Blinded, battered, but not beaten, the Basilisk slithered toward the sound of footfalls—the steady, measured splashes of a hunter closing in. It could no longer see, but it felt. Vibrations through the stone, water shifting around a moving body. The boy was circling.
It struck—fast, low, wide.
Nothing.
The footsteps pivoted, fast, wrong direction. A sudden shift in water pressure. It twisted to intercept, only for pain to slam down on its back.
Twin blows, perfectly timed, drove into its spine—rods, amplified by some potion. The pulse ignited through its body, turning impact into devastation. Bone groaned, flesh tore. The recoil sent a shockwave into the flooded chamber, blasting up a wall of water. Even the air shuddered with the strike.
The Basilisk reeled, a guttural hiss escaping its throat. It coiled, instinctively curling around the pain.
Then came the shock. A second pulse—rebound. Something echoed back toward the attacker.
It tried to retaliate, lashing out with its tail. But the boy had moved—again. Another splash, this time behind it. A fast slide, then a sharp pause.
The Basilisk twisted violently toward the noise—but missed again. Its senses were being toyed with. The water's movement, the faint clatter of shifting metal, even the boy's breathing—they came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Too many directions. Too much motion.
Then a voice, low and infuriatingly calm:
"Now that I can see you, you're actually a bit slower than the Willow."
The Basilisk hissed, baring its fangs in fury.
It lashed, wide, but the footfalls had already changed position. The human ducked under the sweep, rolled, then surged upward—close. Too close.
Pain again.
Underbelly. Jawline. Something sharp slashed across its side. One rod struck just behind the fang ridge, another jabbed into its lower neck—then vanished. It tried to coil around him, but its body faltered. Its movements felt… sluggish.
Another strike.
Then another.
The boy was weaving through every gap in its defence, easily guiding the fight as if he had choreographed it.
And it couldn't see him. Could only feel him in fragments.
For the first time in its long life, the Basilisk—Slytherin's beast—knew confusion. Not rage, not pain—confusion. The unreal horror of being hunted by a thing that should've been prey.
And the boy—he just kept coming.
…
"I don't have anything on me that can actually take this thing down," Vincent thought grimly as he slid beneath a sweeping tail, slashing upward with his potion knife. A shallow gash tore across the Basilisk's underbelly, drawing a furious hiss. He didn't stop—his free hand hurled a rod straight into the serpent's temple. The beast's head snapped back violently from the amplified impact, a deep crack echoing through the chamber.
"I could kill it, maybe—if I had time. But Riddle's still up there, with Harry and Ron."
Vincent took a shaky breath, steeling himself.
"I have no choice. Gotta go for the head."
He darted forward, narrowly dodging a retaliatory strike. With quick steps, he climbed the serpent's coiling body and launched himself at its skull, stabbing down with his knife. The blade sank in—but barely.
"As expected... not deep enough—!"
The Basilisk shrieked and thrashed, trying desperately to throw him off. It twisted and slammed into the walls, scraping its sides against the stone, its movements panicked and erratic. Still, Vincent held on.
With a furious hiss, the Basilisk surged upward.
Vincent's eyes widened. "Oh come on—"
They crashed through the ceiling with a deafening explosion of stone and steel. Pipes burst and water rained down in sheets. Vincent threw up his free arm, grunting as a chunk of rubble slammed into his elbow. His knife hand nearly slipped—but he held on.
As they reached the upper chamber, Vincent spotted Riddle—and used the chaos.
He jumped, twisting mid-air toward the dark-haired boy.
"Will people stop interrupting me for one li—"
A foot smashed into the back of Riddle's head, sending him flying across the floor. Ron pounced, snatching Ginny's wand and booting Riddle aside. The phantom exploded into black mist—only to reform beside the Basilisk, glaring with disbelief.
"You're still alive?" Riddle snarled.
"Screw you," Vincent muttered, stumbling toward the others. "Hey, guys. Long time no—ow. Hurts to talk."
"Vince?!" Harry's face lit up—then fell into horror.
"What the bloody hell happened to you?" Ron asked, blanching.
Vincent looked like a corpse. His hoodie hung in shreds, barely covering a chest crisscrossed with bleeding cuts. His right arm dangled uselessly, the elbow swollen and discolored. His face bore a jagged gash from temple to jaw, still leaking blood.
"I've been fighting a bloody giant snake," he rasped, coughing.
"Don't just stand there! Kill them!" Riddle barked in Parseltongue, and the Basilisk surged forward.
Vincent spotted something—gleaming silver. The sword.
"Harry!"
Harry blinked, then followed Vincent's gaze. He tossed him the sword. Vincent caught it with his left hand, the only limb still working properly. Glancing at the pouch in Ron's hand, an idea began to form.
"I've got a plan," he said, jaw clenched. "You two aren't gonna like it."
After a brief, frantic exchange, Harry looked pale. Ron looked downright sick.
"You're insane," Ron muttered. "Proper mental."
"Only one shot," Vincent said, stepping behind them. "Ready?"
The Basilisk lunged.
Vincent dove to the side. The serpent's jaws closed around Harry and Ron, swallowing them whole in a single gulp.
"..."
"..."
Riddle laughed so hard he doubled over. "You fed them to it! What kind of plan—"
But the Basilisk began to slow. Something was wrong.
Riddle's smile vanished.
The serpent twisted, turned—and opened its mouth again.
Inside, Harry was bracing the roof of its jaw with his shielded arm, barely holding it open. Ron clung to him, breathless—but alive. The pouch was gone.
"NO!" Riddle yelled, realizing too late.
…
What happens when interdimensional space collapses?
What happens when it fails—when the pocket that holds a different reality simply ceases to exist?
What becomes of the materials stored inside?
These are questions often debated in magical theory, especially in the context of portable storage—like pouches, trunks, and enchanted bags. The answers, however, are rarely simple.
In the Muggle world, such concepts are considered fantasy. In the wizarding world, they are dangerous and real.
Interdimensional storage—what many refer to as "pocket space"—is not a singular spell, but a category of spatial magic. Its behaviour depends on the enchantments woven into it, the materials used, and the intent of the caster. Some are stable, others temperamental. A few are even deliberately volatile.
Vincent's pouch was one of Sister An's own designs. A stitched leather sack layered with five different containment charms; it had served him well for months. But it had a catch—something even he hadn't fully tested.
It was not made to be digested.
The Basilisk's stomach, saturated with ancient corrosive enzymes, crushed the pouch with an unnatural pressure and magical resistance unlike anything the item was designed to withstand. The moment the spatial field collapsed, the dimensional boundary shattered—like a balloon under a nail.
And then came the result.
A violent burst of compressed magical energy ruptured from the tear, forcibly ejecting everything inside the pouch in a chaotic surge of momentum. Potions—dozens of them—exploded outward within the Basilisk's gut, each reacting to the extreme environment. Healing draughts, explosive concoctions, binding agents, sleeping potions—liquids designed to be carefully dosed and measured—were now slamming into one another, mixing, igniting, destabilizing.
It wasn't just an explosion. It was an internal chain reaction of magical reactions in a living body.
Not even the Basilisk, with its extraordinarily resilient digestive system, was able to withstand such chaos.
It buckled. Its movements grew sluggish. A shudder ran through its spine as it hissed in pain and confusion. The inside of its body burned, froze, crackled, and spasmed under conflicting enchantments.
…
"Harry, Ron—go!" Vincent shouted.
Harry immediately dispelled the shield with a flick, and both boys leapt from the Basilisk's gaping jaws. Ron's robe snagged on a tooth, nearly dragging him back, but he tore free just in time.
"NO!" Riddle roared, materializing beside Vincent in a blur, reaching for his throat—
—but Harry tackled him mid-lunge, dragging him away with sheer force.
Vincent didn't waste the moment. He jumped, gritting his teeth through the pain, and drove the silver sword down into the Basilisk's skull.
The serpent let out a final, tortured hiss, its body seizing in a massive convulsion. Its thrashing tail hurled Harry and Ron aside like rag dolls, but Vincent clung to the hilt, buried deep in the creature's skull. The sword hummed with residual magic as the Basilisk gave one last, mighty shudder… then collapsed. Its massive body hit the chamber floor with a thunderous crash, sending ripples through the surrounding pools.
The chamber went eerily still.
Vincent panted, every breath stabbing like broken glass in his lungs.
Then—
"You filthy little Muggle!" Riddle howled, reappearing beside him, his spectral hands closing around Vincent's neck.
But something went wrong.
With a clean, fluid motion, Vincent sliced through both arms. Riddle's hands hit the stone floor with a dull slap.
The shade reeled back, blinking in disbelief. "B–but how?!" he gasped, materializing further away. "When Potter used that blade—it didn't even leave a mark—!"
Vincent stepped off the Basilisk, dragging the sword behind him.
"Guys!" he called hoarsely. "Take this. Destroy the diary—it's what's keeping him here."
He tossed the sword to Ron, who caught it with trembling hands.
"I've got unfinished business," Vincent muttered darkly, rolling his shoulders.
"Wha—?!"
Riddle barely had time to react before a brutal left hook smashed into his face, sending him flying across the chamber.
"I can't shift—!" Riddle realized in panic, reappearing half-phased, unable to vanish fully as he had before.
"That's strange," Vincent said, walking calmly toward him. "You're not using your little disappearing trick."
He raised his foot and stomped down hard on Riddle's skull. The phantom's head cracked against the stone with a satisfying crunch. "Could it be," Vincent mused, grinding his heel in, "that cutting off your arms somehow messed with your soul's structure? That's convenient."
Riddle screamed—actual pain, real and raw. It shouldn't have been possible. But Vincent didn't care. He pressed the assault, fists, knees, and feet raining down on the ghostly boy's form with savage precision.
Harry and Ron could only watch, speechless. Riddle was supposed to be untouchable, a memory given form, something no spell could destroy. Yet here he was—being beaten.
Maybe it was due to damage he received, and maybe that damaged caused his current form to destabilise. Whatever the reason however, one thing was for certain.
Riddle felt pain, a lot of it.
Harry finally stirred and turned, running toward Ginny, who lay unconscious across the chamber. She still had the diary. Ron followed, one hand clenching the sword, the other clutching his ribs.
Behind them, Vincent's voice echoed.
"That was for Hermione. Colin. All the kids you Petrified."
Another stomp.
"That was for Myrtle. For her death, as well as others."
Another blow.
"That was for Hagrid—for ruining his life with a lie."
The chamber echoed with every impact.
"That was for Ginny—for violating her mind and twisting her will."
Vincent's voice dropped to a whisper, breath ragged.
"And this—is—for—all—the—crap—you—put—me—through."
Each word was punctuated with another brutal stomp. Riddle finally screamed—high, wretched, inhuman.
A glow began to pulse from his chest. The shape of a hole, radiant and trembling, formed at the centre of his body.
Vincent knelt beside him, panting.
"I don't know if your real self will remember this," he said, locking eyes with the stunned shade. "But just in case…"
Golden eyes met void-like ones. A pause.
Vincent gave a crooked, blood-smeared smile.
"I win. You lose."
Riddle's mouth opened, face twisting in rage—
"My real self will ki—!"
And then he burst into a column of golden light, vanishing mid-sentence—erased.
Vincent stood there for a moment, swaying slightly. His legs buckled once before he caught himself. He stumbled toward the tunnel's mouth, ignoring the trembling in his limbs.
He didn't make it far.
A sharp pain bloomed in his gut, and he collapsed.
But he didn't hit the floor.
Someone caught him—small arms, trembling, warm. He blinked up through hazy vision to see red hair, tear-filled eyes, and a trembling lower lip.
"Ginny...?" he croaked.
She nodded, unable to speak.
Vincent smiled, exhaustion finally overtaking him.
"Had a good nap, Ginny?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I think... I'll have one too."
Darkness wrapped around him like a blanket, soft and complete.
…
…
Snape sat silently in the dim light of the Hospital Wing, eyes fixed on the unconscious, magicless boy resting in the bed before him.
"Overdosing on potions," he muttered under his breath, arms crossed. "At worst, death. At best? Crippling pain. Most suffer effects not unlike a diluted Cruciatus—nerve strain, internal ruptures, spasms. And this one... he's taken more than twenty in less than a day, judging by the state of him."
His gaze lingered on Vincent's pale, bruised face—barely recognizable under the mess of bandages, swelling, and dried blood.
Snape let out a sharp sigh and rose to his feet. He's not my patient. Poppy's the nurse, not me.
Still, he didn't walk away immediately.
"All this boy knows is chaos," he thought bitterly. "So long as he keeps it away from me—"
"Mnn... Professor?"
Snape froze.
Vincent's eyes had fluttered open, unfocused and heavy-lidded. His voice, when he spoke, was distant and drowsy—dreamlike. Luna Lovegood herself would've been impressed.
"Do I add the Wicksprout first... or the Billypalm oil?"
Snape's mouth twitched in exasperation. Still brewing potions in his sleep... He answered briskly, out of habit.
"Billypalm."
"Mnn... thanks, Professor..." Vincent mumbled, voice trailing off as he drifted again. But then, softer still, came words that made Snape pause at the threshold.
"Always so stiff... but kind... I wonder... if that's what a parent would be like..."
Snape turned slightly, his expression unreadable as he looked back. Vincent had already sunk back into slumber.
Without a word, Snape returned to the bedside and tugged the blanket over the boy's shoulder. He lingered only a second longer before straightening sharply and making for the door.
"Ah—Professor Sna—" Madam Pomfrey appeared at the entrance, blinking as Snape swept past her without slowing.
"Professor, are you—?"
"Don't you have patients to attend to?" he snapped coldly, not sparing her a glance.
She blinked after him, shrugged, and moved on.
Snape continued down the corridor, cloak billowing, face unreadable—save for a flicker of something rare. Something almost melancholy.
A troublemaker indeed, he thought grimly, descending toward the dungeons.
But for once, he didn't seem quite so bothered by it.
…
Vincent woke with a start, eyes flicking around the Hospital Wing in alarm before he let out a long breath and sank back into the pillows.
"Ah, Mr. Wong. You're finally awake," came a familiar voice.
He turned his head toward the doorway to see Madam Pomfrey approaching with her usual briskness. "You were in quite the state—serious injuries, and you overdosed on potions, no less."
Vincent let out a small chuckle and looked around the nearly empty ward. "So... all the petrified students are cured, then?"
"Yes, every single one," she said with a relieved smile. "Back on their feet like nothing happened." She suddenly clapped her hands together. "Ah—that reminds me!"
She bustled off without another word, leaving Vincent alone in the bright morning light streaming through the windows. Moments later, she returned pushing a trolley overflowing with parcels, sweets, and cards.
Vincent blinked at the pile. "All this... for me?"
He began sifting through the gifts, brow raising with amusement.
//Harry—Here are some Chocolate Frogs. Get well soon, man//
//Ron—Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Has every flavour imaginable. Worst. Plan. Ever. Get well soon//
Vincent snorted softly at that one, before his eyes landed on a neater package with familiar handwriting.
He opened Luna's gift and pulled out a black-and-blue checkered scarf, along with a necklace made entirely of bottle caps. He laughed softly as he read her note.
//Luna—You'll be fine. That charm will keep the Nargles away. I didn't get you a Christmas present, so I hope a scarf is okay//
Next came a parcel marked in Hermione's precise handwriting.
//Hermione—Get well, Vince. It's a bit late—I mean, I was petrified—but here's your very late Christmas gift//
Inside were several of Hermione's old, well-worn notebooks—filled margin to margin with class notes, diagrams, and carefully annotated references. To anyone else, they'd look like school clutter. To Vincent, it was a treasure trove.
"That's so Hermione…" he murmured fondly. He knew she probably would've bought something proper if she'd had the time. Even so, the thoughtfulness showed. Hidden between the books was a pair of sleek, fingerless silver gloves. Vincent blinked, surprised, then grinned.
One by one, he opened the rest. Then he froze.
A heart-covered basket practically burst with vials—pink, purple, glittering red. A mess of letters surrounded it.
//XXX—Get better soon//
//Promise these aren't love potions (probably)//
//GIVE ME YOUR BA—//
Vincent shut the card halfway through, a cold sweat sliding down his back. He quickly shoved the basket aside, pretending he'd never seen it.
Then came a light parcel wrapped in plain brown paper. The attached letter read:
//To Vincent Wong—Thank you so very much for saving our daughter. We hoped to thank you in person, but that will have to wait. Perhaps at the train station. Please accept this small token of our appreciation//
//Signed, The Weasleys//
//P.S. You will always be welcome in our home//
Vincent carefully opened the package and pulled out a soft, black hand-knitted jumper. The sleeves each bore a stitched blue "V."
He noticed another package that he hadn't opened and reached for it, taking a look at the card.
//It felt wrong to throw it away... I thought maybe you'd want it back. I also didn't get you any Christmas present. It's silly, but it's something. Thank you for saving me//
It wasn't signed, but he could guess where it was from. With a small grin on his face, he opened the package to find his torn hoodie, or at least, it was torn the last time he saw it. Now? It was patched up nicely, looking almost brand new.
He ran a hand across the fabric, quietly taking in the gift.
"Vincent."
He looked up.
Dumbledore stood at the doorway, hands folded in front of him, blue eyes twinkling softly behind his half-moon spectacles.
"Professor," Vincent said, shifting his legs off the bed. He managed a smile. "How're those socks working out for you?"
"Bit itchy at first," Dumbledore replied with a chuckle, "but they eventually fit—as all things do."
He crossed the room and took the seat beside Vincent's bed. For a while, they simply sat there, sunlight washing over the floor.
Then Dumbledore pulled out a small wrapper. "Lemon Squat?"
Vincent raised an eyebrow but accepted it, popping it into his mouth. Tart and sweet. He gave a faint nod of approval.
Only then did Dumbledore speak again, voice gentle.
"You've been through a great deal, Vincent. More than most witches or wizards—more than any Muggle should ever have to endure. You nearly died this year."
Vincent didn't reply. He just stared out the window, silent, as the candy slowly dissolved on his tongue.
"The Wizarding World is not as wondrous as it may seem, Vincent," Dumbledore said quietly, his voice carrying a rare weight. "Where there is light, there is always shadow. And in our world, that darkness waits—lurking in corners, hiding behind wonder and whimsy. If you choose to remain, if you walk this path any further... that darkness will find you. It will try to consume you."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes steady and searching.
"So I must ask you again: are you prepared for that?"
Vincent turned his head, letting the silence settle between them as he stared out the hospital window. For a moment, he caught his own reflection—tired eyes, bandaged cheek, cracked lips—and then looked beyond it.
He took in the view: Hagrid's hut resting quietly in the distance, the edge of the Forbidden Forest stretching like shadowed teeth toward the horizon, the still surface of the Black Lake reflecting the early sun. And towering above it all, and in addition to where he resided, the castle—Hogwarts—bathed in gold and morning mist.
A picture-perfect scene… and yet so real it ached.
He looked down at his hands—scratched, bruised, stained from the battle not long past.
"Every night, I threw myself onto the streets," Vincent said, voice low but steady. "Again and again, just to be useful to someone—anyone—who needed help. I'd get hurt, and Sister An would patch me up like it was routine. Never scolded me, just… kept fixing me."
He smiled faintly.
"I'm grateful to her. Anyone else would've tossed me into an asylum by now."
Dumbledore said nothing, but his gaze softened. There was a flicker of sorrow there—brief, but unmistakable.
Vincent continued, "This past year has been... incredible. I'm actually in school. I've made friends. I've learned more than I ever thought I would. I've lived more than I thought possible."
His eyes remained on the window, now shimmering with quiet determination.
"This place—this castle—it reminded me of the night you first appeared to me," he said. "That light, that strange magic you brought... it didn't just open a door. It told me there was beauty in the world. That there is light, and that it's real."
He looked down, gripping the edge of the blanket in his lap.
"I want to find more of that light. I want to protect it. Share it—like you did, that night."
Then he looked up—meeting Dumbledore's eyes directly, gold meeting blue.
"So, my answer is simple," Vincent said. "No matter how dark this world may be… I still want to be part of it… to find my own light to share with others."
Dumbledore smiled warmly, placing a gentle hand on Vincent's shoulder and giving it a small, reassuring squeeze before rising to his feet. He took a few steps past the bed, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Do you remember what I told you all those years ago?"
Vincent gave a quiet nod.
…
Vincent had been only seven, small and uncertain, standing on the steps of Sister An's residence as the old man prepared to leave. At that point in time, it had not yet been turned into an orphanage. The sun had just begun to set, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. He had clutched the frayed edge of his shirt with trembling hands, then called out with a shaky voice:
"Is there no way for me to be a wizard?"
Dumbledore had paused mid-step, then slowly turned to face him.
"While not everyone can be a wizard—"
…
"—Anyone can be a hero," Vincent said aloud, his voice steady.
"—But while anyone can be a hero—" Dumbledore continued without missing a beat.
"—a good person is what this world needs," Vincent finished.
"—Not wizards," Dumbledore added softly.
"—Or Muggles."
"—But—"
"—A good person," they both said together.
Silence followed for a moment, quiet but full.
Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling with something deeper than pride.
"I hope you'll always remain that," he said gently. "A good person."
He gave Vincent one last smile before turning toward the door of the Hospital Wing. As he reached the threshold, he stopped and looked back once more.
"Oh, I nearly forgot," he said, scratching his beard with an air of absentminded mischief.
"It would seem Gryffindor won the house cup this year, just… don't tell anyone I said that to you."
Vincent said nothing, still sucking on the lemon sweet Dumbledore had given him.
"...So sour," he thought, squinting slightly—then smiled.
…
"OI! Vince!"
Vincent had barely stepped out of the Hospital Wing when something massive collided with him like a runaway Hippogriff. He tensed up.
"AHH, HEL—oh. Hey, Hagrid."
He relaxed instantly, hugging the half-giant back as Hagrid chuckled, still squeezing the life out of him.
"Didn' think I was a monster, did ya?" Hagrid grinned, ruffling Vincent's hair like he always did.
"When did you get back?" Vincent asked, catching his breath.
"Night before last," Hagrid replied, folding his arms proudly. "Whole school's been buzzin'. Said the heir of Slytherin was stopped—and that you were at the center of it all."
Vincent blinked. "So… I really was out that long?"
"Two full days, lad," Hagrid said, giving him a hearty slap on the back that nearly made him stumble. "And trust me, everyone's heard by now. Yer a hero."
Vincent froze. "Wait—the whole school?"
That much became painfully clear as he made his way through the halls toward the Gryffindor common room. Students turned, whispering in hushed voices, sending stolen glances his way. Some looked amazed. Others looked… mildly terrified. Vincent scratched his head, trying to ignore the attention.
When he finally reached the portrait entrance, he paused.
"Password?" asked the Fat Lady.
Vincent gave her a sheepish smile. "Er… I've been in the Hospital Wing. I have no idea."
The Fat Lady peered at him, her stern expression softening. Of course she had heard what he'd done.
"...Just this once," she said, and swung open.
Vincent blinked. "Thank you, Miss."
As he stepped inside, the Common Room fell into sudden silence.
Dozens of heads turned. A beat passed.
"Hi—"
"VINCENT'S BACK!" someone shouted—and the room exploded into cheers.
"How'd you do it?!"
"Did you really fight a Basilisk?!"
"Can I have your au—"
"—Give me your ba—"
"WHAT WAS IT LIKE?!"
Vincent laughed nervously, weaving through the crowd as more and more questions were hurled at him. He finally spotted the familiar trio in the corner.
"Excuse me—coming through—pardon me—"
He made it to them just in time to be tackled by a bushy-haired blur. Hermione threw her arms around him tightly, nearly knocking him off his feet. She pulled back, eyes watery, smiling.
"Welcome back, Vincent," she said softly.
Harry and Ron grinned as they each clapped a hand on his shoulders. But their grins quickly flattened into glares.
"Never—" Harry started.
"Ever—" Ron continued.
"Make a plan like that again," they said in unison, deadpan.
Vincent gave a weak chuckle and rubbed the back of his head. "I, uh… have no defence. That was definitely a heat-of-the-moment plan."
Ron folded his arms. "You could've at least told us what was in your pouch before handing it off!"
"Huh?" Vincent blinked. "What happened?"
Harry stepped in. "When Nyx gave me the glove, she also gave Ron your pouch—mostly filled with Sleep Potions. But when we checked inside…"
"There was a Pulse Potion mixed in!" Ron said, clearly still not over it. "I panicked, dropped it, and half the tunnel collapsed behind me. Almost didn't make it to the fight."
"...Seriously?" Vincent looked at Ron, half-impressed.
"I still threw the pouch into the Basilisk's mouth!" Ron huffed. "Give me some credit!"
The three laughed, but the moment didn't last. Two familiar arms suddenly hoisted Vincent into the air.
"Let's give it up for Vincent!" Fred roared.
"The Mad Scientist!" George followed.
"The Magic Chef!"
Vincent groaned at the nicknames but laughed anyway as the Common Room erupted into celebration once again. It was loud, chaotic, and exhausting—but warm. For once, he didn't mind being in the centre of it all.
…
The final weeks of term flew by. Hogwarts returned to its usual rhythm, with a few notable differences.
Defense Against the Dark Arts classes were abruptly cancelled. As Vincent learned from the whispers in the halls, Lockhart had apparently been ordered to investigate the Chamber after the attacks… and had fled the castle in terror before anyone could stop him.
"Good riddance," Vincent heard Professor McGonagall mutter one day in the corridor.
Exams were also cancelled—much to the dismay of one student.
"I was looking forward to seeing how much I'd retained!" Hermione said, genuinely offended.
Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, no longer strutted about like he owned the castle. Instead, he was moody and sulky—probably because he now owed Vincent fifty galleons. He hadn't said a word about it, but Vincent had caught him glancing over with a bitter expression once or twice.
And Ginny Weasley…
She had changed the most. No longer hiding behind her hair or her books, she smiled easily now, laughed with her classmates, and talked freely. She had friends—real ones—and warmth in her voice.
Watching her from across the courtyard one afternoon, Vincent couldn't help but smile faintly.
Things were finally starting to feel normal again. Or… maybe they were becoming something better than normal.
On the day the Hogwarts Express was set to depart, Vincent found himself standing outside the office of a certain dour Potions Master. He raised a hand, knocked once.
"Enter," came the familiar voice.
Vincent stepped in to find Snape seated at his desk, scribbling notes in his usual fluid, meticulous script. The Professor looked up briefly, setting down his quill.
"Mr. Wong. Whatever do you require?"
Vincent smiled faintly. "It's the last day. I thought a farewell was in order."
Snape raised a brow before turning back to his notes. "Very well. But make it brief."
"I just wanted to say… thank you, Professor. For teaching me this year. I'm looking forward to the next one."
Snape gave no immediate reply. He stood, walked to a nearby shelf, and pulled something from it. "Is that all?"
Vincent nodded and turned to leave—only to have a small box tossed toward him. He caught it instinctively.
Opening it, Vincent's eyes widened.
Inside were two finely crafted silver potion daggers, far superior to the one he'd lost in the Chamber. Sleek, balanced, deadly—each with subtle etchings of alchemical runes.
"I heard your previous knife was ruined by Basilisk venom," Snape said casually, returning to his desk. "Those should serve you better."
Vincent's expression softened. "Thank you, Professor!"
"Thank me by causing less trouble," Snape muttered without looking up.
"No promises. See ya!"
The door shut behind him. Snape's eye twitched. He leaned back in his chair and allowed himself the faintest sigh.
"Troublesome brat."
Soon enough, it was time to board the train. Vincent glanced back at the castle, its towers silhouetted against the bright sky. It looked peaceful now, like nothing had happened. Like the whole adventure had been a dream.
He stepped onto the Hogwarts Express and found his way to a crowded compartment—Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins were all in the middle of an explosive game of Exploding Snap.
"Back in a bit," Vincent said, slipping out. He strolled down the corridor, nodding to students who greeted him shyly or stared in awe.
Eventually, he came upon a quiet compartment with the door slightly ajar. Inside was Luna, reading The Quibbler upside down.
"Anyone sitting here?" he asked.
Luna looked up, blinking. "Vince? Oh—come in."
He slid into the seat across from her. She noticed something immediately—he was wearing the scarf she gave him.
"It's really comfy," Vincent said with a warm smile. "Thanks, Luna."
She grinned pleased, a bit of pink rising to her cheeks.
"Did you know that Nargles don't like blue?" she said quickly. "No—wait—they do like blue, which is why this keeps them away…"
Vincent chuckled. "Either way, it works."
A small silence fell between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. They sat like that, watching the scenery roll by for a while.
"Hey… thank you," Vincent said seriously. "You were a huge help this year. I don't think I could've done it without you."
Luna slowly lowered her magazine. "That's very sweet of you to say," she replied with a soft smile. "I quite like mysteries. They make the world feel a little more magical."
She reached into her bag and pulled out several completed Rubik's cubes, some rearranged to form intricate patterns.
"Wow, you solved them fast!" Vincent said, impressed.
"I made sure I wasn't distracted by any Wrackspurts," she said proudly. "They like to sneak in through your ears and make your brain fuzzy."
"Very considerate of you," Vincent said with mock gravity.
Eventually, he stood. "I should get back before the others send out a search party. Want to come with?"
Luna shook her head gently. "Don't worry about me. I'll see you soon, Vincent."
He hesitated—then leaned down and gave her a quick hug. She returned it without a word. As he walked away, Luna watched him go, then smiled quietly and turned back to her magazine.
…
The train slowed to a stop, the platform buzzing with noise and chatter. Harry pulled out a quill and some parchment, scribbling furiously, handing the note to the group.
"Just call me—please. I can't spend two months with only Dudley to talk to."
As they walked off the platform, Vincent spotted a familiar platinum head.
"Hey, Malfoy!" he called. Draco flinched, spinning around. Beside him stood his stern-faced father and elegant mother.
"Don't forget our bet!" Vincent said, grinning and waving.
Draco paled visibly. Lucius narrowed his eyes at his son.
Ron chuckled. "So what're your plans now?"
"Home," Harry answered.
"We might be traveling," Hermione added. "My parents mentioned something about the Alps…"
"Trespassing," Vincent said with a smirk. "But I'll be fine."
He glanced around the station—so ordinary, so familiar. It felt surreal after everything. He took a breath, turned to the others.
"I think I'll head off now."
"See you next term," Harry said, offering his hand.
"Try not to die again," Ron joked, shaking his hand too—before Hermione elbowed him in the ribs.
Vincent turned to her. Without a word, she wrapped him in a hug.
"Stay safe," she whispered.
"I'll be back," he promised.
Ginny stepped forward. "Thank you. For saving me," she said quietly, wrapping her arms around him too.
"I made a promise," Vincent said. "Ask, and I'll be there."
A train whistled in the distance. Ginny stepped back just as a plump red-haired woman came bustling toward them.
"Ron! Ginny! We're leaving! Oh—hello, Harry dear! You must be Hermione!"
"Mum—this is Vincent!" Ginny said, looking around. "Vincent?"
Ron turned. "He's right—wait… what?!"
The spot where Vincent had stood was now empty.
Ron gawked. "How the bloody hell does he do that?! I thought he wasn't a wizard?!"
No one had an answer.
But somewhere, weaving between the crowd unseen, Vincent Wong made his way toward the street—blending into the world of Muggles, just as mysterious as when he'd entered the world of magic.
And though he didn't cast spells or wield a wand, his presence had left a mark on Hogwarts.
One that would be remembered.
…
"So… he killed the Basilisk?" Dracula raised a brow, his voice calm but tinged with curiosity. "Now that is an accomplishment."
The great hall buzzed.
Shock. Awe. Unrest. Hope.
Maybe—just maybe—he is the one?
"Knew he was something special, but to this extent? Damn…" Axel let out a low whistle, clearly impressed by the messenger's report.
A flicker of interest crossed the face of the King of Monsters. Vincent had once been just another name among the many. A curiosity. A gamble. But now?
A single memory resurfaced, shared in the silence of the chamber. A line spoken not now, but once before—simple, offhanded, yet unforgettable:
"He may be the only King's Candidate with a real shot at defeating Dracula."
Dracula's gaze slid from the trembling messenger to his son.
"Inform Arnya to keep a close watch on him."
Silence gripped the room.
All movement ceased. Even the vampires who thrived on chaos and bloodshed dared not speak.
Axel's brows drew together. He slowly uncrossed his arms. "…You want her to be an observer?" he asked, wary.
"Is there a problem?" Dracula replied, his tone unreadable.
"…No, not at all," Axel muttered, scratching the back of his head. "Should she follow him in secret, or be open about it?"
"That is for her to decide," Dracula said, his voice final.
"Understood. I'll let her know." Axel exhaled and glanced out the stained-glass window, lost in thought.
Outside, clouds passed over the moon, casting long shadows across the floor.
And somewhere—far beyond the safety of vampire halls and royal decrees—a trespasser unknowingly walked a path that had begun to fracture fate itself.
The future, once etched in unyielding stone, now showed cracks.
Small, but growing.
…
Outside a quiet orphanage nestled at the edge of town, a boy walked up the path, the weight of a long year hanging loosely from his shoulders. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the garden where a woman stood watering her plants.
She looked up, pausing mid-pour.
The boy stopped at the gate.
"…I'm back, Sister An."
The woman's eyes softened. She set the watering can down, wiped her hands on her apron, and stepped forward.
"Welcome home, Vincent."