— Fu-fu-fu, what a bore you are! I'm not just going to barge in on them! I'll scout them out, assess their strength, and then decide what to do next, — he slowly pulled a shiny, antique compass from his pocket and glanced at it. — Well then, I think it's time for me to go. — But before stepping out, he cast one more look at the old man and said: — But I'll be back. I'm very curious about exactly what you know regarding my condition. — And without waiting for an answer, Victor left the shop.
Left alone, Ben began to analyze what had just happened. He had a sacred rule, forged through years of hardship: never interfere in the affairs of others, remaining only an impartial mediator. He sincerely didn't understand why he hadn't turned Victor in or why he had hidden information about him. It was a violation of all his principles.
He sighed heavily and chalked it up to becoming too soft-hearted in his old age. Sitting back down on his creaky bench, he reached for his book, intending to continue reading to distract himself.
But then his eyes fell on the parchment lying at his feet. He had dropped it when the three wizards entered to avoid suspicion. Carefully picking up the parchment, Ben stood up and walked to the board. Just as he was about to pin the notice back up, his gaze fell on Victor's laughing face in the photograph.
Staring at the notice for a few seconds, he let out a weary sigh, and the paper in his hands erupted in orange, searing flames until it turned into fine black ash. Ben's eyes flared as he looked toward the door Victor had recently passed through.
After leaving the shop and looking around, Victor realized the Death Eaters had apparated. He checked the needle on the compass, which pointed stubbornly in one direction, and began apparating in short bursts following the needle until he found them.
In a dark, dilapidated manor that looked so abandoned its roof had caved in, a group of former Death Eaters had set up camp. On the second floor, in a locked room serving as their headquarters, sat the leader of the gang. Before him, hunched over tensely, stood three of his subordinates, who remained nervously silent, avoiding his heavy gaze.
— I don't understand why it's so difficult to find one child! A simple boy with no significant past! Or are we offering too little? Twenty thousand Galleons—is that not enough?
One of the three, gathering his courage, said cautiously:
— Maybe Dumbledore hid him or is keeping him close? I think he might be somewhere in Hogsmeade, under protection.
The leader slammed his hand onto the armrest of his decaying chair, sending a loud, dry crack through the room, and leapt to his feet.
— Then where did the information come from that he's casually strolling through Diagon Alley eating sweets?
— Maybe the informants are lying?
— What, every single one of them? No. They must understand: if their lies are exposed, they won't live long. If we don't find them, Old Ben himself will deal with them for providing misinformation!
— And where is Barry and his friend? He reported that he found him and would bring him in, and it's been three days since they went missing.
— I think they were caught. They were spotted in Diagon Alley too often.
The leader frowned, his face twisting in frustration, and he let out a heavy sigh.
— Contact my brother. Have someone from the families in the Ministry find out if those two are already feeding the Dementors. I want to know! — Suddenly, the crystal ball on the table cracked loudly and began to crumble into tiny shards.
All four jerked back and locked eyes. One of the subordinates whispered in a pale, terrified voice:
— The barrier collapsed! Did Barry give up our location? Have they come for us?!
— Chief, should we apparate?!
But the leader shook his head.
— No. If it were the Aurors, they would have burst in with a bang by now!
The others calmed down, agreeing with their boss.
— Maybe it's just scavengers looking for loot?
— I don't think so; this house has been abandoned for a long time, there's nothing to find here.
Suddenly, a crash echoed from below. Without hesitation, they drew their wands and stepped out of the office.
Nine grim figures—former Death Eaters—were drinking and laughing loudly, discussing something, when suddenly the front door flew off its hinges with a deafening crack and clouds of dust. In the doorway, amidst the debris, Victor appeared—a short silhouette shrouded entirely in black, with a smooth, emotionless red mask on his face. He walked slowly and silently toward them.
— Who are you and why did you barge in here so insolently?! — the leader asked sternly, descending the stairs. His voice boomed.
But the figure in the red mask didn't answer and stood perfectly still, as if carved from stone.
The leader cast a harsh, searing look at the still-stunned wizards who were sitting. Only after feeling that ultimate gaze did they instantly snap to, standing up and nervously drawing their wands, pointing them at the stranger.
— Chief, we saw him in Old Ben's shop, — one of those who had been in the office answered hurriedly.
The leader frowned.
— You two, go outside immediately and check if there's anyone else with him, — he pointed to two mages downstairs.
They nodded and, cautiously bypassing Victor, went outside to scout the area.
— Did Ben send you? Do you have something regarding our contract? — the leader asked, reaching the bottom. Three of his men remained on the landing, looking down at Victor: one wrong move and they were ready to rain down a hail of deadly curses.
Victor finally moved. He took a deep breath, and his voice sounded in a low, hollow rumble, seemingly amplified by the mask itself:
— My name is Darth Vader, and I have something to tell you.
The leader smiled, thinking that something had finally been uncovered about the boy.
— I didn't think Old Ben's shop was already sending messengers. Progress is a good thing, but in the future, don't break our wards and barge in. What do you want to tell us?
Victor raised his hand toward the leader.
— Luke... I am your father.
A deathly silence fell over the manor. The leader frowned.
— What father? What on earth are you talking about?
Victor couldn't hold it in and began to laugh.
— Ha-ha-ha! Sorry, I've just wanted to say that with this voice for a long time! No, I don't have any information. To be honest, I came here to kill you all!
The leader stared at him in shock, then looked at his men, who were still aiming at Victor.
— Then you shouldn't have barged in like this. Kill him!
Following his order, a storm of curses erupted toward Victor. Dozens of spells, most of them carrying the ominous, characteristic green light. But they all simply passed through his body as if he were a ghost.
Victor calmly surveyed the bewildered wizards.
— I believe it's my turn now?
Suddenly, a small metallic object flew out from under his cloak and rolled toward them. The leader looked at what was lying on the floor, and his face turned pale: he knew what it was—muggles call it a grenade.
— Watch out—! — but he didn't have time to shout or activate a shield before the grenade exploded with a deafening, rib-shattering roar, shaking the entire manor to its foundation.
Victor's silhouette began to fade in the air—it turned out to be only a skillful image.
While all the wizards lay on the floor, stunned, disoriented, and concussed—and those closest to the epicenter had died instantly from shrapnel—a triumphant, maniacal cry echoed from the stair landing:
— FBI, OPEN UP, BITCHES! EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND!
And without waiting for an answer, Victor quickly raised two Uzis. He squeezed the triggers, and a steel storm descended upon the room: he began to spray the entire area with fire, his monotonous, maniacal laughter contrasting chillingly with the crackle of gunfire and the screams of the dying.
The leader managed at the last desperate second to dive and hide under the stairs. The rest of the wizards met an instant and merciless death. Since few of them took any interest in the Muggle world, they had no idea what was happening after the explosion: it was the first and last time they would encounter Muggle weaponry.
When both Uzis clicked loudly, signaling empty magazines, Victor exhaled contentedly. He carelessly dropped the submachine guns; the weapons hit the first floor with a heavy metallic clang, concluding the bloody symphony.
Drawing his katana, he began to slowly descend the stairs.
— Now, where is the last bully hiding? Maybe he ran away? No, I don't think so. Maybe he's under the table? No, he's not there either... So where is he?
The leader began to tremble, peering out from under the stairs. He saw chaos: destroyed furniture, the corpses of his subordinates, and finally, the nearest wand, lying four meters away from him.
— Could a little rat be shivering under the stairs? — Victor drawled.
The sound of Victor's footsteps drew closer. The leader realized he was about to reach the bottom. He started thinking of a distraction to reach his wand when he noticed one of the fallen Uzis nearby. As Victor reached the floor, he instantly looked under the stairs.
— I found you.
The leader quickly grabbed the Uzi and instinctively pointed it at Victor.
— Whoa, whoa, easy there, Rambo! You might hurt someone, — Victor smirked.
The leader crawled out from under the stairs, still aiming at Victor.
— Who are you and what do you want?
Victor smiled under his mask.
— Do you even know how to use that thing? Here's a hint: magic has nothing to do with it!
But the leader smiled smugly.
— I hid in the Muggle world for a long time; I know what weapons are.
He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He then frantically pulled it several more times, but the weapon failed to fire. Victor tilted his head.
— Sorry, I think it's out of ammo.
The leader's eyes widened to their limit in horror. Victor had already raised his katana to deliver a final, sundering blow when a spell hit the silver blade, knocking it aside with a piercing ring. Following that, another, stronger curse slammed into Victor, throwing him like a rag doll into the nearby wall.
If not for the protective amulet he was wearing, he would have died instantly. Stunned, lying on a pile of debris, Victor began to reflect on what had gone wrong and realized two things: first, that in his haste, he had grabbed one of the early, defective amulets he had created, and second—he had forgotten about the two who had gone outside to scout the area!
— Chief, are you alright?! — they ran up to the leader.
— I'm fine! Dammit, where did this MIDGET come from?! — the leader shouted, furiously kicking the prone Victor, whom he presumed dead. — CURSE IT! He killed everyone! Take off his mask! I want to see who this freak is!
— Yes, Chief! — One of the mages approached Victor, flipped him onto his back, and just as he was about to pull off the mask, he suddenly felt his body go numb, refusing to obey.
— Chief! — the other wizard cried out in astonishment as he saw a small, bloodied hand with long, sharp claws emerge from his comrade's back. Just as he was pointing his wand toward this gruesome hand, a green bolt hit him, and he fell dead.
The leader, who was raising his wand, heard the scream, spun around, and aimed at Victor.
— JUST DIE ALREADY!
Victor instantly ducked behind the body, using it as a human shield, and prepared to counterattack immediately after the strike. He gripped the wand he had taken from the corpse. But after a moment, the strike never came.
Peering cautiously from behind the corpse, he saw the leader lying on the floor, and standing over him was Old Ben, holding a wand and looking tiredly at Victor.
Victor pushed the body away and lay on the ground, spreading his arms.
— Just so you know, I could have handled it myself!