Vinda: Who Taught You That Magic?!

France, the Bastille Prison, a cell deep within.

The stone walls bore the dampness of years, and the air was thick with the chill of the earth.

However, the interior of one of the cells was completely different from the outside world—a small sofa stood against the wall, its velvet surface looking soft and comfortable; on the small round table next to it, a white porcelain teapot and teacups were steaming, the aroma of tea spreading gently, diluting the gloom outside.

Vinda Rosier sat back on the sofa, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, a book lying open on his knee, turning the pages at a leisurely pace, as if it were just an ordinary afternoon.

Good afternoon, Ms. Rosier.

A stranger's greeting came from outside the cell.

Vinda raised his head, his gaze passing over the railing to look at the person who had come.

A young man stood in the corridor outside the cell. He was tall and straight, and his dark golden hair was still very distinctive in the dim light. His dark green eyes were calmly watching her, and his handsome face still had a touch of childishness.

The boy held an envelope in his hand, raised his hand, and gently pushed it through the iron bars. The simply sealed envelope floated from between his fingers, passed through the gaps in the iron bars, and landed steadily on the small round table next to Vinda, next to a white porcelain teacup.

Vinda did not read the letter.

She didn't even glance at the envelope, but instead looked at the boy with a slightly amused expression.

"It's been so many years," she said, her tone as if savoring a cup of bland tea, "What new tricks are you up to this time? A postman? A messenger? Hmm, has the Ministry of Magic started employing child labor like those Muggle? Or perhaps, which family descended from whom you inherited the 'ambition' of your Acolytes elders?"

Vinda leaned back, his long fingers tapping lightly on the pages of the book, a playful glint in his eyes.

Over the years, in order to obtain the Acolytes ' treasure, the Ministry of Magic, though unable to use coercion, has tried almost every trick in the book to lure them.

For example, one might impersonate a descendant of a Acolytes, pretending to have overcome numerous obstacles and hardships to finally reach the former number one Acolytes. After a tearful lament and declaration of loyalty, one might then subtly inquire about the whereabouts of a treasure, striving to revive the past glory...

There are even descendants of Acolytes who were "recruited" by the Ministry of Magic and sent here.

After all, few young wizards understand and agree with their fathers' ideals. Only those who personally experienced that era and followed Grindelwald truly understand how much " for the For the Greater Good" encompasses.

At first, Vinda was quite annoyed by the Ministry of Magic's frequent disturbances, but after spending more than a decade in this dark underground, she actually enjoyed seeing those clumsy tricks.

During her boring prison days, these "visitors" became a form of entertainment, and each time they exposed the other's pretense, they added a little excitement to her dull days.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, her gaze lingering on Lucien's face, trying to find a resemblance to a former colleague in the boy's features.

Vinda silently rehearsed in his mind, trying to guess whose offspring he was going to claim— the Lafontaine family? Or perhaps, the lineage of the short-lived Claude?

Lucien didn't respond, nor did he pay attention Vinda Wenda's historic, hellish joke. He simply calmly raised his palm, fingers spread.

"Bass--"

A pale blue flame suddenly ignited in his palm, flickering Silencio and quietly.

The flames were so cold they didn't look like fire at all; they looked more like a small cluster of solidified, burning ice.

The pale blue light reflected in the boy's dark green eyes, illuminating a small area inside and outside the cell.

The moment Vinda saw that blue flame, his slightly amused smile froze.

Her gaze was fixed on the blue flames, as if frozen in place by a silent spell.

The flames flickered a few times, and the usually elegant and composed Vinda suddenly stood up. The book on her lap slipped to the ground with a "thud," its pages scattering, but she was completely unaware.

"Who taught you that?!"

Vinda's voice was no longer as lazy and relaxed as before; it carried a hint of sharp urgency.

Lucien met her gaze, trying hard to keep his composure and his tone calm:

"The person who asked me to deliver a letter."