"Two."
The oil painting on the wall was ripped to shreds, and the lady inside shrieked as she fled.
Percy stood nearby, his mouth opening and closing without a word. As a prefect, he should have stopped her.
But right now, he didn't want to.
The rest of the Gryffindor students were frozen stiff, unable to move, their eyes filled with terror. A first-year student had cast a spell silently, almost instantaneously.
"Three."
No one stepped forward to confess.
Vespera thought Hogwarts's Sorting Hat was simply a joke.
Did people like this deserve the house motto and spirit that Gryffindor sang about? Bullying the weak and fearing the strong, too cowardly to confess, a bunch of spineless trash.
She looked around at the crowd, seeing hatred, incomprehension, or fear on their faces.
She walked straight over to the student who had been scared limp and collapsed on the floor beside the exploded sofa. "Alan Rieldson, right?"
"Tell me, did you want to do this yourself, or were you put up to it?"
"If it's the latter, I can let you off lightly. But if it's the former... whatever you've done, you'll get it all back."
Her service-berry wood wand traced the boy's cheek, effortlessly lifting his chin.
Fear, plain for all to see.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was wrong, don't... please let me go, I'm begging you..."
"So, it's the former then." Vespera flicked her wrist, and the broken sofa leg on the floor transformed into a sharp, ornate dagger.
Guilt-ridden upper-year students tried to stop her actions. "You can't—"
A single glance from Miss Quinlan was enough to terrify them into silence.
"I can't? But you all could? Don't think I don't know what the rest of you did."
"If I haven't come for you yet, keep that mouth shut."
Rieldson now regretted provoking her more than anything; he had just been blinded by anger. That morning when he went to the owlery to mail a letter, he happened to see Perrin return.
He was just too angry. The House Cup should have belonged to Gryffindor. It belonged to their house; those Slytherin dark wizards didn't deserve it at all.
"Don't move around, this knife is very sharp," Vespera reminded him amicably.
Then, without blinking an eye, she casually and decisively slashed his robes, the neat cut revealing the pale flesh of his leg.
A razor-thin, invisible wound oozed with bright red blood.
It wouldn't hurt much, but it was agonizingly torturous.
Rieldson didn't even have time to gasp before another blade flashed past his eyes.
When Professor McGonagall rushed to the Gryffindor dormitory, not a single piece of Rieldson's clothing was intact.
Aside from his face, all his exposed skin had been precisely sliced open. The amount of bleeding was minimal, but the number of cuts was terrifying enough.
Third-year Rieldson was so frightened out of his wits that he was left in a daze.
"Miss Quinlan, di-did you do this?" Professor McGonagall didn't want to believe her own eyes, even though Quinlan was still holding the blood-dripping dagger.
"Yes, Professor. My owl's feathers were clipped by him so it couldn't fly. I'm just returning the favor."
Hearing this, Professor McGonagall turned with a heart full of doubt to question Percy, the prefect in the common room.
When she received Percy's affirmative nod, she felt unbearable pain and shock, laced with deep disappointment.
A student from her own Gryffindor house had actually done such a thing.
"I'm sorry, Miss Quinlan. It's my fault for failing to properly discipline and guide them. I hope your owl can still fly, and that its feathers grow back. However, isn't this approach a bit too severe?"
"His injuries will heal too, Professor."
Miss Quinlan smiled brightly. "I didn't kill you, did I, Senior Rieldson?"
Hearing her call him, Rieldson raised his eyes to look at her, and at just one look, he began to tremble uncontrollably.
She really would kill him.
Seeing no reply, Quinlan's smile faded, and her tone turned cold. "Senior, I'm asking you a question."
"Yes, yes. Professor McGonagall, this is what I deserve." Eager and incoherent, Rieldson shook his head, his eyes darting around wildly as he repeated the phrase.
"Reparo."
Under Quinlan's wand, the sofa, the oil painting, the walls—all the items she had destroyed were effortlessly restored.
Including the two sets of clothes that had been shredded to pieces.
"Look, aren't they restored now?" Quinlan returned to her usual quiet, humorless self, her gaze sweeping indifferently over where certain people were standing.
"Gryffindor, daring and nerve."
"I really wonder what the Sorting Hat was thinking. Does a bunch of hypocritical, stupid, base cowards playing dirty tricks deserve it?"
"And trash like this still wants the House Cup. If not for the new students, on normal grading alone, you'd be at the bottom for the rest of your lives."
Someone lost their composure and reached for their wand in secret, only to be held back by their companion. Quinlan took it all in.
"I won't hold the past against you. For the future, I believe Senior Rieldson has already given you a very good demonstration."
With a polite bow, she said, "Professor McGonagall, if there's nothing else, I'll be going."
Professor McGonagall truly didn't know what to say; the damage she had caused had been repaired. Besides, she wasn't even a Gryffindor student.
She had no choice but to warn: "Miss Quinlan, if you keep doing things like this, you may face expulsion."
"Doesn't matter. Even if I'm expelled, I'll still do well. Don't worry, Professor McGonagall."
"There are plenty of schools in this world. One Hogwarts more or less doesn't matter."
Watching the retreating figure of her leading her owl away, the worry in Professor McGonagall's eyes was about to spill over. "Percy, take Rieldson to the hospital wing."
"All students who participated in the 'little tricks' Miss Quinlan mentioned, step forward."
No one came out, and the disappointment in her eyes grew even heavier. "Don't make me say it a second time."
The students could not resist the wrath of their Head of House, and one by one, they began to step forward. About a third of them, mostly third-year children.
"Head of House, the House Cup..."
"Shut up! Everyone, three months of detention when term starts."
At this moment, she deeply felt how flawed her teaching had been—she felt it to her core.
Dumbledore had arrived long ago; the Disillusionment Charm had allowed him to observe this accident—born of long-term differential treatment—ever since Quinlan walked through the door.
By the time so many students stepped forward, many fragmented memories flashed through the old man's mind.
He finally came to a reluctant peace: his education had been an utter and complete failure.
"Miss Quinlan."
"Good evening, Headmaster Dumbledore."
Aside from their very first meeting, neither of their conversations could be called friendly or smooth.
Hiding blades and showing shadows, probing and testing.
"Miss Quinlan, as you know, the Philosopher's Stone is dangerous. You-Know-Who's servants have been looking for it."
"And Nicholas Flamel needs it too."
That wizard who had lived for six hundred and sixty-five years? After a moment of thought, Quinlan reached into the inner pocket of her robes (which she had sewn herself) and pulled out the Philosopher's Stone.
"Send me there too. I trust the great headmaster won't refuse a studious student's request."
"You seek immortality as well?" Dumbledore asked uncertainly. Quinlan didn't look like that kind of person.
Most of the time, she was like a piece of wood with no desires.
"No. Just going to take a look at the people who live forever."
"Very well. I will take you there in a week."
The headmaster still seemed to have a lot to say, but Quinlan didn't want to listen. She thanked him and left. Her luggage wasn't packed yet.
The next day, the Hogwarts Express departed on time, and Quinlan walked down the corridor.
Gryffindor students passing by avoided her like the plague, and soon, the other houses also learned about what happened last night.
"Fierce Ravenclaw Miss, have you found a seat?"
"You can come sit in our compartment, there's still an empty seat there. Percy would be very glad to have you."
"Fred and I would too."
Zabini, having been beaten to the punch, didn't back down and still stepped forward gracefully: "Good morning, Quinlan. There's an empty seat in the compartment Draco and I are in."
With a clatter, the door to the left was opened from the inside.
Hermione summoned her courage to invite: "Vespera, there's space here with us too. If you'd like..."