Vincent had almost no interaction with Theodore during the first week of term.
Almost.
They shared Charms and Herbology.
Vincent occasionally observed Theodore’s behavior without any attempt to hide it.
Theodore could feel the weight of that gaze and understood exactly what was behind it.
If it had been another well-known pure-blood from Slytherin, the matter would already have blown up.
Fortunately Theodore had always preferred to keep a low profile.
He had no interest in stirring up trouble.
Aside from the occasional warning glance when Vincent went too far, Theodore rarely responded to the scrutiny.
This Ravenclaw might be a lunatic.
Ravenclaw witches and wizards were famous for their obsession with learning.
They either became bookish shut-ins who knew nothing but study, or outstanding talents who dominated their fields—or else they became madmen fixated on some obscure domain no one else understood.
It wasn’t that the other houses lacked such people.
It was simply that Ravenclaw’s particular nature made them more noticeable.
Whenever British witches and wizards thought of someone driven mad by excessive study, their first association was always Ravenclaw.
With the attitude that there was no point arguing with a madman, Theodore’s days remained relatively peaceful—at least far quieter than Draco Malfoy’s.
The Nott family’s prospective heir could not understand it.
Had the Malfoys never taught their son how to maintain basic surface dignity?
School had barely started and he had already fallen out with Gryffindor’s savior.
How were they supposed to coexist for the next seven years?
And how was he supposed to conduct himself later in the Ministry?
Theodore disapproved of Draco Malfoy’s overly high-profile behavior, yet in some secret corner of his heart he also quietly envied the younger Malfoy.
No matter what outrageous thing Draco Malfoy did, his father would always clean up after him.
As for his own father… Theodore did not even want to think about him.
If his mother had not fought desperately to save the family back then, the Notts would have suffered a devastating blow for their ties to the Dark Lord.
Even though she had exhausted herself protecting the family and had died when Theodore was only five, his father—Old Nott—still cared about nothing except the Dark Arts and how to gain greater power from them.
Thought after thought surged through Theodore’s mind, but his face remained cool and detached.
In Slytherin he was something of a lone wolf.
He had classmates he could speak with, but no one he considered worth befriending.
Unlike Draco, who never went anywhere without his hangers-on, Theodore was so cold and low-key that he barely resembled the heir of an ancient pure-blood family.
He made no effort to stand out.
Vincent, however, never doubted that quality.
In his view, true pure-blood depth ought to look exactly like Theodore’s steady restraint.
Vincent’s days after the start of term had been uneventful.
He moved daily between classrooms, the library, and the dormitory.
Hogwarts’s magical life certainly held its charms, but so far nothing particularly stimulating had happened for him.
Even Harry’s visits seeking help with potions homework had decreased sharply.
Perhaps Professor Snape had finally decided to stop tormenting the poor savior.
That calm was shattered by other students’ idle talk.
During a break between classes a group of young witches and wizards sat clustered together, talking excitedly.
“Did you hear?
In the very first flying lesson Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy got into a fight!” Vincent overheard the news by chance and felt an immediate surge of foreboding.
Harry and Malfoy together—he could not imagine any good news coming from that combination.
Harry Potter, the famous boy every witch and wizard knew.
Draco Malfoy, from a pure-blood Slytherin family, equally attention-grabbing.
Together they practically occupied half of Hogwarts.
The other half belonged to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, twenty-five percent each.
If the two kings had simply stayed in their own territories it might have made for a pleasant story.
But neither of them looked the least bit even-tempered.
The moment one of them took that first step, the aftermath would explode like a bomb that the other could not withstand.
Vincent decided to find Harry and ask what had happened.
He needed to ensure that the experimental specimen he had cultivated for years remained intact.
Yes—experimental specimen.
He would never admit that such a foolish boy was his friend.
He was not supposed to have friends in the first place.
He found Harry practicing flying techniques on the Quidditch pitch.
Harry was weaving nimbly through the air on a broomstick.
When he saw Vincent waving from below he slowly descended.
“Vincent—I never expected to see you here.
Did you come specially to watch me practice on a broom?
I’m honored.
I remember you don’t like this kind of sport.” The sudden appearance of a familiar face opened Harry’s floodgates.
Words poured out in a rush.
“Harry, I heard you clashed with Malfoy in the first flying lesson.
Is that true?” Vincent asked the question directly, his eyes scanning Harry from head to toe.
Still seated on the broom, Harry was uninjured—no missing limbs, not dead.
Harry nodded, a helpless look crossing his face.
“Yeah.
That Malfoy guy snatched Neville’s Remembrall and started taunting him.
I couldn’t just stand there and watch, so I went after him.” Vincent frowned.
“Why would Malfoy do that?” As someone who put reason above all else, Vincent sometimes could not comprehend the stupid actions of stupid people.
Effort that brought no return—aside from a brief rush of adrenaline and dopamine, what else did it achieve?
No benefit, no long-term gain, only endless trouble for oneself.
Harry clenched his fist.
“Showing off.
He thought having a good broom meant he could bully people whenever he wanted.
In the end I still got the Remembrall back.” The young wizard standing on the grass nodded.
It really was an extremely stupid idea—almost perfectly matching the stereotype Vincent had formed so far about pure-blood families.
The only person who had not fit that stereotype was Theodore Nott.
The name rose in his mind again and Vincent’s brows drew together.
He seemed to have been paying a little too much attention to that particular experimental specimen lately.
That was inappropriate.
Even if Theodore was the sample he himself had selected as best matching his criteria, the boy should not be receiving this much focus.
Harry, of course, had no idea that the friend he considered his closest had come specifically to ask about him, only to end up thinking about someone else entirely.
Seeing Vincent frown, Harry assumed the other was worried he might have been hurt.
“Don’t worry, Vincent.
I didn’t get a single scratch.
I even got something good out of it.” Harry smiled a little.
“After Professor McGonagall saw me on the broom she called me aside—” He deliberately paused there.
Vincent sighed and played along.
“Why did Professor McGonagall call you over?
Was she going to punish you?” Excitement flashed in Harry’s eyes.
“She told me she was going to recommend me as Gryffindor’s Seeker!
I could hardly believe my ears.” Vincent cooperated with a completely flat tone, saying the words Harry probably wanted to hear.
“Wow.
Seeker.
That’s a crucial position in Quidditch.
Congratulations, Harry.” The utterly level delivery was still enough to make Harry happy.
He knew his friend’s temperament perfectly well.
The fact that Vincent was willing to say a couple of supportive lines was already more than enough to satisfy him.
Harry scratched his head.
“Thanks.
I was surprised too, but I really like Quidditch.
Being Seeker feels amazing.
Before this I never knew there was a sport I could enjoy this much.
I used to think I just wasn’t good at sports.” “How could that be?
Whenever Dudley Dursley tried to hit you, you ran plenty fast.
If you hadn’t become a wizard you might have ended up a short-distance runner.” Vincent’s joke was truly mediocre, but Harry still wore a bright smile.
He floated on the broom for a moment longer, then seemed to remember something and lowered it to the ground.
“Vincent, there’s something I need to tell you.
About that corridor Headmaster Dumbledore mentioned at the start of term—do you still remember?” “The forbidden place no one is supposed to enter.
I remember.
Please don’t tell me you’ve already broken in less than half a year into school.” Although Vincent’s words expressed the hope that Harry had not gone in, his expression clearly showed he already knew Harry had done something sneaky.
Harry’s face turned slightly mysterious.
He lowered his voice.
“Yeah.
It was an accident.
Ron and I found a door on the fourth floor.
Something behind it seems to be under guard, and it looks important.” Vincent leaned in a little.
Hidden things did interest him.
“Important?
Do you know what it is?” Harry shook his head.
“Not really.
But there’s a huge three-headed dog there.
It looks vicious.
Anything guarded by a monster like that can’t be ordinary.” “A three-headed dog?” Curiosity flickered in Vincent’s eyes.
In Muggle literature the three-headed dog was the guardian of the underworld, charged with watching the gates of hell.
In the magical world the creature actually existed and could be used as a door guardian for treasure.
The Care of Magical Creatures textbook introduced many animals that existed only in fantasy settings in the Muggle world.
Vincent decided he would need to spend some time in the library researching so-called three-headed dogs.
Harry was used to Vincent’s sudden silences.
He patted the other boy’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry.
I won’t go investigating rashly.
But I keep feeling there’s some secret hidden in there.” Vincent nodded.
“Secrets in a magical school are perfectly normal.
Just don’t get yourself tangled up in it.
If anything happens, tell me.” Harry smiled.
“Don’t worry.
I won’t go looking for trouble.
If there’s any new development I’ll definitely let you know.” Leaving the Quidditch pitch and returning to the library, Vincent realized the corner of his mouth was still curved upward.
Yes.
A magical school ought to have a few special stories—something to spice up the time between studies.
This was exactly the interesting Hogwarts life he had hoped for.
He would have preferred to stay low-key, but there was nothing he could do about it.
The matter had come looking for him.
Who could refuse an adventure story that actively walked up to his door?
Vincent turned a page in the book he held.
It recorded information about three-headed dogs.
He, at least, was incapable of refusing.
Vincent’s days at Hogwarts continued in their usual orderly fashion.
Only occasionally did he and Harry exchange scraps of information about the three-headed dog and the fourth-floor corridor.
At some point he began frequently seeing the trio of Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the library.
Between the tall rows of shelves they were always inseparable, their heads almost buried in those heavy books.
Ron would sometimes mutter complaints under his breath when he couldn’t understand some complicated passage.
Hermione would immediately shoot him a glare, telling him to be quiet.
Harry always looked focused, his eyes moving quickly across the pages as if searching for some vital clue.
Whenever he found something useful he would inevitably rush over to Vincent with the book, eager to share.
Every time Vincent saw them like that he found it interesting.
Working on the same thing with people he trusted was a novel experience for him.
He knew the three of them were full of curiosity and loved digging into every mysterious incident, but none of it had anything to do with him.
His definition of himself remained perfectly clear: an outsider who occasionally offered help.
Staying out of complicated affairs was the only way to protect himself in the middle of chaos.
Vincent’s current goal had not changed.
Completing his studies at Hogwarts was still what he most wanted to do.
Other matters could serve as seasoning, but they could not become the main course.
While participating in these adventure incidents as an outsider, he never neglected his own protection.
The trio, however, clearly had not noticed.
They were still excitedly convinced that Vincent was going to join their actions, and they were happy about it.
Hermione especially.
Having someone who could discuss academic questions with her delighted her to no end.
Vincent never put himself in personal danger.
He had never once set foot in the fourth-floor corridor; he only provided knowledge support.
Just when he believed his life could continue quietly apart from this one small interlude, an owl delivered a letter from the Muggle world.
It was a letter from his Muggle adoptive parents.
When the owl placed it in his hands he froze for a moment.
His relationship with them had always been subtle.
Since he had been sent to Hogwarts there had been almost no contact between them.
Vincent had even assumed they would never use an owl to write to a boy living and studying in some unknown school.
The only connection remaining between him and that Muggle couple was the monthly living allowance that arrived on schedule until he came of age.
Perhaps at the very beginning, when he first entered that household, Vincent had wondered what changes his life might undergo.
But once he realized his existence was nothing more than a tool to soothe their hearts, no one could accept such an ending.
He looked at the familiar yet unfamiliar handwriting on the envelope and felt a complicated surge of emotion.
To be honest, when he first learned he was a replacement he had even considered burning them alive.
He had restrained himself.
Returning to the orphanage to live among that crowd of fools would have been worse than staying with the couple.
At least the quality of life had improved dramatically.
They had been clever enough to notice something slightly off about Vincent and had moved the entire family away, while still humanely continuing to send living expenses.
Otherwise Vincent might actually have used certain methods to kill them and obtain a sufficiently rich inheritance.
No one knew the dark thoughts that had once lived at the bottom of Vincent’s heart.
People would call the adoptive parents’ decision to leave him living alone while still providing money a remaining scrap of affection.
“Affection”?
A thoroughly disgusting word.
Now they had sent a letter by owl.
What exactly did they hope to gain?
Vincent carried the letter and walked slowly to a quiet corner.
He sat by the window.
Sunlight fell across him, yet he felt not the slightest warmth.
Apart from making the letter easier to read, the sunlight served no purpose at all.
He stared at the envelope for a long time, fingers rubbing along its edge.
In his memory his adoptive parents had always been cold toward him.
They had never truly understood him.
Magic, in their eyes, was bizarre and incomprehensible.
He did not know why they had suddenly written to him without any warning.
Better not say anything nauseating, and better not make any troublesome requests.
Vincent had zero desire to exchange emotional words with them.
But if it was simply a matter of completing a transaction, within feasible limits he did not mind continuing their deal.
From the beginning it had only ever been a transaction.
Vincent delivered false smiles; they obtained emotional comfort by giving him a better life.
Everything in the world was nothing more than a transaction.
He slowly opened the envelope and drew out the letter.
The handwriting was neat, but the content felt stiff.
His adoptive parents simply asked a few brief questions about his situation at school.
There was not a trace of intimacy in the words.
The corner of Vincent’s mouth lifted in a faintly mocking smile.
As expected.
Even after all this time they still felt nothing for him, just as before.
He continued reading.
They seemed to mention a few trivial matters from the Muggle world—how the neighbor’s cat had given birth to kittens, and so on.
These details only made Vincent feel even more out of place in their world.
He could not understand why they felt the need to tell him such meaningless things.
Were they simply completing some formal gesture of greeting?
Only at the very end did they say something ambiguous, expressing their request in a roundabout way.
“Your little brother has been missing you terribly lately.
He has no appetite and even looks weaker than before.
We are worried he might leave us forever the way your older brother did.” Vincent refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope.
He leaned against the window and looked out at the school grounds.
Young witches and wizards were practicing magic on the lawn; their laughter drifted into his ears.
Heh.
Another child about to become beyond medical help.
Once Muggle methods failed to cure him, they had turned their eyes toward the adopted son who possessed miraculous abilities.