The Harry Potter World.
Over the past few days, Vincent had stocked the refrigerator to the point it barely closed — cooked food of every variety — and plastered sticky notes with simple sketches onto every appliance and piece of furniture in the house. Anyone with a functioning brain should be able to work it out.
But that only solved the food problem.
Since Dumbledore still hadn't sent word, he'd spent an additional evening making a second set of materials: illustrations, as clear and simple as he could make them, conveying everything he needed her to understand.
He still felt it wasn't enough. So he pulled out a dictionary, set up the camcorder, and recorded himself going through basic vocabulary and sentences, paired with the drawings.
"Well. Hopefully she can make sense of it."
By the time he finished, it was the following afternoon. He'd just settled in to rest when Dumbledore arrived — took one look at the worsening circles under his eyes and the hollow in his face, and said, with some hesitation:
"Vincent. I do think you need to take better care of yourself."
Vincent stared at him for a good few seconds before he understood.
He kept the thought — that advice coming from you, of all people, sounds deeply strange — firmly to himself. The old man had a gift for reading people, and he had no desire to be read right now.
After a brief silence, Dumbledore produced a small object: something that looked like a bone whistle, strung on a thin cord. He held it out. "I asked an old friend to make this — it's crafted from the bone of a Babel Fish. It should allow you to understand what's being said to you, even when the amnesia has taken hold."
"It can only do that, though — help you understand. It won't let you speak."
Vincent took it with genuine gratitude. "That's more than enough, Professor. How does it work?"
Dumbledore raised his wand and touched it lightly to Vincent's chest. "Keep it on you. It works on its own."
The rest of what he said, Vincent could see clearly — Dumbledore's mouth moving, perfectly legible — and heard nothing. But the meaning appeared in his mind regardless.
"This is extraordinary."
Dumbledore lifted the charm, and smiled. "Every time I think I've come to understand magic well enough, I find I've only ever grasped the edge of it."
A beat. "The Muggle Studies materials you gave me two days ago — I've finished reading them."
Vincent looked up quickly. "And?"
"Honestly? I was surprised. Surprised by how far the Muggle world has come — well beyond my expectations again. And surprised by the depth of preparation you've brought to this interview, and the scope of what you're hoping to do with this class."
He adjusted his half-moon spectacles and regarded Vincent with quiet warmth. "Personally, I would very much like to have you at Hogwarts. But I worry that what you're proposing — a reform, really, that's the right word for it — will draw fierce resistance from the pure-blood governors and the Ministry."
"So I didn't get the position?"
"No."
Dumbledore shook his head. "Give me some time. I'll bring them around."
"How exactly do you intend to bring around... those proud old fossils?"
"I'll call a meeting."
"And then?"
"And then I'll remind them—"
The greatest white wizard of the age blinked pleasantly.
"—that I am the current Headmaster of Hogwarts."
Vincent stared at him. He wasn't joking.
He gave him a thumbs up. "Respect."
Dumbledore had turned down the Minister for Magic's seat — and other accumulations of power — many times over, precisely because he understood himself. He worried that once he started, he wouldn't be able to stop. So he'd made Hogwarts his willing cage.
Within Hogwarts, though, he could afford to be a little less restrained.
Ten minutes later, Dumbledore left.
The start of term was approaching and he was desperately busy — Harry Potter's first year, which required its own set of carefully laid plans. That alone was enough. Adding the Muggle Studies overhaul on top of it meant, by his own account, he probably wouldn't sleep properly for the next two weeks.
The moment Dumbledore was out the door, Vincent went to the camcorder, deleted everything he'd already recorded, and started over.
He sat at the dining table, propped the camera in front of him, and pressed record.
"Hello."
"Meeting you this way is both a pleasure and deeply inconvenient. Let me introduce myself — my name is Charles. I'm the original owner of the body you're currently in. The people around me generally call me Vincent Moriarty. I'm twenty-one years old..."
Two hours later, he finished recording. He dropped onto the sofa, clutching the camcorder.
"That should cover everything."
He hoped she'd be even slightly reasonable and stay put during the swap. He'd had quite enough of cleaning up after her.
The third day.
He stayed home entirely, resting, going over everything in his mind to make sure he hadn't missed anything. That evening he went out and bought two more camcorders and a supply of blank tapes.
Before bed, he cast Muggle-Repelling Charms around the house, along with a few protective enchantments. If she ended up drawing the police again, at least there'd be somewhere to come back to.
Then time moved, as it tends to, and the last day arrived.
He was up early. He loaded the tape into the player, switched on the television, set it to loop. Then he sat and watched the clock and waited.
The Lord of the Mysteries World. Emerald City.
Bernadette hadn't slept. She sat in her rocking chair, one hand holding the scroll, the other holding the layered stack of parchment she'd written — her message.
Outside the window, the blood-red moon hung in the sky. She found herself thinking of the other world's white moonlight, and realised, with some surprise, that she was faintly looking forward to going back.
Partly because the swap introduced uncertainty into the fate she'd glimpsed — a genuine variable. But more than that: when she was in that other world, she could forget, for a while. Forget the Queen Mystic. Forget Element Dawn. Forget even her father. And simply exist as herself.
She hadn't lived that way in a very long time. Not since her father had been assassinated in the White Maple Palace.
Click.
She opened a small pocket watch. "It should be about time."
She watched the second hand tick, and channelled spirituality into the scroll, applying it to herself.
A dozen seconds later, with a pull she couldn't resist and couldn't name, her consciousness began to blur.
There it is.
Another swap.
To be continued…