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"How touching, Potter," Cassandra said, propping her chin with one hand, a playful smile curling her lips. The tear-shaped mole at the corner of her eye stood out strikingly. "It's like watching Cinderella escape her wicked stepmother… Merlin's beard, I feel like I'm in a Grimm's fairy tale. Shall I gift you a pair of crystal high heels?"
Harry shot back reflexively, "Worn by you?"
Cassandra froze.
Then her expression morphed into one of utter disdain.
"You're as insufferable as ever, Potter," she said. "But if you really want them, I suppose I could indulge your perverse little fantasy—since you did come to rescue me, after all."
Harry felt a flush of embarrassment. The moment the words left his mouth, he'd regretted them.
Asking for a girl's worn shoes… that sounded neither pleasant nor proper.
What would a man like me want with a girl's second-hand shoes?
To cover his awkwardness, he stepped forward, reaching for the door of the Leaky Cauldron to push it open and escape.
To his surprise, the door wouldn't budge. He shoved it several times, but it remained stubbornly shut.
"We seem to be trapped here, Cassandra," Harry said, turning to her. "This door won't open—can you check for another way out?"
Cassandra's look of disdain deepened.
"You really are a daft little troll, Potter."
With that, she drew her wand and tapped it against the wall of the Leaky Cauldron.
"Don't tell me Deputy Headmaster Weasley never taught you this… three bricks up, two across."
The brick she'd tapped quivered, then began to shift. A small hole appeared in the center, growing larger until it formed a wide archway leading to a winding, cobblestone street that stretched out of sight.
"Does this lead to Diagon Alley?" Harry asked curiously, patting the edge of the opening.
"I don't know," Cassandra replied airily. "But it's clear we can get out of here, isn't it?"
Harry nodded and stepped toward the archway.
"The next memory should be mine, you perverse little troll," Cassandra said, blocking his path. "So, by rights, I should go first, shouldn't I?"
Harry sighed and stepped aside, letting Cassandra take the lead.
He followed her across the cobblestone path, and soon they arrived before Malfoy Manor.
The Malfoy Manor of a century ago was different from the one Harry knew—though its exterior was identical, it was unmistakably livelier back then. After all, Septimus Malfoy, the Shadow Minister, held more sway than the Minister for Magic himself.
Yet even the powerful Septimus Malfoy had his share of troubles.
A carriage approached from the distance, halting at the gates of Malfoy Manor.
Septimus stepped down from the carriage, and moments later, a young Harry trailed closely behind him.
Neither spoke. Though Septimus appeared reluctant, his demeanor toward young Harry was surprisingly gentle.
In Harry's memories, Septimus had always been a kind man.
"Come on, let's follow," Cassandra said to Harry.
They trailed behind, with Cassandra filling the gap between Harry and Septimus.
As they entered the manor, a housemaid led young Harry to the second floor, while Cassandra stood behind her father.
"Come with me, Cass," Septimus said sternly.
Once inside a room, Septimus looked up, his gaze severe as he addressed Cassandra.
"I need an explanation, Cass," he said coldly. "You know we are a pure-blood family, and that Potter boy is Muggle-born—"
"So what if he's Muggle-born?" Cassandra interrupted, a smile playing on her lips. "I'm just looking for a manservant to practice spells with, Father—surely you're not this upset over it."
Septimus let out a humorless laugh, his eyes saying, You think I don't know what you're up to?
"Only a Muggle-born would let me use him as a target for spell practice, right, Father?" Cassandra continued, as if trying to convince both him and herself.
Septimus snorted. "If you wanted, you could have countless pure-blood wizards lining up to be your target with a single word."
"But I don't want that, Father," Cassandra said dismissively. "That's not what I'm after. I trust my choice—I won't be wrong about this, Father."
Septimus sighed deeply.
"If you insist," he said, rubbing his brow. "But if you regret this later, don't come crying to me."
Cassandra looked at him, puzzled.
"I'm just picking a target to practice spells with—why would I regret it enough to cry to you?"
But as she spoke, she froze.
Back then, she couldn't have known why choosing a spell-practice partner would lead to such regret…
But now, she knew the pain of Harry's disappearance—how it had driven her to abandon everything and cross time itself to find him.
She knew wizards lived long lives; barring accidents, a hundred and fifty years was easily within reach.
From 1892 to 1991 was only ninety-nine years—hardly a lifetime for a wizard.
But like Veratia, she didn't want Harry to see her grow old.
As Cassandra finished speaking, the scene of Malfoy Manor dissolved.
She sat still, lost in thought, as if reliving the past.
Harry didn't interrupt her reverie, standing quietly until she lifted her head.
"Let's keep moving," she said. "We'll soon escape Death's pursuit."
He opened the door, revealing a long, winding stone path stretching ahead.
"Right," Harry said, nodding as they reached the gates of Malfoy Manor.
"Come on," he said, glancing back at Cassandra.
They walked forward in silence.
Just as Harry was about to break the quiet, Cassandra spoke. "Tell me, what's happened with you these past two years? I never expected you'd return as a thirteen-year-old…"
"It's eleven, Cassandra," Harry corrected. "I don't know why, but when I came back, I was like this—and I even had to re-enroll at Hogwarts… If you came back, maybe you could join me at Hogwarts again."
"I'm in my twenties, Harry," Cassandra said with a soft laugh. "You know adults can't attend Hogwarts."
"But you look sixteen, Cassandra," Harry pointed out.
"No, I'm not sixteen—this is just my consciousness space," she said, shaking her head. "The me you see isn't…"
Harry cut in, "But you look sixteen from the outside, too."
Cassandra paused, then turned away. "I've taught you before, Potter—interrupting someone is terribly rude."
They fell silent for a moment, then noticed a castle looming at the path's end.
"A castle?" Cassandra asked, glancing at Harry. "Is this one of your happy memories? I don't recall you having such posh friends."
Harry shifted uncomfortably.
Because… he knew this castle all too well.
It was Christmas 1891, in the Austro-Hungarian Empire's Nurmengard.
"This is the Austro-Hungarian Empire," Harry said simply.
Cassandra's eyes sharpened.
The Austro-Hungarian Empire…
She knew it too well.
If she could, she'd rather not have taken Harry and her father to Vienna in 1888.
Silence fell between them again.
"That Christmas, 1891, right?" Cassandra said, crossing her arms—though her figure, even in self-reflection, paled in comparison to Veratia's.
"If I recall, you and that—Grindelwald, was it?—spent Christmas together in the Austro-Hungarian Empire."
"Y-Yes," Harry admitted, a touch guiltily.
"How sweet," Cassandra said with a light laugh. "Come on, let's see your saccharine memories with her—unless you mind, Potter?"
"It's not sweet," Harry sighed, trying to correct her.
But before he could say more, the gates of Nurmengard swung open, and Veratia appeared at the entrance.
"Harry!" she called, waving enthusiastically, her motion stirring a metaphorical tide.
Cassandra's eyes flicked to Veratia's undeniably superior attributes, a flash of envy and resentment crossing her face.
"Let's go," Harry said, steeling himself as he addressed Cassandra.
They entered the castle, and Veratia immediately looped her arm through Harry's.
"Come in, Harry," she said. "Gellert and I have been waiting ages—he's been asking about you."
"Asking about me? Why?" Harry asked, puzzled. He still didn't understand why Gellert kept inquiring about him through Veratia.
In his memory, Gellert had always seemed to dislike him.
"He really likes you," Veratia said with a bright smile. "I've had Lucy prepare a feast, including your favorite—beef and potato stew."
Cassandra abruptly turned away, her cheeks twitching as if suppressing a gag.
"Especially your favorite beef and potato stew," she muttered, mimicking Veratia's cloying tone. "Shameless German woman!"
Of course, she knew Harry's favorite dish was beef and potato stew. Whenever he visited Malfoy Manor, that dish was always on the table, despite its lack of elegance.
Inside the castle, they ascended to the second-floor dining room.
The table was laden with a lavish Christmas feast, an array of dishes dazzling enough to overwhelm the senses.
A blond boy sat at the table, his face betraying reluctance. When Veratia entered, he forced a smile.
"This is my brother, Gell… oh, Gellert Grindelwald," Veratia introduced to Harry. "He loves Britain and British people—I'm sure you'll get along splendidly."
Young Gellert flashed an overwhelmingly sweet smile, though inwardly he seethed: British people? I, Gellert Grindelwald, would rather die, fall off the Alps, than like a Brit!
"Hello, Mr. Potter," the boy said politely, standing. "My sister's always talking about you. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Hello, Mr. Grindelwald," Harry replied courteously, thinking to himself, What a sweet kid. So adorable—how did he turn into that smug git?
He'd believe Gellert was a pirate captain before a dark wizard, with that cheeky demeanor.
Unbeknownst to him, even this cherubic Gellert was fantasizing about dismembering the scar-headed wizard who'd stolen his sister's attention.
"That's Grindelwald's brother?" Cassandra said, eyeing the boy disdainfully. "Doesn't look like much…"
"Thirty years from now, he'll become a dark wizard who shakes the wizarding world," Harry said with a sigh. "He's even on a Chocolate Frog card—though listed under Dumbledore's achievements."
Cassandra scoffed at the idea of a dark wizard but perked up at the mention of a Chocolate Frog card. "Oh, Dumbledore. You mean Percival Dumbledore's son with Kendra? I heard about that—Percival was sent to Azkaban for attacking Muggles, right?"
"Yes, because those Muggle boys attacked his daughter Ariana," Harry explained briefly.
Cassandra nodded. "My father mentioned it. He pitied Dumbledore but could only do so much to help him in Azkaban."
"Why?" Harry asked, intrigued. "I recall Septimus didn't care for such… meddling."
"Meddling, you say?" Cassandra huffed. "That's not your concern, Potter. I suggest you focus on playing your part and finishing this Christmas dinner charade with your little girlfriend before Death catches us and we lose our lives."
"She's not my girlfriend," Harry said, unsure why he felt the need to clarify, his voice tinged with guilt.
"Oh, you sound almost regretful," Cassandra said, a teasing smile in her eyes. "Let me guess—you're lamenting that Miss Grindelwald isn't your girlfriend? Merlin, you spent so long in that love nest with her, and still no relationship? I'm curious… Could it be she doesn't even like you? Poor Harry, toyed with by Miss Grindelwald…"
She covered her mouth with a gloved hand, feigning shock. "Oh, how tragic!"
Her expression dripped with mock sympathy, as if she truly pitied him.
For the first time, Harry understood Ron's pain. He slumped over the table, puffing out his cheeks, too mortified to retort.
Caught red-handed and guilty as charged.
"Tch, beef and potato stew, is it?" Cassandra mused. "She really remembers your tastes, Potter."
"Enough, stop it…" Harry muttered, head down.
Beside him was Veratia's melodious chatter, across from him was young Gellert's sulky glare, and behind him was Cassandra's relentless ribbing…
Fine, Harry thought, this is your mind, I'll let you win this one.
Soon, the castle's Veratia and Gellert vanished.
"Time for the next scene, Cassandra," Harry said, standing, eager to move on. "We're almost out, right?"
"If nothing goes wrong," Cassandra replied, wiping away imaginary tears. "Such a touching bond—you're, you're so eager to flee this memory…"
Harry ignored her.
"Let's go," he said. "We need to leave the castle first. I've got a bad feeling about this."
"Hope your jinxed mouth doesn't doom us."
With that, Cassandra stood and headed outside.
Beyond the cottage was a silent, inky night, broken only by faint starlight.
Following the path, Harry realized they'd returned to the Forbidden Forest.
"The Forbidden Forest again," Cassandra said, frowning. "Given your jinxing talent, I suggest you stay alert. This could be Death's trick."
Harry instinctively reached for his wand, only to grasp nothing—he'd forgotten he couldn't use magic in Cassandra's consciousness space.
They waited, but nothing appeared.
"Keep moving," Cassandra said. "We should walk, not stand here like idiots."
They pressed on through the forest's path, eerie wolf howls echoing from the depths, heightening the unsettling atmosphere.
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