“So when did you two meet?” Harry watched Theodore say something, then saw Vincent’s face shift into a rare look of confusion.
The moment Theodore walked away, Harry closed the distance at once, not even pretending to be casual about it.
“Before I got to Hogwarts.” Vincent kept his eyes on the direction Theodore had gone, the slow realization settling in that he had just been played.
He conveniently ignored the fact that he had been the one who stepped into Theodore’s path first.
Vincent himself hadn’t noticed yet that he was starting to act like any ordinary, immature kid—spotting someone interesting and immediately wanting to poke at them a little.
He hadn’t noticed.
Miss Granger had.
She stayed a step behind Harry and Ron instead of hurrying forward.
Her gaze followed Vincent’s, tracking the figure that had already vanished around the corner.
Ron had never liked Slytherins much.
Most of the real dislike, though, got dumped on Malfoy.
Nott barely registered in comparison, so Ron’s attitude toward him stayed relatively mild.
Slytherin kept to itself.
Outsiders never really knew what went on inside.
Everyone else only knew Malfoy was loud and the Nott name carried weight, even if the current heir stayed quieter than most.
First-years didn’t give away much.
Aside from the high-profile ones like the Malfoys and Parkinsons, the rest hadn’t carved out reputations yet.
“I thought you were finally going to tell a Slytherin off,” Ron said, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder.
“Not that I’ve got any real problem with Nott.” “Ease up, Harry.
Vincent’s not stupid.
He’s not getting played by some Slytherin that easily.” Once Theodore left, the cold wind swept the lingering warmth away from Vincent’s side.
He seemed to step back into himself, the cool Ravenclaw surface sliding into place again.
“I agree with Ron.” Vincent still had more to say, but Hermione got there first.
“Before Hogwarts?
That sounds like the start of some weird fairy tale.” Harry’s unease sharpened.
A half-formed memory tugged at him—somewhere he had seen Theodore Nott before.
“Vincent, was that the boy from Ollivander’s?
We brushed past each other there.
And again on the platform.
I can’t believe I remember it this clearly.
You two didn’t already know each other back then, did you?
You’ve never said a word about it.” Memory was like glass under a layer of dust.
One small detail was enough; the rest cleared in a flash, sharp as the spark of a Scourgify charm.
Vincent knew he needed to change the subject fast.
“Hermione, when you head back to the Muggle world for Christmas, make sure you actually rest.
We’ll handle what’s left here.
Who knows—maybe I’ll have a lead by the time you get back.” “Oh.
That does sound nice.” Hermione followed the new thread without resistance, which only made Vincent more uncomfortable.
Ron already seemed ready to drop the whole thing.
Harry still looked like he wanted to push further, but there would be time later.
No need to force it now.
Hermione was the real problem.
After that single polite wish Vincent went quiet, and the silence didn’t settle anything.
It only convinced him the clever Miss Granger had already started filing new questions away for later.
“Why are you looking at me like that?
Planning to sneak back at Christmas just to check whether Theodore Nott and I swapped chocolates?” Hermione hugged her books, gave him a light smile, and turned away.
Vincent realized, a beat too late, that he had handed this sharp little witch something she could use.
He just didn’t know what it was yet.
A slightly closer acquaintance with a Slytherin hardly counted as leverage.
Theodore didn’t even think they were close.
They were still stuck at the level of knowing each other’s names.
Theodore Nott really was strange.
How did he catch every single time Vincent deliberately closed the distance?
Had the first impression been that unsettling?
Vincent had been busy lately.
Harry’s accusations against Snape still lacked hard proof.
Their interest in the Philosopher’s Stone needed more sources.
The distance between him and Theodore remained wide.
And Professor Quirrell kept watching him with that hungry look, like something terrible had already locked eyes on him.
Who ever claimed Hogwarts was the safest place in the world?
Half a year in and he already had more problems stacked up than he had managed in the previous eleven.
He hadn’t even reached Christmas yet.
With all of that turning over in his head, Christmas arrived anyway.
Students left in steady waves on the Hogwarts Express.
The usually noisy castle quieted the way falling snow quiets everything—soft, gradual, complete.
If you listened hard enough in the empty corridors you could hear individual flakes landing on the eaves.
Sunlight bouncing off the white ground felt pleasant until it started to burn; snow blindness was not an experience anyone wanted.
Most of the students who stayed behind didn’t spend their days standing in the snow.
They claimed the common rooms, the Great Hall, the library.
Those spaces belonged entirely to them now.
Vincent left the Ravenclaw common room headed for the last of those.
Harry had meant to come along, but the common room won.
The softest chair by the fire was free, Ron was already there, and the two of them could easily waste an entire day in that exact spot.
So far Harry’s wins at wizard’s chess against Ron could still be counted on one hand.
He kept playing anyway.
Hermione called the game crude—pieces that could literally raise weapons and cave in each other’s skulls.
Vincent found the idea interesting, though he still hadn’t found time to learn the rules from Ron.
Wizard’s chess got loud when people got into it.
Neither of them wanted Madam Pince’s version of a scolding followed by a polite invitation to leave.
The Hogwarts library was every Ravenclaw’s favorite place.
Or maybe any place that loved learning simply belonged to people who loved learning.
Vincent carried another thick volume of advanced charms—one more in a long line.
He had already worked through more of these collections than he could easily count.
Spells were the primary way wizards shaped magic.
A real improvement to even one of them could lift the entire art to a different level.
That was exactly why the unusual warmth around Theodore had made him wonder whether the other boy had modified the Warming Charm.
So far Vincent had not successfully improved a single spell.
For someone who had always found learning almost too easy, the small failure stung more than he liked to admit.
“The knowledge of the magical world is vast as the sea.
The spells we actually use every day?
Roughly a hundred.
Trying to master too many only weighs a person down.
“Perhaps you could take it more slowly.
No need to press yourself so hard.” Headmaster Dumbledore appeared the way fixed NPCs do in games—suddenly present in places where you least expected him.
Vincent turned another page without hurry, eyes on the next charm, until Dumbledore settled into the chair across from him.
Only then did he look up, reluctance plain.
“Good afternoon, Headmaster.
I thought you’d be arranging the Christmas dinner right about now.” Dumbledore only laughed.
“You’re quite right.
In theory that is exactly what I should be doing.
Fortunately I have an excellent deputy.
Minerva will see to the feast so that every student who stayed behind feels a touch of home.
“I’m doing something similar myself, only on a smaller scale.
Tell me, Vincent—have these six months at Hogwarts been happy ones?” So the headmaster moonlighted as the school’s unpaid counselor.
Hogwarts really ought to budget for an actual psychology professor.
Vincent swallowed several sharp Muggle phrases and kept his voice even.
“It’s been fine, Headmaster.
If you listened more carefully to what the students actually say, you’d notice Hogwarts isn’t nearly as peaceful as it looks from the staff table.
You might find you have more work than you think.” Harry’s private accusations against Snape still stood.
They had never been withdrawn.
Dumbledore clearly saw that Vincent was not in a talking mood.
“Very well.
It seems I chose a poor moment.” Vincent tried once more to raise his suspicions about Quirrell.
Dumbledore deflected them with practiced ease.
For now Vincent could only accept that the headmaster believed he knew best.
On the surface, at least.
Once he had real evidence, he might not need Dumbledore at all.
He might handle Quirrell himself.
“I have never doubted the abilities of our students.
Every young witch and wizard here carries remarkable talent.
With study and guidance, that talent will shine.” Dumbledore really did behave like an NPC—appear, deliver a few cryptic lines, prepare to leave.
“One more thing.
Working alone has its advantages, but the right kind of teamwork can accomplish twice as much with half the effort.” Vincent found the old man stranger by the second.
Dumbledore clearly did not trust him completely, yet still chose to speak with genuine openness.
That sincerity only made the whole exchange feel more off-balance.
Watching the white-haired figure walk away, Vincent felt a sudden, wordless loneliness settle over him.
It had nothing to do with the snow outside the windows or the empty quiet of the library.
He had lost a kindred spirit.
The realization arrived fully formed.
He had never had one.
Every person he studied had been chosen by him for specific reasons.
None of them had ever met the standard of true understanding.
Theodore was a controlled variable, a carefully selected similar sample.
That did not make him a kindred spirit.
The loneliness Dumbledore had somehow triggered stayed with Vincent all the way to the Christmas Eve feast.
He still could not name a reason for it.
Formidable old wizard.
His methods ran deeper than Vincent had given him credit for.
That thought reached its sharpest point during Christmas dinner itself.