The familiar swirl of weightlessness enveloped Vizette as he plunged into the Pensieve's silvery strands, the Weasley twins tumbling in right behind him.
"Blimey, this is brilliant!" Fred and George chorused, their voices echoing with excitement.
Fred flashed a mischievous grin. "Feels just like a wild dream, doesn't it? We could bottle this sensation."
George's eyes lit up. "Imagine a gadget for proper daydreaming—perfect for dodging Binns' lectures!"
They high-fived, but their antics faded into the background as the memory solidified. No matter how they capered, the scene remained untouched.
At the center was a witch in a cozy wooden cottage. She perched on a stool, wand in hand, shaping clay into a delicate teacup with a blend of Transfiguration and incantation—her magic fluid and precise, a testament to her skill.
Once the form was set, she etched words into the clay with a knife, dusted them with powder, and tapped her wand to the powder. "Damage your teeth and make your mouth hurt!" she incanted.
The powder fused under the spell, vanishing beneath a fresh layer of clay. A quick burst of flame from her wand fired the piece, yielding an innocent-looking earthenware teacup.
Vizette watched intently, the twins unusually hushed and focused for once.
The witch rose, shedding her robes for a simple long dress and ruffled apron. Her pointed hat morphed into a plain headscarf. The furnishings—rough-hewn wood, flickering candlelight—hinted at the Middle Ages.
Preparations complete, she slipped from the cottage, hurrying along a cobblestone path to the village square. A crowd of villagers ringed the area, necks craned toward a crude platform at the center. A stout stake rose there, a frail, unconscious girl bound to it, surrounded by piled firewood.
Vizette and the twins exchanged grim looks. "Witch hunt," Vizette murmured. "Classic Muggle panic."
Fred frowned. "That teacup... she's got something planned."
George nodded. "And the disguise? She's crashing the party."
The witch moved like a shadow, swapping her enchanted teacup for a servant's ordinary one and pouring herbal tea. She offered it to the judge, a red-faced man ranting about the girl's "dark curses"—blighting crops, slaying livestock.
The crowd, whipped into a frenzy, hurled mud and stones at the bound girl. A few villagers hesitated, voices of doubt lost in the roar, until they were shoved out.
The witch trailed the torch-bearing executioner onto the platform. With a serene smile, she presented the tea. The judge sipped—and sharp teeth erupted from the cup's rim, clamping onto his nose.
Chaos erupted. Militiamen rushed forward, tackling the "servant" witch and tying her beside the girl. Blood streaming from his mangled face, the judge bellowed for the fire.
Torches ignited the wood in a whoosh, flames roaring up to engulf them both. The mob howled triumph, but no screams pierced the crackle—no agony from searing flesh.
The twins waded through the fire unscathed, peering in. The witch shielded the girl, her body unburnt. She sighed in delight. "Ah, that tingling warmth... pure bliss."
The girl peeked up timidly. "Sister... are you really a witch?"
The witch ruffled her hair. "Of course. Fancy coming away with me?"
The girl gazed through the flames, eyes distant. "They might be better off without me."
"That's a yes!" The witch closed her eyes, savoring the heat once more.
With a snap, the scene shifted—from smoky square to misty lakeshore, Hogwarts' towers looming grandly in the distance. The pair hurried toward the castle gates.
Vizette and the twins emerged from the Pensieve, blinking into the dim room.
Fred punched the air. "The nose-biting teacup recipe! That's gold—we've got a trade secret now."
George turned to Vizette, grinning ear to ear. "Where'd you dig up this treasure trove? Pensieve and historical gems all in one?"
Vizette shrugged, a touch exasperated. "Beats me. Serena loves her puzzles, I suppose."
While the twins buzzed about prank potential, Vizette's mind lingered on the witch hunt. It tied straight into his History of Magic lessons. If he wasn't mistaken, this was Wendelin the Weird— the medieval witch who relished being burned at the stake. She'd pulled this stunt forty-seven times, flitting through disguises to savor the flames while dodging real harm, all under the Statute of Secrecy's long shadow.
But the memory revealed more: Wendelin didn't just thrill-seek. She rescued hidden magical folk, smuggling them to Hogwarts for training. Noble, in its reckless way.
One puzzle nagged, though—how had Serena gotten hold of it? Wendelin lived centuries ago; memory extraction across time like that? Impossible without deep connections.
Vizette flipped open Serena's notebook, scribbling his questions. Her reply flickered back almost instantly: "Not yet—patience."
Before he could stew further, Fred slung an arm around his shoulders. "Fancy whipping up some enchanted wares, Vizette?"
George draped the other arm. "That teacup's our ticket! Strike while the iron's hot—nose-biters for the masses."
Vizette chuckled. "Count me in."
Fred beamed. "Knew we could rely on you. Time for a promotion—junior partner material."
George nodded vigorously. "Partners, at least. The Weasleys and Vizette: future prank empire!"
…
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