Not giving either of them a chance to react, Vincent turned and walked away, intending to leave through the Floo Network, return to Hogwarts, catch Peter Pettigrew himself, and haul him straight to the Ministry.
Now that he'd advanced to Sequence 4, any non-divine attack would automatically rebound onto the attacker — which meant, in the Harry Potter world, he could pretty much run the board unopposed. So he figured it was time to pick up the pace a bit.
The reason he was still sticking to the original plan — handing Pettigrew over to the Ministry, to Fudge — was really about playing the "Overseer" role properly.
Playing Overseer required "setting rules" first, and setting rules required already holding a position with the authority to set them.
Ministry officials, department heads, even the Minister himself, or the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot — any of those would work perfectly.
Just as the thought crossed his mind, a loud bang came from a nearby cell — a wild-haired woman, looking half-mad, pressed her twisted face against the gap in the cell door, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on Vincent. "Back again? Hahahaha, you won't last much longer — my Master will be here soon!"
"I can hear him calling. When he comes, I'll torture you to death, exactly like I did your parents!!"
Vincent recognized her immediately: Bellatrix Lestrange. A die-hard Death Eater, Voldemort's own devoted follower, the Dark Lord's most fervent fangirl — and, not incidentally, the woman who'd murdered his own parents.
Killing this madwoman, avenging his original body's parents — that would be simple enough for him now. But letting her die just like that... wasn't that letting her off a bit too easy?
As anyone knew, when it came to dealing with someone's obsessive fan, hurting the fan directly rarely accomplishes much — but if something happens to their idol, that's when it really hurts.
"I'll remember what you just said."
Vincent gave a small nod. "Next time I drag Voldemort in here myself, you can say all that to me again."
"Hahahahaha, you have no idea how terrifying my Master really is, you don't understand him at all, you'll regret this!! Hahahaha!"
"You have no idea how frightening I can be, either."
With that, he glanced at the Hit Wizard beside him. "How exactly do you people manage these Death Eaters, if they've still got the energy to lunge at me like that? Send the dementors in to give her an extra course. As long as it doesn't kill her, feed until she's begging for death."
"...Understood."
"You think I'm afraid of dementors? I'm not afraid of anything. My Master will come save me..."
Ignoring Bellatrix's continued raving, Vincent strode toward the exit. Along the way, every prisoner in every cell shrank obediently into their corners, doing their best impression of someone already dying, terrified he might decide to feed them to the dementors too.
Despite how many Death Eaters Voldemort commanded, only two of them could truly be called die-hard loyalists: Bellatrix, and young Barty Crouch Jr. The rest were mostly cowed by fear of his power, or opportunists chasing whatever advantage they could get.
Which just went to show — the gap in quality between the two generations of Dark Lords really was substantial.
Raw power was one thing, hard to compare directly, but in personal charisma, vision, and methods — wasn't Voldemort just categorically outmatched by Grindelwald?
Back at the Hit Wizards' quarters, Vincent simply informed them he had business to attend to and needed to leave, then went straight through a fireplace via the Floo Network back to the Ministry of Magic.
He didn't go looking for Fudge right away, though — instead, without wasting a second, he switched to another fireplace and headed straight for Hogwarts.
...
Within Hogwarts Castle.
Harry was sitting through a Muggle Studies lesson. Ever since Professor Charles had abruptly taken an extended leave a week ago, the class had reverted back to Charity Burbage.
Even though Professor Burbage had faithfully carried over Vincent's (Bernadette's) entire curriculum and teaching philosophy, the young wizards found the class had somehow gone right back to being boring.
Because Professor Burbage hadn't grasped the "essence" of what made it work.
What had made Professor Charles's Muggle Studies class actually interesting? Was it the way he recited Muggle history straight from the textbook? The classroom debates about Muggle-wizard relations? The multi-inch essays due every week?
None of it!
The real draw had been the movies and games!
But Professor Burbage had somehow managed to keep exactly the wrong parts and drop exactly the right ones, turning the class into something rivaling the History of Magic for sheer tedium — even Hermione, the model student, couldn't help her mind wandering, since everything the professor covered, she'd already learned back at her Muggle school anyway.
"Boring, isn't it?"
Patricia whispered.
"Huh? No, not really."
Hermione said, a bit guiltily — she'd actually been drifting off just a moment ago. She quickly pulled out a Charms textbook to look busy.
Just then, Ron, slumped over in the row ahead, his head buried in his arms, groaned in agony. "God, I feel like a whole century's gone by, and it's barely been twenty minutes. Harry, when's Professor Charles coming back? I miss him so much."
"You just miss playing games."
"Don't you?"
"I do."
"So what are you accusing me of?"
Harry said, entirely unbothered, "The difference is, I'm not making excuses about it. I'll happily admit it."
"..."
Ron rolled his eyes.
Patricia asked, "Do either of you know what Professor Charles suddenly took a leave of absence for?"
The Golden Trio all shook their heads in unison.
Both Hermione and Harry had, until recently, been visiting the professor every day to study magic using that miraculous notebook of his — and then, a week ago, he'd suddenly told them not to bother coming for a while.
Then, not long after, word had come that he'd taken leave entirely.
"Patricia, aren't you Professor Charles's sister? Don't you know either?"
Patricia said, flat, "Honestly, ever since I started here, he's hardly come to see me at all. The ones he actually seems to care about are you two, and Malfoy." She paused. "And also — I'm not actually his sister."
The three of them exchanged glances, unsure what to say to that.
"Heh heh."
Just then, from across the aisle, came Malfoy's signature smug snicker. "I know where Professor Charles went."
He lifted his chin, looking pleased with himself. "Professor Charles — no, Mr. Charles, I should say — is probably about to resign from his teaching post here at Hogwarts."
"Why?!"
All three of them blurted the question at once.
The commotion instantly drew Charity Burbage's attention, and they quickly ducked their heads, playing meek as quail.
Once the professor's gaze had moved on, Harry couldn't wait any longer. "Malfoy, are you messing with us?"
"My father told me himself!"
Malfoy sniffed. "Mr. Charles is taking a position at the Ministry of Magic. His goal is to become Minister."
"Huh?"
That was more than a little sudden.
Patricia blinked her pale eyes. "Why? Why would he suddenly want to become Minister of Magic?"
"Talented people always rise higher, don't they? Isn't that just the natural order of things?"
Fair point, actually.
They were still just young wizards, after all — the only thing they had to worry about right now was doing well in school. Adults, apparently, had a lot more to think about.
"So... does that mean we're never getting movies and games again?"
That was, unsurprisingly, Ron's main concern.
Malfoy said, smug, "I already had my father buy me some! You could ask yours to do the same."
Ron slumped forward, dejected, muttering, "I'm going to take a quick nap. Harry, keep an eye out for me."
Just as he settled down, the rat Scabbers, resting comfortably in his pocket, suddenly grew agitated, squeaking loudly and scrambling to climb out, trying to bolt.
Ron grabbed it by the tail, holding it upside down in midair. "Scabbers, what's gotten into you?"
"Squeak!!"
Scabbers — or rather, Peter Pettigrew — thrashed and shrieked, struggling desperately. Moments earlier, he'd suddenly felt an overwhelming chill sweep through him — an ominous premonition.
That very instinct, honed from years surviving as a rat, was the exact same thing that had let him hide safely at the Weasleys' all this time.
"Mr. Weasley."
Charity Burbage looked over. "Care to explain what you're doing?"
"Uh..."
Ron clutched Scabbers tightly, stammering. "Professor, Scabbers just went completely mad out of nowhere, I don't know what's wrong with him."
"He's afraid."
Patricia's ruined, milky eyes seemed to fix directly on Scabbers. "He's terrified. He wants to run. He..."
Whoosh!
A streak of black shadow flashed past Ron's face, and the rat clutched in his hand was simply gone.
"Squeak, squeak, squeak!"
The next instant, they saw Scabbers clamped in the jaws of a black cat, racing rapidly toward the door.
Ron froze for a moment, then bolted after it, shouting, "Give me back Scabbers!!!"
To be continued…
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