“Complete sensory control?”
The more Bruce thought about it, the less that sounded like a spell any good person would use.
All this, just to counter a simple Reflecting Charm?
Professor Gael, however, looked delighted. He felt he’d just proven that Grindelwald was superior to Dumbledore. He insisted that Bruce continue practicing the Phantom Charm until he’d mastered it, not merely learned it.
Gael certainly didn’t want a mishap from Bruce’s lack of skill to tarnish his reputation.
—
Thirty minutes later, Professor Gael’s extra tutoring came to an end. Bruce had succeeded in creating an illusion he felt satisfied with, finally grasping the basics of the Phantom Charm.
“Bruce,” Gael began, his tone softening, “I recommend you work on developing your imagination.”
He offered Bruce a rare piece of advice: “The richer your imagination, the more convincing the illusions you can create.”
Bruce nodded, filing the advice away. Typically, by the end of a lesson, Gael would dismiss him without a second thought. But today, something was different. Gael hesitated, as though weighing something on his mind.
“Bruce—” he finally said. “There’s a small favor I’d like to ask. If you’re willing, that is.”
“Of course, Professor,” Bruce replied without hesitation. Gael had been teaching him, after all; returning the favor seemed only fair.
Provided it was a small favor.
“You’re aware of the recent incidents at school,” Gael continued slowly. “The tension’s been building, both inside and outside Hogwarts. I’ve had an idea that might help the situation—only Dumbledore doesn’t agree.”
He went on to explain the use of spiritual medium magic and why Dumbledore had refused it.
“Honestly, he’s too soft-hearted. At a time like this, the Headmaster ought to show a bit of mettle. The safety of all the students should come first,” Gael said with a frustrated sigh.
Bruce frowned. Was Gael hinting that he’d rather be Headmaster himself?
That would be out of the question.
There could only be one Headmaster, and as far as Bruce was concerned, that was Dumbledore.
Luckily, Gael’s intentions turned out to be less ambitious than Bruce had feared.
“I’d still like to try my solution,” Gael continued. “So, I’ve thought of a compromise.”
With a wave of his wand, a small, leather-bound diary flew into his hand.
“If we can’t summon Snape’s spirit into the physical world, why not reverse the process? Let a soul enter his dream realm.”
Bruce had to admit, it was a clever idea.
Gael held the diary out to him.
“I’ve argued with Dumbledore enough. If I go to him with this plan now, it’ll just look like I’m conceding. So, Bruce, could you help me with this? Say you found this diary and that Dumbledore can decide what to do with it.”
Wait… what?
Bruce hadn’t expected the favor to turn out like this.
He took the diary, noting the strange sensation it gave off, as though some dark magic flowed faintly through it.
“This diary was once a Horcrux,” Gael explained. “It contained an evil soul. But don’t worry; I’ve dealt with the dark magic, and I’ve ‘trained’ the spirit within. It should be completely obedient.”
The dark magic… resolved?
Bruce eyed Gael skeptically. “But Professor, I can still sense some lingering black magic in this diary.”
“I left it there on purpose,” Gael replied casually. “Keeping a bit of the original dark magic makes it more convincing that this diary wasn’t crafted by me.”
Well, that made sense, Bruce supposed, given how faint the magic was. He stowed the diary and turned to leave, but Gael had one last suggestion.
“Bruce, if you don’t mind, have a chat with the spirit inside.”
Gael gave a rare, wry smile. “It can be… rather entertaining.”
—
Bruce left the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, diary in hand. As he made his way to the Great Hall for dinner, he whispered to Kathoom.
“Kathoom, I’ve got a theory.”
He thought back to his recent conversation with Gael. “Maybe Professor Gael was once a notorious dark wizard.”
“Wow, you know, now that you mention it, that makes a lot of sense,” the owl replied in a voice so dry it could have cracked. “How could I ever have missed it?”
Kathoom had been reading parenting books lately. One tip advised parents not to crush their children’s enthusiasm, but to encourage it. He figured that probably applied here, too.
Bruce noticed the owl’s sarcasm and immediately lost interest in continuing the topic. They walked in silence until they passed Professor Flitwick’s office, where Bruce saw a young witch talking to a ghost in the corridor.
He vaguely recognized her as a first-year Ravenclaw student, named Ravenna.
And standing next to her was the Grey Lady, Ravenclaw’s house ghost.
“Oh, that’s fascinating!” Ravenna was saying, her eyes bright with interest. “I’ll definitely check it out. Thank you, Lady Grey.”
With a parting smile to the ghost, she turned and walked past Bruce without a glance.
Kathoom’s gaze followed her until she disappeared from sight.
“Curious…” he murmured. “What’s she going to the fifth floor for?”
The fifth floor of Hogwarts was largely empty, with only the Restricted Section, an unused classroom, and an old bathroom.
Could it be that Ravenclaw’s secret chamber was located there?
“What are you staring at?” Bruce’s voice jolted Kathoom from his thoughts.
“You aren’t spying on a young witch, are you?”
“Not spying—observing,” Kathoom retorted. “It’s in an owl’s nature to notice things without any particular agenda! Besides, I think there may be a hidden area on the fifth floor. We should investigate tonight.”
“Not tonight.” Bruce shook his head. He did indeed have something planned.
Tonight, he’d be having a little chat with the spirit Gael had so highly recommended.
—
Night had fallen.
Bruce sat up in bed, the diary on his lap. He flipped through the empty pages, noting the absence of even the faintest ink marks.
Only on the first page was there anything written: the faint, ghostly name “T.M. Riddle.”
The diary’s original owner, perhaps—the name of the spirit inside?
Didn’t sound like the name of a respectable wizard.
He opened a bottle of ink, dipped his quill, and let a single drop of ink fall onto the blank page.
The ink glistened for a moment, then vanished, as though it had been absorbed by the page itself.
Intrigued, Bruce dipped his quill again and wrote:
“My name is Bruce Wayne.”
—
T/N: HOly fuck I can’t handle spice wtf
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