Chapter 16: The “calm” Before the Storm

(Dumbledore POV)

The flames in the ornate fireplace crackled and danced, casting flickering shadows across the walls of my office. Portraits of past headmasters, their faces etched with wisdom and weariness, observed the scene with a silent intensity. I sat behind my grand oak desk, my gaze fixed on the intricate workings of a silver clock that chimed with an ethereal melody.

It had been two days since the Second Task, and the memory of Vincent Van Doren's performance lingered, a shadow that refused to dissipate. The boy's ruthlessness, his ambition, his unnerving control over powerful magic… It was a cocktail that stirred a disquiet within me that I couldn't ignore.

"Severus," I said, my voice a low, gentle rumble, breaking the silence that had settled over the room like a shroud, "Have you observed anything… unusual… about Mr. Van Doren in your classes?"

Severus Snape, his black robes billowing around him like a storm cloud, emerged from the shadows, his face etched with its usual mask of disdain. "The boy is a prodigy, Albus," he drawled, his voice laced with a hint of grudging respect. "He excels in Potions, a natural talent that surpasses even the most gifted of his peers. He learns quickly, adapts effortlessly, and possesses a… disturbing… level of focus."

He paused, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "But there's more. A darkness within him, a hunger for power that goes beyond mere ambition. He's… unsettlingly… adept at controlling his emotions, masking his thoughts. It's as if he has something to hide."

"Legilimency?" I inquired, my blue eyes twinkling with an intensity that belied my gentle tone.

Snape hesitated. "I attempted it. Subtly, of course. During a private tutoring session."

"And?" I prompted, leaning forward, my gaze fixed on Snape.

"I was blocked," Snape admitted, his voice a low murmur. "A shield, strong and almost impenetrable. It was as if he anticipated my probe, effortlessly deflecting it. I thought I was discreet, but I caught him looking at me, Albus. A look of… disapproval, almost. As if he knew precisely what I was attempting."

A shiver ran down my spine. A fourth-year boy, shielding his mind from Severus Snape? It was a feat that even seasoned wizards struggled to achieve.

Snape continued, "There are also the rumors, Albus. Whispers of his influence within Slytherin House. He's established himself as a leader, a force to be reckoned with. They say he even…disciplined… a group of seventh-years who challenged his authority."

Just then, the office door swung open, and Minerva strode in, her expression a mixture of concern and disapproval.

"Albus," she said, her voice brisk, "I trust you've seen those… markings… on Mr. Van Doren's arms?"

"Indeed, Minerva," I said, my tone calm. "We were just discussing Mr. Van Doren's… unconventional… approach to magic."

McGonagall pulled up a chair, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Runes, Albus. Powerful, ancient magic. Etched onto his skin. It's reckless. Dangerous. And frankly, irresponsible for a boy of his age."

"He is a powerful wizard, Minerva," I said, my gaze thoughtful. "Perhaps more powerful than he realizes. But power, as we both know, can be a double-edged sword. It can be used for good or for ill. And in the wrong hands…"

I trailed off, my mind conjuring the image of Tom Riddle, another young Slytherin with extraordinary talent and a hunger for power that had ultimately consumed him. Vincent Van Doren, with his ruthless efficiency and his unsettling mastery of magic, was treading a path eerily similar to the one Tom had taken all those years ago.

"Poppy mentioned something rather curious to me a year ago, Albus," McGonagall said, her brow furrowed in thought. "Five Slytherins visited the Hospital Wing. All complaining of… unexplained aches and pains. Poppy said they were requesting pain relievers and muscle relaxants, but she couldn't find any visible signs of injury. No bruises, no cuts, nothing. She suspected they might have been hexed."

Snape and I exchanged a knowing glance. The rumors of Van Doren's "disciplinary" actions were apparently more than just idle gossip.

"What are we going to do, Albus?" McGonagall asked, her voice laced with a worry that mirrored my own. "We can't ignore this. He's a danger to himself, to the other students, perhaps even to the entire wizarding world."

I nodded slowly. "I agree, Minerva. We must proceed with caution. We must… understand… Mr. Van Doren before we can guide him. He is a brilliant mind, a powerful wizard. But his potential for darkness… it's undeniable. "

The following day, I summoned Vincent to my office. I requested the presence of Severus, Minerva, and Filius as well. This was more than a casual chat; it was an interrogation. We needed answers.

The gargoyle guarding the entrance to my office sprang aside with its usual grinding sound, and a moment later, the door swung open.

(Vincent's POV)

I entered Dumbledore's office, a sense of unease. Dumbledore sat behind his grand desk, his blue eyes twinkling with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. But what truly surprised me was the presence of Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Flitwick. If I did not know better I would think they're about to beat the shit out of me, I am Strong but Dumbledore could beat me he was on another level he and Voldemort, the only reason I will have a chance against voldemort is because I will catch him by surprise, I still needed to get better and grow more, so I will not make an Enemy out of him…at least not yet

My gaze swept over the assembled professors. They were watching me, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and something that bordered on suspicion. I had a feeling this wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation.

(Vincent's POV)

"Vincent, my boy," Dumbledore greeted, his voice a gentle rumble that somehow managed to fill the entire room. "Please, do have a seat. Lemon drop?"

"No, thank you, Headmaster," I said, my voice carefully neutral as I took the offered seat. I met their gazes, one by one. McGonagall's, stern but fair, her lips pressed into a thin line. Snape's, dark and fathomless, a flicker of something that might have been grudging respect lurking in their depths. Flitwick's, sharp and intelligent, a hint of concern furrowing his brow. And finally, Dumbledore's, those piercing blue eyes twinkling with an unnerving intensity.

"We wanted to have a little chat with you about your… impressive… performance in the Second Task," Dumbledore began, his tone conversational, as if we were discussing the weather over a cup of tea. "Your skill and ingenuity were remarkable, of course. However, there are… certain aspects… of your… preparation… that have raised a few… concerns."

"Concerns, Headmaster?" I echoed, feigning a touch of confusion. I knew precisely what they were concerned about. The runes. 

Dumbledore gestured towards my arms, his expression thoughtful. "Those markings, Vincent. The runes. They are… unconventional, to say the least. Powerful magic. Not something one typically encounters in a fourth-year student."

"I understand your concerns, Headmaster," I said, my voice calm and measured. "I've always had a thirst for knowledge, a desire to push my boundaries. I came across a book on ancient runes during one of my research trips to Diagon Alley. It… intrigued… me. The power they represented, the potential they held. I studied them, practiced, and… eventually… mastered the art of inscribing them."

Snape scoffed, his voice laced with disbelief. "And the ingredients for such a ritual?… Those are not easily acquired, even for seasoned wizards."

"I'm resourceful, Professor Snape," I said, meeting his gaze with unwavering calm. 

"And why, Vincent, would you undertake such a dangerous, unorthodox, ritual?" Dumbledore asked, his voice soft but laced with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. He was probing, searching for the truth that lay beneath my carefully constructed facade.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. This was the moment. The time to reveal a glimpse of the truth, carefully curated, of course, designed to appeal to their sense of duty, their protective instincts.

"The world is a dangerous place, Headmaster," I said, my voice low but firm. "The Triwizard Tournament… the Dark Mark… the whispers of Voldemort's return. These are not idle threats. I'm not naive enough to think I'm invincible. But I refuse to be helpless, to stand by and watch as those I care about are put in danger. I undertook the rune ritual because I wanted to be stronger, more capable, more able to protect… those I care about."

I let the words hang in the air, a carefully crafted plea for understanding, a subtle manipulation of their emotions. I knew Dumbledore valued love, loyalty, the bonds of friendship. And while my motives were far more complex, far more self-serving, than mere protection, a touch of truth wouldn't hurt.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Dumbledore's face. He glanced at McGonagall, a silent exchange passing between them. Snape, his face a mask of disdain, seemed unconvinced. Flitwick, however, his gaze sharp and intelligent, studied me with a newfound curiosity.

Dumbledore sighed, a long, weary sigh that seemed to echo the weight of his years.

"Vincent," he said, his voice gentle but firm, "your desire to protect those you care about is… admirable. But power, as you must know, is a double-edged sword. It can be used for good or for ill. And the path you've chosen… it's a dangerous one. The pursuit of power, even for noble reasons, can lead to dark places, to choices that have… irreversible… consequences."

He paused, his blue eyes twinkling with an unnerving intensity. "Be careful, Vincent. Don't let your ambition, your thirst for power, consume you."

I nodded, my expression solemn. "I understand, Headmaster."

"You are dismissed, Mr. Van Doren," Dumbledore said, a hint of weariness in his voice.

I rose from my seat, my muscles tense, the runes beneath my skin tingling with a restless energy.

I turned to leave, but just as I reached the door, Professor Flitwick's voice stopped me.

"Mr. Van Doren," he said, his voice sharp but kind, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. "That spell you used during the First Task… the one that… neutralized… the dragon. It was… most impressive. Quite unlike any lightning charm I've encountered. Would you be willing to… demonstrate… it for me sometime? For purely academic purposes, of course."

I hesitated, calculating the risks and rewards of revealing more of my abilities.

"Of course, Professor Flitwick," I replied, my tone carefully neutral. "I'd be happy to share my… knowledge… with you."

"Excellent," Flitwick said, beaming. "Just let me know when you're free."

I nodded, a slight smile touching my lips as I exited the office, leaving behind a silence that felt heavy with unspoken questions and lingering suspicions. The interrogation, it seemed, was far from over. But I'd played my part, revealed just enough of the truth to appease their concerns, to keep them from probing too deeply.

For now, anyway, Hell would break loose in June.

(Dumbledore's POV)

I watched Vincent Van Doren exit my office, his back straight, his footsteps measured, the runes etched onto his skin a silent reminder of the power that simmered beneath the surface.

The boy was a puzzle, a tapestry of contradictions woven together with a thread of darkness. He possessed extraordinary talent, a natural aptitude for magic that surpassed even the most gifted of Hogwarts students. He was intelligent, strategic, and ruthlessly efficient in his pursuit of his goals.

But what truly set him apart, what truly unnerved me, was his unwavering control, his ability to mask his emotions, to deflect even Severus's attempts at Legilimency.

He was like Tom Riddle, in many ways. Brilliant. Ambitious. Ruthless. But there was a crucial difference, a glimmer of hope that I clung to – Vincent had friends. Real friends. Loyal friends. He wasn't a solitary figure, driven by a thirst for power that consumed all else. He had a connection to Daphne Greengrass, a young woman from a respected pureblood family. And their bond, as evidenced by that rather… public… display of affection during the Second Task, was more than just a strategic alliance.

And there it was, the crux of the matter. Vincent, unlike Tom, wasn't consumed by darkness. There was a flicker of light within him, a spark of humanity that gave me hope. He might possess the same ambition, the same potential for power, as Tom. But perhaps, with the right guidance, with the right support, he could choose a different path.

(Vincent's POV)

As I walked down the corridor, a surge of exhilaration coursed through me. I'd navigated the interrogation, deflected their suspicions, played the part of the ambitious, but ultimately well-intentioned, young wizard. They were watching me, of course. But for now, I had bought myself some time. Time to consolidate my power, to refine my plans, to prepare for the inevitable confrontation.

The Third Task. Voldemort's return. It was all coming together.

The months following the Second Task were a whirlwind of preparation and anticipation. The castle buzzed with gossip and speculation about the upcoming Third Task.

I showed the room to Blaise and Theodore. They were awestruck, their eyes widening as they took in the vast, ever-shifting space that catered to their every need. 

Training with them was… interesting. Blaise had a natural talent for charms and jinxes, his spells often infused with a mischievous spark that made them unpredictable and surprisingly effective. Theodore, on the other hand, favored a more subtle approach, his magic precise and controlled, his knowledge of ancient curses and defensive spells impressive, I also showed that they needed to improve their stamina, showed them a couple of exercises, but we started with running, it was a sight to behold Blaise that had always something to say was breathing heavily.

He looked up at the me and said between ragged breaths "FUCK.YOU", I laughed maybe a little too hard.

I pushed them both, challenging their limits, forcing them to confront their weaknesses, honing their skills until they moved with a grace and efficiency that surprised even themselves. They were getting better, stronger, more confident. But they weren't ready. Not yet.

(Daphne's POV)

The Room of Requirement was a revelation. A hidden world that shifted and morphed to accommodate Vincent's every whim. It was a place of power, of secrets, of raw magic. A place where he let his guard down.

We sparred, our wands flashing, spells colliding in a flurry of sparks and light. He was a relentless teacher, pushing me beyond my limits, forcing me to confront my weaknesses, honing my reflexes and my magic until I moved with a grace and precision I hadn't known I possessed.

He taught me new spells, both conventional and… unconventional. Defensive charms that shimmered with an ethereal beauty, offensive jinxes that crackled with a dangerous energy. He even showed me a few non-verbal spells, his movements fluid and precise, his wand a mere extension of his will.

"You're a natural, Daphne," he'd say, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine. "You just need to… unleash… your power."

We were practicing a particularly tricky disarming charm when I stumbled, my foot catching on the edge of a rug. He caught me before I could fall, his arms encircling my waist, pulling me close. I looked up into his blue eyes, their intensity burning into me.

"Careful, Daphne," he murmured, his voice a breathy whisper against my ear.

"Vincent," I whispered back, my heart pounding against my ribs.

We were so close, our bodies pressed together.

I pressed my lips against his, I was considering that my reward after the hard training session.

"We should… continue our training," he said, his voice regaining its usual brisk efficiency.

"Right," I mumbled, my cheeks burning with a mix of disappointment.

He turned away, heading towards a rack of training dummies that he'd conjured earlier. He shrugged out of his robes, tossing them carelessly onto a nearby chair. I watched, mesmerized, as he stretched, his lean muscles rippling beneath his skin, the runes etched onto his arms and back a testament to the power that coursed within him.

He was practicing a new spell, a complicated shield charm that shimmered with an ethereal blue light. He moved with a grace and power that was both beautiful and terrifying.

I couldn't help but stare, my gaze tracing the lines of his muscles, the intricate patterns of the runes.

"Daphne?" he said, his voice laced with amusement.

I snapped out of my reverie, my face burning with embarrassment. "I... I need to… um…"

"Need to what?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

I couldn't meet his gaze, my cheeks flaming. "I need to go to the… um… library," I stammered, grabbing my bag and practically fleeing the Room, leaving him chuckling softly in my wake.

(Vincent's POV)

The Third Task was a mere month away, and I knew it would be hard. Not because of the challenges. No, it would be hard and probably a bloodbath because of Voldemort. He was coming. And I intended to be ready.

The news of the death of Barty Crouch Sr. had spread through like Fiendfyre, and of course Potter was the one to find the body, but that was irrelevant to me right now.

The Room of Requirement hummed with a quiet energy as I practiced, pushing myself harder than ever before. Speed, strength, spellcasting, strategy – I honed every aspect of my being, transforming myself into a weapon as lethal as any spell, as dangerous as any Dark curse.

But there was one move, one audacious gamble, that I practiced with a relentless intensity that bordered on obsession. A move that could end it all, but also a move that could just as easily backfire, ending me instead.

I conjured a single training dummy, it was a modified version that allowed it to cast one spell and that was Expelliarmus, I stood before the dummy, my wand clutched in my right hand, my pistol tucked beneath my shirt on my back, The move required absolute precision, flawless timing. A split-second miscalculation, and I was dead.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and visualized the scene. The graveyard, the cold moonlight, the stench of fear and anticipation. Voldemort, reborn, his red eyes burning with a cold fury. The Death Eaters, their masks leering.

"Expelliarmus" I whispered, The dummy didn't flinch, of course. And fired back with his own Expelliarmus, the spells collided and we were in a sort of tug of war, of course the dummy wouldn't be near close enough to the strength Voldemort would have and Voldemort would surely cast a killing curse at me not an Expelliarmus, but it was all I had.

While our spells clashed, my left hand snaked beneath my shirt, my fingers finding the familiar grip of the Pistol. And enhanced by the tattoos In almost a blink of an eye I drew, aimed, and fired.

The gunshot echoed through the Room, a sound that felt strangely out of place amidst the hushed whispers of magic. The dummy's head exploded in a shower of splinters and sawdust.

I repeated the move, again and again, until it was etched into my muscle memory.

A symphony of violence, a dance of magic and steel. It was a risky move, relying on surprise, on the unexpected. But I knew, with a certainty that bordered on arrogance, that it could work. Voldemort wouldn't see it coming. He wouldn't expect a gun. He wouldn't expect a Muggle weapon to have any power against his Dark magic.

And that was his weakness. His arrogance. His blind faith in the superiority of magic.

I stood panting, amidst the wreckage of training dummies, the scent of gunpowder mingling with the ozone tang of magic.

The Third Task. Voldemort. The world. They were all waiting. After June 24th my name would be known, and then I could start the next part of my plan.