervals. These "iron boxes" were evidently this world's version of horse-drawn carriages — she vaguely recalled seeing a similar concept in her father's design notes.
But her father's drawings had remained only concepts. This world had actually built them. The minds of geniuses always find their way to the same ideas, sooner or later.
Then Bernadette caught a scent. Rich and warm, drifting from somewhere just ahead.
Grumble.
Her stomach answered before she could think.
She was hungry.
Meanwhile. The Lord of the Mysteries world.
After queuing for over half an hour, Vincent finally made it to the front and received a small lump of blackened bread. He bit into it and immediately spat it back out. Bad enough on its own — but it had wood shavings in it too. It was genuinely inedible.
A child of six or seven practically threw themselves at him, scooping up the spat-out piece and stuffing it straight into their mouth. They chewed away contentedly, licking their fingers, thin hollow-cheeked face with eyes fixed hungrily on the remaining bread in Vincent's hand.
"..."
Right. I'm being fussy.
Looking at the want in the child's eyes, Vincent held up the bread. "Do you want this?"
He broke off half and held it out, gesturing with his free hand as he spoke. "In exchange, can you answer a few questions for me?"
The child didn't understand him. They just kept staring at the bread, swallowing repeatedly.
After more than ten seconds, Vincent let out a resigned sigh and tossed the half over. "Fine then."
The child startled — grabbed it tight and ran.
Vincent felt eyes on him. He looked up. Several more gaunt, hollow-faced children were watching from nearby, the same look on all of them.
He hesitated for a moment. Then he bit off a large mouthful of the remaining bread, forced it down, and broke the rest into pieces, handing them out one by one.
He had some fellow-feeling for these children. When he had first arrived in the Harry Potter world — no memory, no magic — he'd gone through something not entirely different.
It was only after confirming that this was the Harry Potter world that Vincent had slowly begun to reclaim his magic, piece together the original Vincent's fragmented memories, and finally uncover the truth of how Vincent had died.
The original Vincent — in pursuit of power — had somehow obtained an ancient text. Through the circuitry of archaic magical script, he had mastered a particular form of ancient magic:
He could devour the souls of the dying to strengthen himself.
To be continued…