He had heard plenty about Harry and the others’ actions, yet he had never actually followed them or done anything himself.
Now a much larger problem had walked right up to him.
If he did not solve it, he would have to start worrying about basic living expenses.
Apart from his time in the orphanage, Vincent had never imagined he would one day have to worry about food and drink again.
He did not care much about the pleasures of the table.
What concerned him more was whether he could obtain better conditions for study.
He disliked the student telescopes in the Astronomy Tower and wanted a better one.
That money, of course, would have to come from his so-called adoptive parents.
In a certain sense the letter had arrived at a convenient time.
It gave him a reason to contact them.
Vincent returned to the Ravenclaw common room and sat quietly in the corner of the dormitory windowsill, the letter from his adoptive parents still clenched in his hand.
The paper had been crumpled by his grip.
Apart from the completely emotionless greetings at the beginning, the only useful thing inside was a copy of a diagnosis from a Muggle hospital.
The content of the letter was simple and clear.
Strip away the useless rhetoric and it amounted to a request that he use magical means to cure his adoptive brother’s illness.
Heh.
Vincent sneered inwardly.
Although his heart was full of contempt and resentment toward his adoptive parents, he understood that until he came of age he still needed the living allowance they provided.
In order to keep that money from becoming a chain around his neck, he still had to find a way to deal with his adoptive brother’s condition—not necessarily cure it completely.
Simply prolonging the boy’s life would be enough.
He stood up with not a trace of emotion in his movements, tossed the letter carelessly onto the bed as if discarding a worthless piece of trash, then hesitated.
He kept the copy of the diagnosis and set the rest of the page-long garbage on fire.
A controlled flame leapt from the tip of his wand, burned only the single sheet of paper, and then transformed swiftly into clear water.
After washing every trace from his hands, Vincent walked toward the Potions classroom with steady, cold indifference.
The Potions classroom lay deep in the castle.
The special environment of the dungeons helped preserve the potency of many ingredients.
The corridors around it carried a mysterious, ancient atmosphere unique to Hogwarts.
Candle flames on the walls flickered in the faint breeze, their light and shadow dancing across the stone as if a group of ghosts were waltzing—though Hogwarts’s actual ghosts only darted about and never danced on flames.
The door of the Potions classroom stood half open.
From outside the light within looked rather dim.
Thin rays of light struggled in through the high, narrow windows, forming beams in which dust motes danced like lost little spirits.
It was not sunlight—only the illusion of the corridor lamps outside.
A place like this had no sunlight to speak of.
He pushed the door open gently.
The hinges gave a soft creak that sounded especially loud in the silence.
A peculiar mixture of various potion ingredients filled the classroom.
The scent was rich but not sharp.
Rows of old wooden shelves stood in neat order, each carefully organized with different materials.
On the highest shelves lay some of the more precious ingredients.
A unicorn horn glowed with soft white light in the weak illumination, as if radiating a sacred gentleness.
Dragon scales lay like tiny shields, reflecting multicolored gleams, hard and full of mysterious power.
These were display specimens.
No one except the professor was allowed to touch them.
No one with half a brain would try to test how the Potions Master protected his rare ingredients either.
Snape was probably the worst-tempered professor at Hogwarts.
On the middle shelves sat common but equally important materials.
Dried mandrakes looked like twisted little dolls sealed inside pots; occasionally one could still hear their faint, infant-like whimpers.
Strings of bat wings hung like black silk, giving off an eerie air.
The bottom shelves held basic herbs.
Evening primrose petals showed a hazy white in the shadows, while hop leaves shone a vivid green as if storing up vitality.
Vincent glanced at them lightly, found the sight faintly amusing, then withdrew his gaze and focused on the task at hand.
He walked straight to a long table in the center of the classroom.
The surface was covered with marks left by generations of students during potion-making—deep or shallow cuts that served as witnesses to potions history.
Or perhaps they simply showed how little Hogwarts cared about student equipment.
He remembered Harry complaining about it once.
Right now Vincent felt like complaining too.
No other reason than an irritable mood.
He set the tools he had brought down on the table without particular care, sat, and opened the thick Potions textbook.
The sound of turning pages echoed in the quiet classroom.
Every page was densely printed with formulas, ingredient properties, and brewing methods.
His long fingers moved slowly across the pages, eyes sharp as he examined every word, trying to find an ordinary potion that could deal with his adoptive brother’s condition among this ocean of knowledge.
The Muggle doctors had diagnosed congenital heart disease.
They had written a great many useless technical terms.
Vincent skipped the parts he did not care about and looked only at the final result.
Another case of congenital heart disease.
He had investigated his adoptive parents.
The child in the previous generation had also suffered from the same condition and had not lived past the age of eight.
Now they had conceived another, and it was the same situation again.
Was it really necessary to keep having children under those conditions?
Vincent could not understand Muggle thinking.
Fortunately he did not need to.
He was a wizard and would never have such worries.
A congenital heart problem.
Vincent had never received complete training as a potioneer.
Extracting anything useful would require reading more books and organizing more material.
The formulas in the book were numerous and complex.
Combinations of ingredients and brewing conditions varied endlessly, enough to make anyone’s eyes blur.
Vincent’s brows furrowed slightly.
A thread of irritation began to rise in his heart, yet his expression remained cold, as if nothing in the world could stir more than the lightest ripple in him.
Even that mild ripple was already the greatest attention he was willing to give.
While Vincent was still buried in the search for a usable formula, the door of the Potions classroom was pushed open again.
He lifted his eyes unhurriedly.
He had not expected the newcomer to be Theodore Nott.
Theodore appeared in the doorway, tall and straight, like a fir tree that still carried a unique presence even while growing in the dark of night.
His dark brown hair fell smoothly across his forehead like carefully sculpted silk.
A few unruly strands lifted slightly, catching the light with a faint chestnut sheen, as if they had been secretly kissed by the sun.
A moment earlier Vincent had thought the dungeon classroom a little too dim.
Looking at the person who had just entered, he suddenly felt the place was actually quite bright.
When he had first chosen Theodore Nott as an experimental specimen, it was hard to say whether that face had played any part in the decision.
Theodore was indeed a good-looking boy.
If one borrowed a few Muggle rhetorical flourishes, his features looked as though they had been carved by the most meticulous craftsman—clear yet soft.
His skin was so pale that under the somewhat dim light of the potions room it almost seemed translucent, as if it might shatter at a touch.
Vincent’s completely unconcealed gaze made Theodore uncomfortable.
For a while now that stare had already irritated him.
Just when things had finally quieted down, he had to run into the same person in the Potions classroom.
He had checked the timetable and classroom assignments carefully.
At this hour the Potions classroom should have been empty.
Vincent did not care in the slightest what Theodore was thinking.
His gaze moved downward from the attractive face.
Theodore wore the ordinary black school robes of Hogwarts, yet the material looked excellent, with a faint shimmer of magic flowing through it.
That fabric was interesting.
Next time Vincent would have a set made for himself as well.
It really did look sharp.
The collar of the robes was slightly open, revealing a pure white shirt underneath.
The shirt’s collar had delicate pleats like elegant lily petals, and the Slytherin-green tie seemed to become the center of the flower, adding a touch of life.
Theodore finally reached his limit.
Anyone who had been looked up and down by another boy in that manner would have been justified in losing patience long before now.
“Have you looked enough?
If you have nothing better to do, go read another book and learn some basic manners.
Stop staring at people like an uncivilized animal.” From the moment he entered Hogwarts, every noticeable fluctuation in Theodore’s emotions had been caused by this irritating Ravenclaw wizard.
Vincent withdrew his gaze.
The harsh words did not produce the slightest change in his expression.
“Did I offend you?
My apologies.
I was simply surprised we would both appear here at the same time.
I assumed you Slytherins would have your own private potions laboratory.” Vincent switched to a careless, almost flippant tone.
When dealing with different experimental subjects he was skilled at wearing different masks.
With his adoptive parents, for example, he had been nothing more than a quiet, introverted child.
Who would have guessed that behind the scenes he had already considered—and confirmed—the feasibility of killing them to inherit the estate?
Theodore was serious.
Vincent wanted to see what lay beneath that seriousness.
Seeing an unexpected person in the classroom, Theodore’s first instinct was to leave.
He had no desire for deeper contact with this strange Ravenclaw.
Hearing the smooth, slippery words only made him more annoyed.
He was about to turn and walk out at once.
Potions could be brewed at any time.
Once this pervert latched on, there was no telling when he would be able to shake him off.
But before Theodore could turn away, Vincent spoke first.
“Are you running away because you’re afraid of me?” If someone had used that kind of provocation on Vincent, even knowing it was a trap he would still have been unable to suppress his own irritation.
Theodore was the same.
Vincent knew perfectly well that the current Theodore would never brew potions with him.
In the past the boy had almost certainly used the classroom alone.
So… Vincent’s mood had still been affected by that letter after all.
Theodore’s sudden appearance had simply given his emotions a convenient outlet.
The boy in the doorway stopped the step he had been about to take and turned back to look at Vincent, his expression even darker than before.
“My being here has nothing to do with you.” Theodore’s reply was cold, without the slightest warmth.
At the same time he was quietly assessing Vincent in return.
On the Hogwarts Express this person had already seemed a little unhinged.
Coming to Hogwarts had not changed that.
Perhaps being Sorted into Ravenclaw really had been fate.
That house was known for producing the occasional lunatic.
Maybe after seven years the one who added a new layer of mystery to Ravenclaw’s reputation would be Vincent Riddle.
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
Some of the casual ease left his face.
He had probably just done something stupid.
“…Never mind.
Don’t be so tense.
I was only talking.” He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, looking completely at ease.
In reality his mind was rapidly analyzing Theodore’s reactions.
Theodore frowned, irritation rising.
“I’m not tense.
I simply dislike people prying into my business.” “Disliking other people’s questions—is that just your nature, or are you afraid someone will discover something?” Vincent continued, his gaze locked tightly on Theodore as if trying to see straight through him.
“In this Potions classroom we’re more or less fellow travelers.
The only ones who come here to practice outside of class time are probably the two of us.” Theodore gave a cold laugh.
“Fellow travelers?
I don’t see anything we have in common.
Mind your own business.
Don’t think you’re something special.
If you want to graduate from Hogwarts in peace, you’d better learn to watch your words and stop provoking me.” Every young witch and wizard at Hogwarts knew that if one wanted to live and study without waves, the safest course was not to provoke pure-blood Slytherins.
With that he turned, ready to leave.
This time Vincent said nothing more.
He had planned to research potions alone.
Theodore had been an accident.
Once the accident was resolved, Vincent did not feel particularly pleased.
His guesses about Theodore were accurate enough that he could reverse-engineer the other boy’s actions from the thoughts he himself might have had.
After Theodore left, the careless, unrestrained air around Vincent vanished completely.
He became once more the reliable, cool figure Harry knew.
He lowered his head and continued the work he had originally come to do.
If things went smoothly he could resolve the trouble with his adoptive parents today and replace his Astronomy telescope with a new one next week.
Making his coursework easier was only reasonable.
There was no need to live a miserable life.
Vincent’s original goal in coming to Hogwarts had been to use wizarding methods to solve problems Muggles could not—along with the fact that he still did not entirely know what he wanted to do.
No one refused better options.
When a stronger path was available, why remain mediocre in the Muggle world?
Illness was only one of the problems waiting to be solved.
His purpose at Hogwarts was to learn.
As long as that remained the primary goal, whatever he did along the way was simply another step toward “learning.” He continued turning pages, occasionally making notes on parchment, listing potentially useful formulas separately, then checking them against the shelves to see whether the required ingredients were available.
His movements grew more and more mechanical, as if he had entered a state of complete absorption.
Unfortunately he did not manage to complete his plan.
Muggle and wizarding medicine were two independent systems.
There was some overlap, but it was mostly limited to external injuries.
When it came to something as vital as the heart, extreme caution was required.
Vincent did not particularly care whether his adoptive brother lived or died.
He simply could not allow the boy to die by his hand.
That would be a question mark against his own ability.
The next day Vincent returned to the Potions classroom.
Just like the day before, he sat at the long table and opened the textbook to continue searching for potions.
He had assumed yesterday’s incident was only a small interlude that would not affect him much.
Yet while sitting in the classroom he still found himself glancing toward the door at a certain moment.
When he realized what he was doing, Vincent’s brows drew tightly together.
It was the same problem as last time.
He was paying a little too much attention to Theodore—watching him the way one might watch one’s own other half.
He and Theodore looked nothing alike.
There was absolutely no possibility they were twin brothers or anything of the sort.
If he did have a twin brother, the boy would probably not have Theodore’s cold temperament.
People said twins’ personalities complemented each other.
Perhaps the other one would be a passionate, fiery type.
Or perhaps not.
The Gryffindor twins, after all, got along perfectly and both loved pranks.
He hoped that possible twin of his would not be like him—always observing other people.
That would be a little too strange.
While his mind was still somewhat distracted, the door of the Potions classroom was pushed open again.
Vincent lifted his head on instinct.
When he saw that the person entering was Theodore, he actually felt a small sense of “finally.” Theodore also paused for a moment when he saw Vincent, but this time he did not turn around and leave at once the way he had the day before.