The little black cat rolled its eyes and shook its head.
"Fine, fine, I know I'm terrible at naming things. Once you decide on a name you actually like, let me know."
Vincent walked into the washroom. "Save your game — time for bed."
"Meow!"
It responded, unhappy, but obediently saved its progress, then glanced toward the washroom, a flicker of confusion in its eyes: it felt like... after being away for a whole week, this person had come back somehow different.
Whether it liked the change or not, it honestly couldn't say.
But this time, coming back, it had caught a certain "scent" off of him — one that made it feel unusually comfortable. Not a literal, physical scent, exactly — more like a feeling.
It couldn't quite put it into words.
It was just a cat, after all.
"What are you staring at?"
Vincent, freshly washed up, walked out and found the cat eyeing him furtively, and asked, casually, out of habit.
The little black cat: "???"
It stretched its whole body out, then leapt gracefully onto the bed, curling up on the pillow, closing its eyes.
Just as it was settling in to sleep, it suddenly found itself scooped up, and Vincent tucked it straight into the blankets with him. "You're so warm — might as well put you to work warming up my bed!"
"Meow!"
Furious, it thrashed and struggled, trying to wriggle its way back out.
But Vincent simply pulled it in against his chest, pinning it in place. "Mm, nice. No wonder so many people love keeping cats."
"Meow! Meow! Meow!"
It kept whining and squirming for a while longer, then finally let out a resigned sigh: Fine. Whatever.
The little black cat shifted its body, settling into a more comfortable position, closing its eyes once more, and quickly drifted off into a contented, deep sleep — this scent really is nice.
...
The next day.
The Ministry of Magic abruptly reached out to every prominent newspaper, journalist, and magazine across the wizarding world, calling an emergency press conference to announce news that stunned everyone:
"Minister Fudge, ever perceptive and wise, uncovered the truth and personally dispatched his most capable trusted aide to Azkaban, investigating a decade-old case to its very foundation."
"No matter how cunning the true culprit, he could not escape the Minister's discerning eye — justice has been served! A wrongfully condemned hero has finally had his name cleared, and walks free once more!"
"And this is only the beginning!"
"Moved by this case, Minister Fudge has personally ordered his trusted aide, Charles Chen, to take his place within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, launching a full reinvestigation of unresolved cases spanning the past fifteen years. Not a single guilty party shall escape justice — not a single innocent shall be wrongfully condemned!"
"To this end, Charles Chen has submitted a temporary 'Case Reopening Act,' which will remain in effect until every case from the past fifteen years has been thoroughly, conclusively resolved."
"One can already sense — the Ministry of Magic is about to change forever!"
Dumbledore studied the newspaper report, taking in the accompanying photo: Fudge personally handing Vincent a signed warrant, the two of them clasping hands and turning toward the camera together.
He removed his glasses, gently rubbing at his eyes. He truly hadn't expected things to unfold quite like this.
This "Act," while nominally temporary, was, to anyone paying attention, functionally no different from a permanent one — because its stated end condition was: full, exhaustive resolution of every case from the past fifteen years.
Whether or not such a thorough review was even genuinely achievable was beside the point — as long as someone chose not to let it end, there would always be more cases left to "investigate." And as long as cases remained open, the Act would simply continue indefinitely.
Why would Fudge agree to a bill like this at all?
Obviously, entirely for his own benefit.
This "Case Reopening Act," on the surface, only touched a handful of long-buried old cases, seemingly with no bearing on the Ministry's current operations at all — but in reality, it handed Fudge enormous leverage over a great many people.
Ever since becoming Minister, Fudge's real authority had been sharply constrained — partly by the Ministry's own old guard, whether holdovers from the previous administration or simply career veterans with seniority; partly by the various figures backed by pure-blood families, none of whom had ever felt obligated to defer to him at all.
But things were different now.
With the Reopening Act in place, Fudge could reopen practically any old case at will — especially ones with any connection, however faint, to Voldemort or the Death Eaters.
And how many Ministry officials, how many pure-blood families, could honestly claim to have no connection to those cases at all? Sure, at the time, most of them had managed, through one means or another, to walk away unscathed.
But now, all it took was Fudge deciding a case looked suspicious enough to warrant reopening — and, rest assured, almost no one would come out of that kind of scrutiny clean.
What's that? Not on board with this Act?
Well, look at Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black — living proof, right there, of exactly the kind of sins you people have been sitting on. When you find one cockroach in a house, that means there are countless more hiding somewhere.
Whoever objects loudest clearly has something to hide — and gets moved straight to the top of the investigation list!
And so, aside from a small handful of younger, genuinely clean officials, everyone else fell in line at once.
After all, they understood perfectly well: Fudge had no real intention of actually reopening cases at random. What he wanted was simply to hold this leverage over their heads — from this point forward, who would dare disrespect Minister Fudge again?
As for Vincent — the "Case Reopening Act" he'd personally drafted and submitted was, in effect, the establishment of a brand-new "rule" — and as the official overseeing this Act, he naturally gained both oversight authority and enforcement power, fitting exactly what "Overseer" required of him.
On just the very first day the Act was announced, Vincent could already feel the potion beginning to digest — solid confirmation that this general direction was, broadly speaking, the right one.
Still, if he wanted to speed up the digestion process, this single Act clearly wasn't going to be nearly enough on its own — he'd need to keep stirring the pot further. From that angle, playing "Overseer" in the Harry Potter world actually seemed to hold a real advantage over doing it in the Lord of Mysteries world.
After all, back in the Lord of Mysteries world, his own strength and standing simply weren't yet enough to easily establish "rules and order" with any real, broad-reaching impact.
While Vincent worked with Fudge fielding reporters' questions, already turning over ideas for rules with even greater reach, Dumbledore made his way once more to Nurmengard, deep in the bitter winter cold.
Lake Rekyeto, in January, remained frozen solid, a sharp, biting wind sweeping in from the forest across the lake, whistling shrilly through the air.
Even setting aside the fact that a former Dark Lord was imprisoned here, few people would willingly spend any time in a place this miserable.
Dumbledore entered the grim, shadowy fortress, glancing briefly at the inscription carved above the doorframe — "For the Greater Good" — before quickly averting his eyes.
Before long, he arrived at a dim, drafty cell, where an elderly man, his hair a shock of gray, sat curled beside the fireplace, wrapped in a brand-new patterned wool blanket, holding his gaunt, skeletal hands out toward the warmth of the flames.
This was the former Dark Lord who had once nearly ignited a war between wizards and Muggles: Gellert Grindelwald.
"Shut the door already!"
Feeling the cold wind that had swept in with the door, Grindelwald didn't even bother turning around before shouting. He didn't need to look to know exactly who'd come.
Because, ever since being locked away here, aside from the house-elf who delivered his meals on schedule, Dumbledore had been the only visitor to ever step foot inside, all these years — his own former subordinates, when they came, would only speak to him through the door, never entering.
He didn't particularly mind them seeing him like this, but they clearly felt otherwise.
"Did you bring me anything this time? That pair of gloves you knitted last time was garbage quality — barely wore them a few times before they unraveled at the seams, honestly..." The rest of his complaint trailed off into an unintelligible mutter.
"Since you don't like them, I suppose I just won't bring you any more gifts."
Grindelwald finally turned around, a flicker of displeasure crossing his clouded eyes. "Albus. I can do without them. You, however, cannot simply stop giving them to me."
"..."
You old man, where on earth did you learn to talk like this?
To be continued…
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