"One month of detention with Professor Snape—"
"I'm very busy with potions," Snape interrupted flatly, not bothering to lift his eyes from the staffroom fireplace.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said," Snape drawled, "I'm currently occupied. I won't be supervising any detentions."
There was a collective beat of disbelief. Snape had never turned down an opportunity to assign suffering.
In truth, he was simply worried his office wouldn't survive a month of Vincent Wong's "creative experimentation."
"…Very well," McGonagall said after a beat, shifting the clipboard in her hands. "One month with Lockhart, then—"
"My dear Minerva," Lockhart interrupted with a charming, panicked laugh, dabbing sweat from his temple with a monogrammed handkerchief, "how can you jest about punishing a student for such a... spirited display of magical curiosity?"
Inwardly, he was screaming: I'm not punishing that little demon-child.
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fine. Flitwick?"
"Well…" Flitwick glanced at the clipboard. "I admit, he's caused quite a stir. But in fairness, the boy brings energy to the school. And the creature was rather well-behaved, all things considered."
"You call chasing a student through three courtyards well-behaved?"
"Minerva," Dumbledore interrupted gently, "perhaps a different approach is needed here. If the staff all refuses to supervise detention, we may need to reconsider what this moment calls for."
McGonagall's lips tightened into a line. "I'm not about to let a student off for conjuring a beetle-dragon hybrid and terrorizing the faculty."
Just then, the door creaked open.
Vincent stepped in, tray in hand, face carefully neutral but eyes betraying the dread of a boy who knew exactly how far he had pushed his luck.
"…Good evening, Professors," he said. "I came to apologize for… yesterday."
There was a pause.
Vincent cleared his throat. "And to offer something. These are for all of you—each pouch contains a few potions I brewed myself. There's a slip inside explaining the effects: one's a sleep potion I developed—it helps with magical fatigue, clears stress, and actually works. The other two are standard muscle relaxants and mental clarity tonics."
He placed the tray on the table.
"I know it doesn't excuse what happened, but I just wanted to say sorry."
Snape, still seated, gave the pouches a side-eye.
"I can confirm they are non-lethal," he said dryly. "Surprisingly effective. And only mildly unstable, assuming you don't try to mix them with pumpkin juice."
Vincent gave a grateful nod. "Thank you, Professor."
McGonagall eyed the tray, expression unreadable. She picked one up, flipped through the note inside, and studied the vials in silence.
"…Very well," she said after a long moment. "You may go."
Vincent gave a quick bow, then left with the kind of posture one reserves for walking past sleeping trolls.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The room was silent.
Then McGonagall reached back into the tray, selected a second pouch, and tucked it into her robes.
"Upon further reflection," she said briskly, "Mr. Wong will not be receiving detention. A simple cleaning of the second floor might be a good alternative. I'm sure Argus would appreciate that."
And with that, she swept out of the room without another word.
The remaining teachers stared at one another.
"…Did she just—?" Flitwick began.
"Unquestionably," Snape muttered, eye twitching as he took his own pouch with slow, deliberate movements.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Ah, the power of sincerity. And stress relief."
Lockhart, already sniffing the potion vials, muttered, "If he puts this on the market, I want my name on the label…"
Snape downed the contents of one vial without ceremony.
"Merlin help us all," he muttered.
And with that, the staff meeting disbanded—some shaken, some impressed, all mildly concerned.
The new term had officially begun.
And so far, it was going exactly as expected.
Terribly.
…
//To Dumbledore\
Albus Dumbledore paused at the sight of the large sack waiting just outside his office door. Brightly colored socks spilled from the top, some patterned with tiny cauldrons, others stitched with tiny dancing mandrakes.
He picked up the attached tag, turning it over with a curious smile.
Merry (Late) Christmas – Vincent
Dumbledore let out a soft chuckle, eyes twinkling behind his glasses.
"How thoughtful," he murmured, already mentally pairing socks to specific outfits.
…
"…"
Snape stood at the threshold of his office, arms folded, eyes narrowed at the small black box resting suspiciously on his desk.
He approached it slowly, wand drawn. No defensive wards. No residual magical signature. No glitter, confetti, or suspicious ticking.
"…That's new," Snape carefully prodded it once with the tip of his wand.
Still nothing.
Lifting the lid with deliberate care, he found—of all things—a pristine set of potion-making instruments. Polished stirring rods. Precision knives. Engraved silver spoons. Each piece immaculate, well-balanced, and—infuriatingly—expensive.
On the underside of the lid, a note in annoyingly neat handwriting:
Merry (Late) Christmas – Vincent
Snape stared at it a moment longer than he meant to.
"…Does the boy think I'm under-equipped?" he muttered coldly, placing the lid aside. "Or simply believes I have no standards?"
Still, he found himself replacing his old set piece by piece, movements silent and precise.
Once finished, he regarded the empty box with a neutral expression.
"…Sentimental foolishness," he shut the lid. "Entirely unnecessary."
And yet, when he returned to brewing that evening, he reached for the new tools without hesitation. Familiarity, after all, required time and practice.
…
"You know, if anyone else were in your situation, they'd skip homework," Vincent said, glancing at the stack of open books spread across Hermione's bedsheets.
"If anyone else had to mop the entire second floor of Hogwarts as punishment," Hermione replied without looking up, "they'd learn not to brew random potions in the first place."
"Touché," Vincent muttered, flipping a page of his own book.
Argus Filch had made him mop every inch of the second floor—by hand. It had taken him over a day, and the only response he got afterward was a grunted, "Satisfactory." Vincent still wasn't sure which part of that ordeal was more soul-crushing.
"Hey—nearly forgot," he said suddenly, rummaging through his pouch. "Bit late, but… Merry Christmas."
He held out a small, neatly wrapped box.
Hermione blinked, caught off guard, then took it carefully and peeled it open. Inside was a worn but well-maintained book bound in faded burgundy leather.
"Advanced Magical Theory: Unabridged."
Her eyes lit up.
"This is a first edition," she breathed.
Vincent scratched the back of his head. "Yeah… Sister An had a copy. I asked if I could gift it to you. Figured it'd be more useful in your hands than gathering dust."
Hermione looked up at him, her expression softer than he expected. "Thank you. Really."
He gave a small smile. "You're welcome."
Later, he made his rounds to hand out the rest of the gifts, some in person, others left with tags and notes tucked inside the wrapping.
For Harry, a new pair of grip-enhancing gloves designed specifically for Quidditch—enchanted with minor warming charms. "So your fingers don't freeze off mid-dive," his note read.
For Ron, a deck of wizarding strategy cards—an enhanced set that reacted to game outcomes and even "trash-talked" you when you lost. Ron loved it immediately.
Neville opened his package to find a sturdy pair of enchanted boxing gloves. The note read: "For building confidence. And punching fear in the face."
Luna's was a Rubik's cube, enchanted so that it shimmered and changed its colours based on the solver's emotions. She stared at it for ten minutes before saying it was "absolutely perfect" and wandering off while still twisting it absently in her hands.
Hagrid received a well-polished harmonica, engraved with small runes that caused it to occasionally harmonize with nearby sounds. "Good fer calming down Hippogriffs," Hagrid beamed, eyes misty.
Even Colin Creevey—still confined to the hospital wing—hadn't been forgotten. Vincent had wrapped a brand-new magical camera for him, complete with self-developing film and a charm that let him add small captions beneath each photo. It hadn't cost much—just a few Sickles—but it was in remarkably good condition.
It struck Vincent how limited technology seemed to be in the magical world. Aside from the Hogwarts Express and the enchanted car he'd arrived in (which the Daily Prophet had deemed highly illegal), there was very little to speak of. Whether it was frowned upon or simply dismissed, he wasn't sure. Either way, it felt like a missed opportunity—there was so much unexplored potential waiting to be bridged between magic and machinery.
He left the camera with Madam Pomfrey, along with a handwritten card: Just a little something to say thanks—for when you're back on your feet.
Only one gift remained undelivered.
Small, simple, and wrapped in red, Vincent still carried it with him. It was meant for Ginny.
He approached the Gryffindor table, cradling the box in both hands. Ginny looked up, a little startled when he stopped in front of her.
"Here, Ginny—Merry Late Christmas," Vincent said, offering it to her.
Her eyes widened. "Wha—wait, for me?"
"Well, we are friends, right?" he said with a light smile.
Inside the box was a snow globe—tiny trees, a quiet village, and a gentle swirl of enchanted snow dancing in slow circles. Ginny stared at it, stunned.
"Thank you, Vince, but I didn't—"
"Don't worry about it," he said, shrugging. "I don't mind not getting anything. Honestly, it was fun finding something for everyone."
"Oh." She set the globe carefully on the table and watched the snow spiral down through the little scene inside.
Vincent slid onto the bench beside her. "You look better than you did last term."
"Yeah… I got rid of the problem," she said, trying to smile—but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Still… it lingers."
"Want to talk about it?" he asked, voice low.
"I—" Ginny hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around the base of the globe. "I can't. Sorry."
"It's fine," Vincent said gently. "Like I told you before—if you ever need help, you know who to call."
She glanced at him, then nodded. "Thank you."
"No problem."
They sat there quietly for a while, watching the snow inside the globe settle—soft, steady, and silent.
…
"So no attacks for a couple of months now… what happened?" Vincent wondered as he sat in the Common Room, half-focused on his homework. "Well, at least Hermione's supposed to be discharged today. That's some good news."
"Hey, Vince," Dean Thomas called out, walking over. "I heard you're opening a food shop near that workshop of yours. When's the grand opening?"
"I still need to make a menu—and find out what can be supplied," Vincent said, stretching. "Earliest would be in a week. Why? You suddenly craving something?"
"Seamus and I were thinking of stopping by," Dean said, eyeing Vincent's parchment. "Man… you're probably one of the most hardworking people I've ever met. Makes me feel downright lazy."
Vincent chuckled. "You're not doing too bad yourself, Dean. Don't sell yourself short—we're both still young."
Just then, Vincent's eyes wandered over to Harry and Ron at the other end of the table, hunched over what looked like a tattered diary.
"Anyway, I've got to talk to Harry about something. Catch you later."
"Later, mate," Dean said, heading off toward the dorms.
Vincent slid into the seat next to Ron and Harry. "So, what's this? Ron's diary?"
Ron glared. Harry snorted.
"Kidding," Vincent smirked. "So, what's so fascinating about it?"
"Someone tried to flush it down Myrtle's toilet," Ron said, crossing his arms. "Harry thought it looked interesting."
"It belonged to a T. M. Riddle," Harry added. "He apparently received an award for special services to the school fifty years ago—according to Ron, anyway."
Vincent raised an eyebrow and looked at Ron. "Ron said it?"
"Unbelievable, right?" Harry grinned.
"Yep."
"You two know I'm sitting right here," Ron muttered, looking thoroughly unamused.
"We couldn't help it," Harry and Vincent said in unison, earning a twitch from Ron's eye.
"Oooh, it might have hidden powers!" a familiar voice chimed in.
Hermione had taken the diary and was examining it excitedly.
"When did you get here?!" Ron asked, nearly jumping out of his seat.
"Around the part where someone flushed it," Hermione replied, eyes still on the diary.
"Fifty years old…" Vincent muttered, exchanging a glance with Hermione and Harry. Ron looked between them, baffled.
"Am I missing something?"
"Well, the Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years ago, wasn't it?" said Harry. "That's what Malfoy said."
"Yeah…" Ron replied slowly.
"And this diary is also fifty years old," Hermione added, tapping the cover.
"So?"
Vincent sighed. "Ron. Both the Chamber and this diary trace back fifty years. What if Riddle got that award because he caught whoever opened the Chamber?"
Ron blinked. "Oh. Okay, that makes more sense. But the diary's empty."
Hermione was already pulling out her wand. "It might be written in invisible ink!"
She tapped the diary. "Aparecium!"
Nothing.
Undeterred, she pulled a red Revealer out of her bag and began rubbing the pages, but the results remained the same—nothing.
"I'm telling you, there's nothing in there," Ron said. "Riddle probably got this for Christmas and couldn't be bothered using it."
Still, Harry pocketed the diary thoughtfully.
Vincent frowned slightly. The timeline was too neat. The Chamber was opened fifty years ago, and now this diary shows up—belonging to a student from that exact time?
"Are you alright, Vince?" Hermione asked, noticing the look on his face.
"Yeah," he said, shaking the thought off and offering her a grin. "Really going to miss the cat ears though."
Hermione gave him a deadpan stare and lightly smacked him over the head with the book she was holding.
Vincent laughed awkwardly, rubbing his head.
His smile faded as he stared at the entrance to the boy's dormitories.
"Something on you're mind?" Hermione asked.
"… Nothing concrete," Vincent said slowly. "It just… seems all to coincidental for that diary to show up now."
"What do you suggest we do then?"
"Give it to Dumbledore perhaps?" Vincent suggested.
Hermione chuckled softly. "Can't argue with that. But knowing those two as well as I do… they'll want to figure things out on their own first—before realizing whether they're in over their heads."
"… As someone with a similar mindset, I don't have the right to critique them," Vincent thought. "But I wonder… at what point do they know that their in over their heads?"
…
"You know, I missed a lot of things about Hogwarts," Vincent muttered, stepping into the Great Hall. "Lockhart wasn't one of them."
Hermione scratched her head. "...Yeah, I'm starting to see why."
The Hall looked like a pink nightmare. Lurid heart-shaped confetti drifted lazily from the enchanted ceiling, and giant paper flowers bloomed grotesquely along the walls. It was a full-on assault on the senses.
"What in Merlin's name—?" Harry said, brushing confetti off his bacon as Vincent and Hermione sat down.
Vincent and Ron silently pointed toward the staff table.
There, in matching pink robes, stood Gilderoy Lockhart, beaming like he'd just invented love itself. The rest of the teachers looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. Snape, in particular, looked murderous.
"Happy Valentine's Day!" Lockhart announced with disturbing enthusiasm. "And may I thank the forty-five of you who have sent me cards! I've taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all – and it doesn't end here!"
Lockhart clapped his hands.
The doors swung open with theatrical flair, revealing a dozen dwarfs in golden wings, each lugging a harp and wearing deeply unamused expressions.
"My friendly, card-carrying cupids!" Lockhart beamed. "They'll be delivering your valentines all day long! And of course, I'm sure my fellow teachers will want to join the fun. Perhaps Professor Snape could show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And dear Professor Flitwick here knows all about Entrancing Enchantments—sly old dog!"
Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape looked like the first student to request a love potion would be found mysteriously unconscious beside a cauldron.
"In case you're wondering," Hermione said as Ron opened his mouth, "no, I didn't send him a card. I lose a little more respect for him every lesson."
"But you used to idolize him!" Ron said, surprised.
"Maybe the stories were real," Hermione admitted, chewing her toast. "Maybe not. Either way, the man can't teach to save his life. All he does is boast and pose unlike a certain someone."
"Certain someone?" Harry asked with a grin. Hermione flushed slightly and ignored him.
Meanwhile, Vincent was eyeing the dwarfs like they were wild Nifflers on the loose. When one began approaching him, harp in hand, he acted fast.
"Vincent Wong, I've got a musical message—"
A cloud of powder exploded in the dwarf's face.
The dwarf collapsed.
Everyone stared.
"...He'll be fine," Vincent said, dragging the snoring dwarf to the side. "Sleep potion. Powdered form. He shouldn't bother me for the rest of the day."
"...You just carry that around?" Ron asked, clearly alarmed.
Vincent wisely said nothing.
Later that afternoon, as they made their way to Charms, another dwarf appeared—this one barreling toward Harry.
"Oy! 'Arry Potter!" it bellowed, elbowing its way through the crowd.
Harry paled. "Vincent! Got any more powder?!"
"You're on your own," Vincent called back. "Too many people around. I could accidentally knock out the whole hallway."
Everyone took a large step away from him.
"That's the Mad Scientist for you," someone whispered. Vincent's eye twitched.
"I've got a musical message for Harry Potter!" the dwarf announced, pulling out his harp with menace.
"Not here," Harry begged, trying to slip away.
"Hold still!" the dwarf grunted, grabbing Harry's bag. The strap snapped, and his belongings spilled across the floor—along with Riddle's diary.
As Harry scrambled to collect everything, the dwarf began to sing:
His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard,
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord—
The corridor exploded in laughter. Harry looked like he wanted to vanish.
Vincent groaned. "Yeah. That's it. I never want to hear another dwarf sing again."
Then Malfoy's voice cut through the noise.
"What's this?" he sneered, holding up Riddle's diary.
Vincent started to retort but paused—his attention drawn to Ginny. Her face had gone pale, her gaze fixed on something between them. Not Malfoy. Lower. Her eyes didn't move.
"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted, and the diary flew into Ron's hands.
"Harry!" Percy barked, appearing out of nowhere. "No magic in the corridors. I'll have to report this, you know!"
Malfoy glared, and as Ginny brushed past him into class, he called loudly, "I don't think Potter liked your little—!"
"Stuff it, Malfoy," Vincent said, shoving an actual hard-boiled egg into Malfoy's open mouth as he passed. He nabbed a few at breakfast for Nyx and his pet snake.
Malfoy gagged, red-faced with humiliation, while Crabbe and Goyle stood frozen, unsure whether to help or pretend they weren't there.
Vincent kept walking, his eyes lingering briefly on Ginny's back before shifting to the trio. He gave them a small nod and turned away. With no magic to cast, the class ahead had little to offer him. Without another word, he slipped down the corridor, steps light but thoughtful.
…
"I'm really going to miss him," Hagrid said wistfully, tossing a slab of fish into the Dretle's eager mouth. "Romanian wizards are comin' tomorrow to take 'im away—they're specialists with dragons. But... kinda got meself attached to 'im."
The Dretle happily crunched its food, tail flicking contentedly behind it. Vincent stood nearby, still a little cautious. His eyes wandered to the enchanted chain cuffs bolted deep into the ground, glowing faintly with layered runes.
"Dumbledore's enchantments. No way it's shaking those off." Vincent nodded to himself, both impressed and relieved.
The Dretle gave him a slow, narrow-eyed glare—but, aside from the silent menace in its gaze, it stayed put.
"Now, yeh said you had something to ask me?" Hagrid turned, wiping his hands on his coat.
Vincent nodded. "Yeah. It's about the Chamber of Secrets."
At that, Hagrid's face tightened slightly. "You been talkin' with those three again? This about Harry an' the others pokin' around?"
Vincent shook his head. "No, this one's just me. I came across something when I was digging through the school records..."
Hagrid gave a dry chuckle. "Ah. Found my name, did yeh? Saw I was expelled fifty years ago and figured you'd ask why."
"…Sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
Hagrid waved it off with a grunt. "Don't worry about it. Was bound to come up eventually. I s'pose it's partly my fault for never bringin' it up."
"You didn't have to. It's your past—you've no obligation to tell anyone."
Hagrid gave Vincent a sideways look, a little impressed. "Got a few skeletons in the closet yerself?"
"…Plenty," Vincent said with a dry laugh. "Want me to start alphabetically?"
Hagrid snorted. "Nah, I'll pass."
They shared a quiet chuckle before the silence returned, save for the soft, snoring breaths of the now-dozing Dretle.
"Harry, Ron, Hermione… they know, don't they?" Vincent asked, more gently this time.
"Course they do. Told 'em early on."
Vincent let out a small breath of relief. Hagrid caught it and gave a knowing smile.
"What?"
"Nothing," Hagrid said. "Just... you checked with me first before tellin' your friends. Not many people think to do that."
"Isn't that common sense?"
"More rare than you'd think," Hagrid said with a shake of his head. "Plenty out there who talk too freely. I've been guilty of that more than once meself."
There was a pause. Just as Vincent was about to stand, Hagrid spoke again, more somberly.
"…Back when I was a student, there was a creature I looked after. Kept it in a cupboard near the dungeons, fed it scraps when I could. Cute little thing back then. Had black beady eyes. I called 'im Aragog."
Vincent stiffened slightly but said nothing. Hagrid's love for dangerous creatures was infamous by now.
"Then… it happened," Hagrid continued, voice low. "Petrifications started. Just like now. But someone—someone actually died. They said the monster in the Chamber was to blame."
Vincent's fists clenched in his lap.
"Aragog was found. They said he was the monster. Said I'd set him loose." Hagrid paused, rubbing his eyes with a large, worn handkerchief. "He had to flee. But the damage was done. I was expelled."
Vincent was stunned. He wanted to shout how unfair it was. How stupid. How wrong.
But none of that would fix anything now.
"…And the attacks? Did they stop after that?" he asked quietly, already dreading the answer.
Hagrid nodded. "Aye. Stopped completely. Just like that."
"Of course they did," Vincent thought bitterly. "They found their scapegoat. Blamed it all on a boy and a spider—and let the real culprit walk free."
He felt a large, warm hand rest on his shoulder.
"Don't go worryin' about me, Vince," Hagrid said kindly. "It's in the past. And truth be told, I've had a good life. Dumbledore gave me a place here. Gave me purpose."
Vincent looked up at the man—half-giant, falsely accused, still gentle.
"…Still," Vincent muttered, "you deserved better."
Hagrid didn't answer that. He just smiled and tossed another fish into the Dretle's snoring mouth, whom gulped it down even while asleep.
"Don't worry 'bout me, Vince," Hagrid chuckled. "It was a long time ago. Lotta years've passed, and I've met plenty o' good folks since. Dumbledore gave me a place here, and I've never been happier." He paused, then added casually, "Oh—and Aragog's still alive, by the way."
"What?! Where?"
"Deep in the Forbidden Forest. I still visit him now and then. Wanna come along next time?"
"Can I?"
Hagrid grinned. "'Course."
And so, Vincent spent the rest of the afternoon talking with Hagrid—about the past, the castle, and the strange creatures that lived just beyond its walls. All the while, his mind worked quietly, piecing together the story he'd just heard—another thread in the growing web around the Chamber of Secrets.
…
Vincent sat quietly by the fireplace, a book in hand, with Nyx curled up beside him and the pink snake—now permanently named Blimp—draped lazily across his lap.
Nyx had stumbled across the word in one of Vincent's textbooks and insisted on giving the name to the snake. Vincent had tried, in vain, to suggest alternatives, but Nyx's big, watery eyes had ended the discussion pretty quickly.
"At least it seems happy with it," Vincent mused, gently stroking the snake's scales with one finger. "Still need Harry to try talking to it one of these days."
Eventually, deciding to call it an early night, Vincent gathered his things and made his way up to the dorms. On the way, he ran into Ron also about to ascend the steps.
"Hey, Ron," Vincent said. "Harry's not with you?"
"No, I was just checking the dorms for him," Ron frowned. "He's been weirdly into that diary lately. I'm starting to wonder if it's cursed."
"Cursed?" Vincent raised an eyebrow.
Ron gave him a flat look. "Yeah—cursed. You know, there are books out there that'll hex you just for opening them. I read about one that bit a bloke's hand clean off."
"…First I've heard of such a thing, sounds lovely," Vincent muttered as they pushed open the dorm room door.
Harry sat at the desk, hunched over the open diary, sweat on his brow and an unreadable look in his eyes.
"It was Hagrid," he said quietly. "Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets."
Vincent and Ron froze in the doorway.
""…What?""