Chapter 12: Nightmares, Vacation, and the Start of Third Year

(Vincent's POV)

The oppressive weight of the duvet mirrored the sensation crushing Vincent's chest. Shadows stretched and twisted, morphing into a familiar alleyway, slick with rain and reeking of fear. A woman, her face obscured by the downpour, stood illuminated by the sickly yellow glow of a nearby streetlight.

Her laughter, brittle and sharp, sliced through the downpour. "You really thought you could trust me, Dean?"

The name struck him like a physical blow. Dean. A lifetime ago, a different him.

"We were partners," he growled, his voice a raspy echo from a past life.

She stepped closer, her silhouette sharpening, revealing the glint of a blade in her hand. "Partners? You were a tool, a blunt instrument. Easily discarded."

The air crackled with the sudden shift, the memory transitioning from a nightmare to a visceral reliving. He tasted blood, felt the searing pain of the knife slicing across his ribs. The woman, her face now a mask of cruel delight, pressed her advantage, her blade a whisper of death in the rain-soaked alley.

He remembered the desperate struggle, the way his own blood made the cobblestones treacherous. Every breath sent a searing pain through his side, but he fought back with the cold fury that had been his trademark.

A brutal dance of blades ensued, the only sounds the clang of metal, their ragged gasps, and the relentless drumming of rain. She was good, he'd give her that, but she'd underestimated his tenacity, the sheer will to survive that had pulled him back from the brink countless times before.

He disarmed her with a vicious twist of his wrist, the woman crying out as her knife clattered across the pavement. She lunged, nails raking at his face, but he slammed his forehead into hers, the sickening crunch of cartilage echoing in the narrow space.

Dazed, she staggered back, giving him the opening he needed. He drew his own blade, a wickedly curved karambit, its silver glinting even in the dim light. She saw the cold fire in his eyes, the finality there, and a flicker of fear finally broke through her composure.

"Dean, wait–" she began, but he was already moving, a phantom in the rain.

The karambit sang, a swift, brutal arc that ended with a choked gasp. He watched as the light faded from her eyes, the blood blooming across her white silk blouse like a macabre flower. Her body slumped against the brick wall, another shadow swallowed by the darkness of the alley.

He stood there for a heartbeat, chest heaving, rain mingling with the blood on his hands. The metallic scent filled his nostrils, a grim reminder of the price of survival in his former life.

Then, with a shuddering breath, he was pulled back, the alley receding into the suffocating darkness of the nightmare.

Vincent awoke with a gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs. Cold sweat clung to his skin, and for a moment, he wasn't sure where he was, the line between nightmare and reality blurring.

He sat bolt upright, hand instinctively reaching for the reassuring weight of the Beretta 92FS he kept under his pillow. It wasn't there. Of course, it wasn't. He was in his room at his grandparents' manor, not a rain-slicked alleyway. Here, the only sounds were the gentle chirping of crickets outside and the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

He let out a shaky breath, the ghost of the nightmare still clinging to him like cobwebs. He hated those dreams—the visceral reminders of a life he'd tried to leave behind. They were becoming less frequent, thankfully, but each one left him feeling raw, exposed.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the plush carpet soft beneath his bare feet. The moon cast long, silvery fingers through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the luxurious furnishings of his room. It was a far cry from the spartan efficiency of his former life.

Vincent went through the motions of his morning routine with almost robotic precision. A scalding hot shower helped wash away the lingering chill of the nightmare, but the memory of the woman's face, contorted in a mixture of fear and betrayal, lingered in the back of his mind.

He forced it down, focusing instead on the day ahead. He'd promised Blaise and Daphne he'd take them to a Muggle movie—something with explosions and car chases, they'd insisted. Apparently, wizarding cinema was a bit lacking in the special effects department.

No magic today, he thought, adjusting his reflection in the mirror. Just a normal day out with friends. It was a welcome distraction, a chance to pretend, however briefly, that he was just a normal teenager enjoying the last vestiges of summer break, he needed a break from all the planning and training.

"This is…different," Daphne said, her brow furrowed in concentration as she studied the menu of the American-style diner Vincent had chosen.

"Different good, or different bad?" Blaise asked, leaning back in his booth, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I'm not sure yet," Daphne admitted, peering at the bewildering array of burgers, fries, and milkshakes.

Vincent chuckled. "It's a diner, Daphne. It's…casual." He pointed to a picture on the menu. "The 'cheeseburger' is a safe bet. And the milkshakes are excellent. Trust me."

"If you say so," Daphne said, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced.

Blaise, on the other hand, was already ordering, his natural Slytherin charm amplified tenfold as he flirted shamelessly with the waitress, a pretty redhead with a spray tan and enough eyeliner to rival a raccoon.

"I'll have the double bacon cheeseburger," Blaise said, flashing the waitress a winning smile. "And make those fries extra crispy. Oh, and one of those chocolate monstrosities you call milkshakes. Can't resist a classic."

The waitress, thoroughly charmed, scribbled down his order, then turned to Daphne, who, after much deliberation, settled on a chicken sandwich and a diet soda. Vincent, true to his word, ordered a cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake.

As they waited for their food, conversation flowed easily between them. Blaise regaled them with tales of his latest exploits, which mostly involved pranking unsuspecting Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and charming his way out of detention. Daphne, more reserved, listened with amusement, her lips occasionally curving into a smile.

"So, Vincent," Blaise said, his voice dropping slightly as the waitress disappeared into the kitchen, "any plans for third year? Aside from maintaining your reign of terror over the student body, of course."

Vincent chuckled. "Reign of terror? Really, Blaise?"

"You have to admit, you've cultivated a certain…reputation," Daphne said, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"It's…efficient," Vincent replied, shrugging. "Fear can be a useful motivator."

"True," Blaise agreed. "Though I imagine it gets lonely at the top. No offense."

"None taken," Vincent said, his tone neutral. He took a sip of his water, the ice clinking against his teeth. "Besides, it's not as if I have much choice in the matter. People tend to…react…to me in a certain way." 

"I think it's more than just that," Daphne said, her gaze steady. "You carry yourself differently, Vincent. There's a…presence about you. People sense it."

"Presence?" Vincent raised an eyebrow.

"Power," Blaise interjected, his tone serious for once. "You radiate it."

Vincent stiffened, the casual facade he'd so carefully erected crumbling a little. 

Before he could reply, the waitress returned, balancing their food on a tray with impressive dexterity. The distraction was welcome, allowing Vincent a moment to compose himself. He dug into his cheeseburger, the familiar flavors a comforting anchor in the face of unsettling truths.

He laughed at Daphne's face when she took a sip of the chocolate milkshake and held it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

After spending a good time with his friends he was actually relaxed, with that the rest of the summer vacation went by pretty fast and it was time to ride the train again.

King's Cross Station bustled with the usual chaos of departing students and frantic parents. Vincent, however, found the commotion strangely distant, his mind already several steps ahead, plotting the intricate dance moves of the upcoming school year.

He'd made sure to secure a compartment on the Hogwarts Express early , knowing Blaise, Daphne, and Theodore would appreciate the quiet sanctuary amidst the mounting pandemonium. He chose one near the driver. To his surprise, Pansy Parkinson decided to grace them with her presence.

"Lovely to see you all looking so…refreshed," Pansy drawled, her tone a mix of honey and vinegar as she settled into the seat across from Vincent, her gaze lingering on him a beat too long.

"Parkinson," he acknowledged coolly, his expression giving nothing away.

Blaise, grinned at her. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Just thought I'd grace the esteemed company of Slytherin's finest," Pansy purred, ignoring Blaise's thinly veiled sarcasm. "Besides," she added, her eyes fixed on Vincent, "one hears the most intriguing rumors about our resident hero."

He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "Rumors are rarely to be trusted, Parkinson."

"Oh, I don't know," she countered, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "They do say you have a certain…knack…for dealing with unwanted pests."

Vincent chose to ignore her not-so-subtle jab, turning his attention to the window as the train pulled away from the station. London's sprawling cityscape soon gave way to rolling hills and the familiar blur of green that marked the beginning of their journey into magic's embrace.

"So, Van Doren," Blaise said, ever eager to break the tension, "any predictions for third year? Aside from the usual Gryffindor humiliations, of course."

"Defense Against the Dark Arts is supposed to be interesting this year," Daphne chimed in, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "They've hired a new professor. Remus Lupin, I believe his name is."

"Lupin?" Theodore said, his voice thoughtful. "I've read his research on non-verbal magic. Quite brilliant, actually."

"Brilliant enough to handle a pack of unruly Gryffindors?" Blaise quipped. "That remains to be seen."

After an hour on their way to the school the train shuddered and it came to a stop, its usual rhythmic clattering replaced by an unsettling silence. The compartment plunged into an unnatural twilight, shadows deepening as if a cold hand had snuffed out the sun.

"What's happening?" Pansy asked, her voice high with a fear she usually reserved for mudbloods and misplaced hair products.

Vincent felt it too—a sudden shift in the air, a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the weather. A memory, unwelcome and vivid, flashed through his mind: the icy grip of death, the metallic tang of blood, the woman's lifeless eyes staring into his.

He pushed the memory down, his hand instinctively going to his wand tucked inside his robes. He didn't need magic to tell him what was happening.

"Dementor," he said, his voice devoid of inflection.

Before anyone could react, a gut-wrenching shriek tore through the train, followed by the unmistakable sound of metal scraping against metal. A beat of horrified silence, then the lights flickered and died, plunging the compartment into darkness.

"What was that?" Daphne gasped, her voice barely a whisper.

"Stay here," Vincent ordered, his voice sharp, authoritative. He didn't wait to see if they obeyed. This wasn't a time for explanations.

The compartment door rattled violently, as if something unseen was trying to force its way in. Vincent drew his wand, the tip glowing faintly in the darkness.

"On second thought," Blaise said, his voice strained but steady. "I might tag along."

He didn't get the chance. The door burst open, splintering wood flying through the air like shrapnel. A wave of despair, so profound it felt physical, slammed into them, stealing their breath and chilling them to the bone.

Standing in the doorway, shrouded in darkness, was a Dementor.

The Dementor glided into the compartment, its ragged cloak swirling around it like a shroud. The air grew colder, heavier, as if a weight had settled on Vincent's chest. He raised his wand, its tip a beacon of defiance against the encroaching darkness.

Panic flared in the compartment. Blaise swore under his breath, Daphne gasped, and Pansy let out a whimper that sounded suspiciously like a wounded animal.

The Dementor turned its hooded head towards Vincent, and for a heart-stopping moment, their gazes locked. It wasn't a gaze in the conventional sense, not with those empty, soulless voids where its eyes should be. Yet, he felt it—a probing, invasive chill that seemed to seep into his very core and wanting to take away any hint of happiness he had.

Memories, unwelcome and sharp as shards of glass, flooded his mind. The blood, the rain, the woman's dying scream. The fear, so raw and primal, that had clawed at him in that alleyway.

He staggered back, the wand trembling in his hand. For a fleeting second, he was back there, the stench of blood and despair filling his nostrils.

"Vincent!" Daphne's voice, sharp and laced with panic, cut through the fog of memory.

He blinked, the Dementor's presence a suffocating weight pressing down on him. He had to fight back. This wasn't the alleyway. This wasn't then. He wouldn't let it take him again.

He thought of his friends, their faces pale but determined in the flickering light of the compartment. He thought of the future he was trying to build, a world where magic wouldn't be a source of fear and secrecy but a force for good.

And in that moment of defiance, something inside him shifted, something powerful and primal, fueled by the very darkness the Dementor sought to exploit.

"Expecto Patronum!" he roared, pouring every ounce of his will, his anger, his hope into the incantation.

A blinding white light erupted from the tip of his wand, pushing back the oppressive darkness that had engulfed the compartment. The Dementor recoiled, hissing like a creature burned, as a figure of pure, incandescent energy surged forth, taking the shape of a crow, its wings spread wide in a gesture of defiance.

The Patronus, a radiant beacon in the heart of despair, turned its glowing eyes towards the Dementor, its presence radiating a warmth that chased away the chill. For a moment, it hung suspended in the air, a silent battle of wills raging between light and shadow.

Then, with a final, earsplitting shriek, the Dementor fled, melting back into the shadows as if it had never been.

The Patronus, its purpose served, dissolved into motes of shimmering light, leaving behind a stunned silence and the lingering scent of ozone.

"What…was that?" Blaise asked, his voice hushed with awe.

Vincent lowered his wand, his hand still trembling slightly from the effort. He looked at his friends, their faces pale but unharmed in the dim light filtering in from the corridor.

"A Patronus," he said, his voice raspy. "It's…advanced magic. A very powerful defense against Dementors."

"Advanced?" Pansy squeaked, her eyes wide. "But you're only a third year!"

Vincent ignored her, his gaze fixed on the shattered remains of the compartment door. He hadn't planned on revealing his ability to cast a corporeal Patronus so soon, especially not under these circumstances.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, hurried and heavy. A moment later, the compartment door slid open again, revealing a man with a mustache, his face etched with concern.

"What happened here?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over the scene – the shattered door, the pale faces of the students, Vincent standing in the center, wand still clutched in his hand.

"Dementor," Blaise said, his voice tight. "It…attacked us."

The man's gaze snapped to Vincent. "Who cast the Patronus?"

Vincent met his gaze, a strange mix of emotions swirling within him. There was no point in hiding it now. "I did, Name is VIncent Van Doren" he said, his voice steady.

The man's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise flickering across his features. He studied Vincent for a moment, his gaze sharp and assessing, then he nodded slowly. "An impressive feat, Mr. Van Doren. Particularly for one so young, I am Remus Lupin ."

Blaise and Daphne connected the dots and knew that the mustachio man was the new DADA professor

He turned his attention to the rest of the compartment. "Are you all alright?"

Daphne and Blaise nodded, their faces still pale but recovering from the encounter. Pansy, however, seemed to have fainted, her carefully applied makeup smeared across her tear-stained cheeks.

"We'll get this sorted out," Lupin said, his voice firm but reassuring. He took out a chocolate frog and gave it to Vincent and said "Give it to her when she wakes up" he pointed at Pansy.

"Stay here. I need to check with the driver."

With a last, concerned glance at Vincent, he hurried off down the corridor, his wand already drawn.

"Well," Blaise said, breaking the silence. "That was…something."

Hogwarts, usually a sight that filled Vincent with a calculating sort of anticipation, now loomed out of the darkness like a reassuring bastion. The whispers started the moment they disembarked from the carriages, rippling through the student body as quickly as a well-cast charm.

"Did you hear? Dementors attacked the train!"

"Someone said they were looking for Black."

"Van Doren fought them off! Cast a Patronus, a real one!"

He ignored the stares, the hushed conversations that seemed to follow him like a shadow. Blaise and Daphne stuck close, their expressions a mix of awe and concern. Even Theodore, usually a study in impassivity, seemed to regard him with newfound curiosity.

The Great Hall buzzed with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the start-of-term excitement. Dumbledore, his face grave but his eyes holding a familiar twinkle, addressed the hushed assembly, his voice amplified by magic so it reached every corner of the room.

"As you are all aware," he began, "we experienced an…unfortunate incident on the Hogwarts Express this evening."

He went on to explain, in vague but reassuring terms, that Dementors, those soul-sucking guards of Azkaban prison, had boarded the train in search of escaped convict Sirius Black. He assured them that all students were safe and that precautions were being taken to ensure their continued well-being, he also introduced lupin as the new DADA teacher.

"However," Dumbledore continued, his voice taking on a steelier edge, "it has come to my attention that an act of exceptional courage and skill occurred during this distressing event."

His gaze, magnified by his half-moon spectacles, seemed to settle on Vincent, sending a ripple of whispers through the hall.

"One of our students," Dumbledore announced, his voice ringing with approval, "successfully repelled a Dementor attack by casting a full corporeal Patronus. This is a highly advanced charm, rarely mastered even by experienced wizards."

The whispers escalated, turning into a chorus of gasps and murmurs. Vincent felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine. He hadn't sought recognition, hadn't craved this spotlight. In fact, he'd been hoping to keep his full abilities under wraps, a secret weapon to be revealed only when strategically advantageous.

Dumbledore, however, seemed intent on making his accomplishment known.

"I commend this student for their bravery and quick thinking," he continued, his gaze still fixed on Vincent.

"Now then," Dumbledore said, his tone lightening as he clapped his hands together, "I'm sure you're all eager to get settled in and enjoy the welcoming feast. Tuck in!"

With a final flourish of his wand, the tables groaned under the weight of steaming platters and overflowing goblets. The tension in the hall dissipated, replaced by the usual clamor of conversation and the clinking of silverware.

"You're a bloody celebrity now, you know," Blaise said, leaning closer to Vincent, his voice a mix of amusement and something akin to awe.

"It was necessary," Vincent muttered, spearing a sausage with unnecessary force. He could feel the weight of countless eyes upon him, and it kinda annoyed him but he knew it was necessary, and had to take the good with the bad.

Daphne, ever perceptive, placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "They're just impressed," she said quietly. "You did something extraordinary."

"It was…instinct," Vincent replied, shrugging off her praise.

"Maybe," Daphne said, her gaze steady. "But even instinct needs a foundation of power. You have that, Vincent. Whether you choose to acknowledge it or not."

He didn't reply, choosing instead to focus on the food in front of him. He didn't need Daphne's cryptic pronouncements to remind him of his own potential, of the power he'd kept leashed for so long.

Later that evening, back in the Slytherin common room, Vincent found himself cornered by a group of awestruck lower years.

"That was amazing, Van Doren!" one of them gushed, his eyes wide with hero worship. "The way you fought off that Dementor! You were like…like…"

"Like a badass wizard ninja," another supplied helpfully.

Vincent stifled a sigh. 

"It was nothing," he said, his voice flat. "Just a lucky spell."

They didn't believe him, of course, and their continued adulation only served to solidify his growing conviction: he couldn't remain invisible forever. Sooner or later, he would have to choose a side, to make his move.

And as he settled into his usual armchair by the fireplace, the flickering flames casting long, dancing shadows across the room, he knew that tonight's encounter with the Dementor had set something in motion. A change was coming. He could feel it in the air, a subtle shift in the currents of magic, whispering of a future that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

He would be ready.