After finishing his business at the manor, Victor returned home. It was six in the morning. He sat in his second-floor office, leaning back in a deep armchair, watching through the window as the sun slowly rose over the horizon, softly outlining the silhouettes of the rooftops. The first golden rays pierced through the glass, cutting through the morning gloom of the room.
His thoughts were interrupted by a low, painful groan.
— Mmm... where am I? — Oscar croaked.
The leader of the now-defunct group of Death Eaters woke up on the cold wooden floor. His gaze, blurred and disoriented, darted around. The room was small and cramped: the walls were covered from floor to ceiling by massive shelves overflowing with books. Finally, his gaze focused on the heavy desk and the motionless figure in the armchair. Previously, he would have been delighted to see this boy, but now, the mere sight of Victor sent an icy shiver through Oscar's body.
— Finally awake? — Victor smiled without changing his posture. — Don't be shy, take a seat. Just don't pass out again, please. You snore quite loudly.
Oscar frowned darkly. Gathering the remnants of his will and ignoring the piercing pain throughout his body, he attempted to apparate. The air around him merely flickered, and a flash of despair distorted his face.
— It won't work, — Victor chuckled softly. — I really liked the protection you put on your manor. Especially that contour that blocks movement in both directions. I copied it for myself. So give it up and sit in the chair. Stop sprawling on the floor.
Rising with a groan, Oscar hesitated but eventually sat down across from Victor.
— Haaa! And what do you want? I'll tell you right now: I'm not giving up anything. I'm under a curse. My employers value anonymity, and if I speak—I'm a corpse.
Victor smirked.
— You aren't under any curse; I checked. And don't worry, I don't need your confessions. I can guess well enough who is behind this.
— Then why am I here? — Oscar gripped the armrests.
Victor leaned forward slowly, resting his elbows on the polished surface of the desk.
— Oh, this is the most interesting part, my friend!
Into his palm, as if on command, flew a dimly shimmering silver sphere the size of a Snitch. Oscar didn't take his strained eyes off it.
— What is that?
Victor tilted his head, and his smile widened, taking on a hint of childish delight.
— A dangerous and very elegant little thing. I created it out of boredom. For now, it's just a trinket, a toy. But once swallowed, it turns into... — he paused, piercing Oscar with his gaze. — Regardless, let's leave that for later. I don't think you're ready yet.
— Ready for what?! — Oscar shouted.
But Victor only giggled, not answering. Oscar spat through gritted teeth:
— I won't swallow that. Torture me all you want.
Victor acted offended.
— Torture? What are you talking about! I'm not a monster. I promise: there will be no torture.
He sighed, meeting the wizard's heavy stare.
— Come on, don't look at me like that. Sometimes I cross certain lines, but at heart, I still consider myself a good guy.
— Think what you want. I won't touch that filth.
— I'm not forcing you, — Victor carelessly pushed the silver sphere aside as if it had lost all value. — Forget about it. Let's just talk for a bit instead.
Victor's voice became soft and enveloping. If Oscar hadn't been so focused on the strange object, he might have noticed a faint, eerie red glint flash deep within Victor's dilated pupils.
By noon, Oscar left the house. Stepping onto the street, he stopped abruptly. His hand reached into his pocket of its own accord and pulled out the metallic sphere. Oscar stared at it for a long time with glassy eyes, then clenched his fist tight, hiding it back away, and walked off quickly.
Victor watched him from the second-floor window. With a tired sigh, he went to a shelf and pulled out a battered notebook. Sitting at the desk, he began to write:
Subject №3, Wizard.
Applied light hypnosis and Occlumency, previously blocking undesirable thoughts. The process took about five hours, which is significantly less than Subject №1, where only suggestion was used.
Result:
Victor smiled and set the pen down.
— It needs time. If it works, I'll dive into this more seriously. If not... well, I'll have problems up to my neck. — He gave a smug smile. — Science requires sacrifices.
He flipped the notebook to the first page:
Subject:Abigail Taylor, Psychologist, 27 years old. Goal: alter moral principles through suggestion. Task: lead to the commission of murder.
— I wonder how she's doing, — Victor closed the notebook and gave a sweet yawn. — Seems it's time for some rest. Occlumency really drains the life out of you.
He slept for fourteen hours. Until the next morning, he was awakened by the demanding meowing of Crookshanks, who was clearly asking for food.
But not everyone had such a peaceful night: at the site of the burnt-to-the-ground manor, chaos reigned. The area was cordoned off by a group of Aurors, among whom the battered but invariably imposing silhouette of Alastor Moody stood out most of all.
Moody, his prosthetic leg creaking, stood at the very edge of the ashes. His magical eye spun constantly, scanning the charred, blackened remains of the house.
Suddenly, the air beside him rippled softly, and a tall silhouette appeared.
— Alastor, my friend, it is good to see you, — Dumbledore said warmly.
— Hello, Albus, — Moody grunted.
— So, what is this urgent matter that required my personal presence?
Moody finally turned to him.
— Go in there and see for yourself.
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow slightly and headed toward the ruins. Only four warped walls remained of the manor. He realized immediately that everything else had been removed intentionally. His heart sank: he could clearly sense the magical trail—the fire that burned here had been Fiendfyre.
He stepped across the threshold of the surviving doorway, and the heavy scent of soot hit his nose. Dumbledore stopped.
Right in the center, in a geometrically precise circle, lay twelve bodies. The fire had spared them just enough to turn them into gruesome statues of soot and flesh. They lay with their feet pointing outward, and their left arms were unnaturally extended and intertwined in the center. Most importantly, the arms had been left untouched on purpose. And on each wrist was drawn the skull and snake—the mark that once sent paralyzing terror throughout all of wizarding England: the Dark Mark of the Death Eaters.
Dumbledore remained silent for a long time, staring at this macabre pattern. Finally, he slowly turned to Moody, who was already standing behind him, leaning on his staff.
— Alastor, what happened here?
— Looks like someone found these Death Eaters and decided to take the law into their own hands, — Moody was incensed. He hated Voldemort and his followers with all his soul, but he categorically rejected such methods. — Albus, this isn't just a murder. He built an altar out of them. Some mad bastard has decided he's God and judge all in one.
Dumbledore shook his head, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the light.
— It isn't an altar, Alastor.
— Then what is it? — Moody struck his staff against the ground.
— A message, — Dumbledore looked back at the tangled arms. — A letter of sorts.
— A letter to whom? To whoever hired them? Or to us?
— I fear it will only be understood by the one it is intended for. But one thing I know for certain: the author of this "piece" isn't looking for justice. I think he was enjoying himself.
Moody gripped his staff.
— Albus, we need to catch this wizard as soon as possible! I'm asking for your help.
— Do not worry, — Dumbledore replied firmly. — I will endeavor to find out who this is. And I promise you: he will face the punishment he deserves. Regardless of his motives, he has committed murder.
Dumbledore took one last quick but careful look at the scene, exchanged a few final important remarks with Moody, and apparated away.
Appearing in his office, he wasted no time and set to work. He immediately drafted and sealed letters for his most trusted agents operating in Knockturn Alley. Yes, a man like Albus Dumbledore always had eyes and ears in all the dark corners of the wizarding world. Having sent the letters, Dumbledore slowly returned to his desk. He could only wait and hope that his secret informants could provide some kind of lead before this mysterious wizard made his next move.