Chapter 172

~ 64 Advanced Chapters Available now on my Patreon! Veratia didn’t know when the soup from her plate had somehow found its way onto her bread. With graceful precision, she sliced the bread into small pieces with her knife and popped one into her mouth. “Hmm… not bad,” she remarked. “Personally, I think Cass doesn’t have a clue what deliciousness is.” Poppy glanced at Veratia, who was meticulously mimicking her table manners, then at Harry, who was grinning foolishly at Veratia. In that moment, Poppy suddenly understood why Cassandra had lost out. Even though Poppy had nurtured this “little cabbage” for so long, she had to admit—her heart was fluttering a bit. If felt this way, how could Harry resist? How could anyone not be charmed by such a thoughtful, caring big sister? For dessert, they were served a classic Viennese court specialty: Kaiserschmarrn, or Emperor’s Pancakes. Kaiserschmarrn is one of Austria’s most famous and beloved traditional desserts—a light, caramelized pancake made from a batter of flour, eggs, sugar, salt, and milk, cooked in butter. Its texture falls somewhere between a pancake and a cake, delightfully sweet and fluffy. Paired with fruits, raisins, almonds, jam, cream, or hot cocoa, it’s nothing short of a heavenly treat. The dish earned its name from its association with Emperor Franz Joseph I, who adored it. The word “Kaiserschmarrn” combines (German for “emperor”) and (meaning “mishmash” or “nonsense”). During the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Kaiserschmarrn was already a wildly popular dish, though its origin story remains debated. One tale claims that while traveling in the Alps, Emperor Franz Joseph I and his wife, Empress Elisabeth (Sisi), stopped for lunch at a farmer’s home. The nervous farmer, in a panic, threw all his finest ingredients into a pan to make a pancake. But his trembling hands accidentally tore it to pieces. To cover up the mess, he doused it with plum jam. Fortunately, Franz Joseph found it utterly delicious and named it . “So, is this Kaiserschmarrn really named after that legend?” Tina asked Veratia between bites, her curiosity piqued. Coming from America, where culinary traditions could feel like a bit of a desert, Tina was naturally intrigued by the lore of Old World cuisine. Especially since this dish traced back to the Austrian court… and the young lady sitting across from her, Miss Grindelwald, might very well be connected to that history. “Most likely,” Veratia replied, her tone tinged with nostalgia. She smiled and continued, “Though plenty of dishes have been spuriously linked to emperors. My uncle was rather magnanimous about it—he never pursued those who made such claims. If he tasted a dish and liked it, he’d have the court chefs learn to make it. If it wasn’t to his taste, he’d have the ‘emperor’ label quietly removed.” “He was a true gourmand,” Veratia added with a playful smirk. “He didn’t want his reputation tarnished by subpar food.” The little anecdote warmed the post-dinner atmosphere, sparking lively chatter. “What about Britain?” Newt asked Theseus. “Do we have any dishes officially endorsed by kings or queens?” “Er…” Theseus racked his brain before finally blurting out, “French cuisine?” At that, Nicolas Flamel, who had been sipping his tea, nearly choked. He let out a thunderous cough and clutched his chest, struggling to recover. “Are you alright, Mr. Flamel?” Newt asked, concerned. “My ribs…” Flamel gasped. “I think I coughed one loose!” After a flurry of frantic healing spells, Flamel’s ribs were mended. “You may not know this, Mr. Scamander,” Veratia said leisurely, “but back in the day, even British menus were written in French…” “How do you know that?” Newt asked, wide-eyed. “Aren’t you from the Austro-Hungarian Empire? Why would you know about British affairs?” “Because it was the laughingstock of Europe,” Veratia replied, lifting her hot cocoa mug. “They say when King George V was on the throne, he was utterly enamored with all things French—especially French cuisine. He decided to have the royal menus written in French, and the entire court followed suit. It became a British tradition.” Veratia wasn’t exaggerating. From the 1880s onward, British royalty had adopted French for their menus. Every state banquet since then had featured menus written in French. In fact, the British monarchy descends from the Norman dynasty, and for a time, French was the language of the British elite. Speaking fluent French was a mark of a proper aristocratic education. This wasn’t unique to Britain—many European courts were similar. In Tsarist Russia, for instance, if you’ve read , you’d notice the nobility conversing in long stretches of French. Even Queen Victoria’s 1899 menu had only the buffet section written in English. “I’m struggling to breathe,” Theseus said, tugging at his collar. “Merlin’s beard, it’s the Muggle world, so why do feel so humiliated?” “You get used to it in the culinary world,” Flamel said with a mocking edge. “British cuisine? Even dogs wouldn’t touch it.” “At least our breakfasts are delicious!” Harry shot back. Flamel snorted, the age-old rivalry between the French and the British flaring up. “But your cuisine is dreadful,” Flamel insisted. “Need I remind you that King Henry I, while visiting Normandy, ignored his physician’s advice and gorged himself on stewed lampreys? He died of indigestion—on the privy, no less!” Harry took a deep breath. He grabbed a napkin, dipped his fork in water, and stuck the napkin to the fork, waving it like a white flag. “Alright, I surrender!” Flamel abruptly fell silent, glaring daggers at Harry. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Veratia asked, eyeing Harry’s makeshift white flag with curiosity. It seemed neither Newt nor Theseus understood either, but Tina was doubled over with laughter. Harry explained to those unfamiliar with the Muggle world, recounting the story of World War II—particularly how a certain “art student” had steamrolled France. Newt and Theseus finally caught on, realizing what he meant—they hadn’t connected the dots earlier. “They didn’t even hold out as long as a single Russian building,” Harry quipped sharply. Flamel stood up and scurried out of the dining room in a huff. Seeing Flamel storm off, Harry grinned mischievously. He took a bite of the Kaiserschmarrn and suddenly found the flavor familiar. “It tastes a bit like rock cakes,” Harry mused. “Oh, Veratia, I’m planning to recommend Hagrid as an assistant to Professor Scamander. He’s the gamekeeper at Hogwarts, and he’s been really good to me—a big, fun friend. When we get back to Hogwarts, I’ll introduce you.” “Sounds lovely,” Veratia said, cradling her mug and nodding gently. “But… rock cakes? That name sounds a bit intimidating.” “Well, they’re as hard as their name suggests,” Harry said, shuddering at the memory of his first bite. “But if you soak them in water or hot milk, they soften up and taste great—kind of like this Kaiserschmarrn. Really good stuff.” “You mentioned Hagrid,” Newt said, smiling warmly. “I know him well. If he could be my assistant, I’d be thrilled—it’d save me a lot of trouble.” “By the way, Veratia,” Harry said, turning to her. “What are your plans moving forward?” “Me?” Veratia looked up, thought for a moment, and gave a sly smile. “I’m definitely going back to Hogwarts with you. Did you forget? I’m just a student who’s barely finished fifth year and passed my O.W.L.s. I still have to complete seventh year and take my N.E.W.T.s.” “With your magical prowess, do you really need to attend Hogwarts, Miss Grindelwald?” Theseus interjected, feeling he should advocate for his sister-in-law. “I’d suggest joining the Ministry—perhaps becoming an Auror would suit you better.” “You want a dark wizard’s sister to hunt dark wizards?” Veratia asked with a teasing smile. “Aren’t you worried I’d team up with them instead?” Theseus faltered. “I stand by my suggestion,” he pressed, unwilling to back down. “You’re a natural-born Auror. It’s the perfect role for you.” “But I don’t have any magic of my own right now—I’m borrowing from Harry, remember?” Veratia reached out and ruffled Harry’s messy hair. He squinted, clearly enjoying the big-sister affection. Veratia had Harry’s personality figured out. Having lost his mother young, he craved maternal care. For a boy like that, the best approach was to shower him with boundless acceptance and indulgence—make him dependent, inseparable. Cassandra’s methods? Hah. Good luck staying single forever. No normal boy—Harry included—could handle her way of showing affection. “What about Professor Dumbledore?” Harry asked skeptically. “Doesn’t getting into Hogwarts require some sort of approval?” “It’s the Book of Admittance and the Quill of Acceptance,” Newt explained. “The Quill has to write Miss Grindelwald’s name in the Book for her to be admitted to Hogwarts.” “But didn’t it already write her name a hundred years ago?” Harry asked, puzzled. “Technically, she’s not a graduate…” “She’s not even British, Harry,” Newt said, stealing a quick glance at Veratia to ensure she wasn’t looking before lowering his head and speaking rapidly. “If I recall correctly, the Book only records the names of those currently residing in the British Isles.” “Does it write automatically?” Harry asked, intrigued. “I don’t know the exact mechanics,” Newt admitted, shaking his head. “But from what I’ve heard, that’s how it works. I’ve never heard of it recording a transfer student’s name… and if I’m not mistaken, Miss Grindelwald is already one hundred—” Before he could finish, Veratia’s gaze turned dangerously sharp. “Sixteen,” Newt corrected hastily. “I’ve never heard of it accepting anyone over twelve.” “I think I should talk to Professor Dumbledore about this,” Harry said to Veratia. “You’re his senior, after all, and you attend Hogwarts. I can’t imagine he’d refuse your request to re-enroll.” “Who knows?” Veratia said, her eyes glinting. “Maybe he’ll hold a grudge because I’m Gellert’s sister and block my admission.” “He wouldn’t,” Harry insisted. “Even with that orphan, Tom, Dumbledore didn’t refuse him entry. Though he also didn’t accept Tom’s application to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts—oh, by the way, Tom is Voldemort. His real name is Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he’s actually a half-blood wizard.” The revelation that Voldemort was a half-blood left everyone with strange expressions. “That was a wise choice,” Theseus said, shaking his head. “In the last wizarding war, the British magical community suffered devastating losses, all thanks to this Tom Riddle. We shouldn’t use his alias—Riddle suits him better.” Unable to hold back, Harry spilled all of Voldemort’s family secrets. Voldemort wasn’t his friend, so Harry felt no obligation to keep his past under wraps. Why bury the secret when he could share it and give everyone a good laugh? “This Merope, honestly…” Veratia frowned, her impeccable manners preventing her from saying anything too harsh. “Merlin’s beard, how could there be such a shameless witch? It’s utterly laughable…” “I never imagined Voldemort’s birth was such a tragedy,” Newt said, shaking his head. “No wonder he’s so cruel—born from a love potion. What a…” Before Newt could finish, Harry cut in. “Last year, Voldemort attacked Poppy in the Forbidden Forest. If I hadn’t shown up in time to save her, she might’ve been killed.” “He deserves to rot!” Newt spat, his usual mild temper flaring. For someone as gentle as Newt to curse, he was truly furious. “I can’t fathom what kind of twisted soul would attack a noble unicorn,” Tina said, shaken. “Is his soul corrupt?” “No matter how you look at it, he’s beyond redemption,” Theseus declared, passing final judgment on Voldemort. Unbeknownst to Harry and the others, the Quill of Acceptance had already written Veratia’s name in the Book of Admittance the previous afternoon. The first to notice was Professor McGonagall. She was tidying up in the tower when she saw the Quill dancing furiously, inscribing a name in the Book. Curious, McGonagall approached and read the name. “Veratia Grindelwald.” McGonagall clutched her collar. She knew exactly what that surname meant. She rushed to the Headmaster’s office, only to find Dumbledore absent. It wasn’t until the next day that an exhausted McGonagall finally caught up with him. “What’s wrong, Minerva?” Dumbledore asked with concern. “Did you not sleep well?” “Of course not, Albus,” McGonagall said, taking a deep breath. “The Quill of Acceptance moved. It wrote a name in the Book of Admittance.” “A name?” Dumbledore’s interest was piqued. This was a first for him. It was the middle of the term, during the Christmas holidays. Why would this happen? Shouldn’t new names be written at the end of the school year? “You won’t believe whose name it is…” McGonagall’s face was grim. “Merlin’s beard, Albus, I can hardly bring myself to say it…” “It’s not Tom Riddle, is it?” Dumbledore asked, half-joking. “Oh, it’s not bad,” McGonagall said, her expression twisting. “But it’s not far off. The name I saw in the Book… it’s a Grindelwald.” Dumbledore’s demeanor turned grave. He sat up straight and asked again, “What did you say, Minerva? The surname was what?” “Grindelwald,” McGonagall sighed. “The same as Grindelwald, locked away in Nurmengard. Her name is… Veratia Grindelwald.” S~eaʀᴄh the novёlF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. Veratia? The name struck Dumbledore as oddly familiar, but he couldn’t place where he’d heard it. Could she be Gellert’s descendant? No, that seemed impossible. The name… A sharp, almost screeching urge to scream welled up inside him. --- Support me & read more advance & fast update chapter on my patreon: pat reon .com/windkaze