Victor sat on the windowsill, detached from the world, lost in thought. In his head, like an annoying swarm of wasps, memories of the day buzzed. Memories of defeat by the Headmaster. Victor felt deceived and humiliated. It seemed to him that his power was a joke to the old man, who didn't even bother to show his full might.
The anger, which had been smoldering inside, flared up. Victor suddenly jumped up, screaming with fury and despair: "Aaaah!" He ran his hands through his hair, messing it up.
— So I lost! So what? — he muttered. — Why didn't that old man show his full power in the movies? Maybe the fanatics were right, and he faked his death and quietly retired?
He thought deeply, then scoffed and hissed to himself: "It's still annoying. Idiot. Old geezer. A-hole!" Suddenly, he looked sharply at the door and yelled:
— WHO'S RUSTLING OUT THERE? YOU'RE INTERRUPTING ME INSULTING THE HEADMASTER!
The door opened slightly, and Daphne timidly entered.
— It's us, — she said softly.
Victor looked at her.
— Oh, my assistant, have you come to check on me? My, I'm so touched. Wait… you said "us"?
The others followed her in. Victor looked at everyone with surprise.
— What are you doing here? If you've come to see me, then where are my fruits?
One of the boys blinked in confusion.
— Fruits?
— Yes, — Victor replied. — When someone visits the sick, they bring them fruit. So where are my fruits?
Daphne sighed, knowing Victor was up to his usual tricks.
— We aren't visiting you; we're guarding you.
— From whom? — Victor asked, a glint appearing in his eyes.
Daphne explained:
— A rumor is going around Slytherin that while you're in this state, the purebloods will come to get revenge on you. So we came to guard you… Victor, what's wrong with you?
Instead of answering, Victor started to smile, and his smile was so creepy that everyone got goosebumps.
— Everything is fine with me, — he hissed through clenched teeth. — I am happy.
Everyone started exchanging glances, not understanding what was going on. Victor clapped his hands.
— Listen to me carefully. Now, you will go back and spread rumors that I'm in very bad shape, that I'm confined to my bed and in a very weak state. Go and tell them I still can't get up.
Daphne frowned.
— Are you sure? This is dangerous, Victor. They might…
— I'm sure, — Victor interrupted her, his gaze turning to steel. — I'm in a very bad mood right now, and beating up a few people is just what the doctor ordered.
They all stood frozen, not knowing how to react. Victor took a step forward.
— Well, what are you waiting for? — he growled. — Come on, shnelya, shnelya! I still need to figure out how to greet them.
They all began to leave in a hurry, abandoning him. Before closing the door, Daphne couldn't help but ask:
— Why were you insulting the Headmaster?
Victor yelled into the open window:
— BECAUSE HE'S A JERK, AN OLD TOAD, A SENILE FOOL, A PIG, A DUMB-ASS!
When he finished, Daphne was already gone. Victor calmed down and said:
— Well, alright, we'll wait.
At night, shadows glided near the Hospital Wing. Twelve figures, dressed in dark robes, were sneaking up to the windows. They moved very carefully. Each of them belonged to one of the 28 Sacred Pure-Blood Families. They were proud of their bloodline, and now some "Mudblood" dared to terrorize them.
They were led by three: Tess Nott, a small but sharp girl, like a whip; Leopold Crowley, a descendant of an ancient but impoverished family; and Gordon Lestrange, a distant relative, obsessed with the ideas of pure-blood supremacy.
— Are you sure? — whispered Tess. — We won't get into trouble?
— Don't worry, — answered Leopold. — We're not going to kill him, just teach him a lesson.
— And Gemma supported us.
— Don't mention her, — Gordon sneered. — She shamed all the purebloods by bowing down to him.
— That's enough, we're here, — said Leopold. — Listen up: we're not killing him and not using the Unforgivable Curses, but there are no other restrictions. Let him remember this night for the rest of his life.
Everyone began to smile, anticipating the upcoming beating. They cautiously entered the ward and saw Victor standing by the window. He slowly turned to them and said:
— You couldn't come to terms with defeat? And where did that lead you? Back to me.
Tess, the first to overcome her shock, hissed:
— He's supposed to be in bed... He doesn't look weak.
— Quiet! — Gordon snapped. — It doesn't matter anymore. Can't we handle some Mudblood?
They all exchanged glances, nodded, and began to draw their wands. Victor smiled:
— Yes, let's dance.
He clapped his hands, and a sharp, ringing "Nox!" echoed through the ward.
The light went out. Everyone plunged into pitch-black, suffocating darkness. Panic-stricken shouts of spells began to echo throughout the ward: "Stupefy!", "Expelliarmus!", "Confundus!". Bright flashes of light momentarily captured the panic on their faces, but they immediately died out, not hitting Victor.
And then came a crunching sound, as if a bone had been broken, followed by screams. Loud, full of terror. Leopold, trying to feel for Victor, was met with a powerful, invisible blow. His wand flew out of his hand, and he himself, knocked off his feet, lost his balance.
— Where is he? — someone shouted.
— I can't see him! — Tess replied, but her voice was trembling.
In the dark, Victor was a king. His main weapon was his body. He moved silently, like a shadow, getting close to them and delivering blows. In his hands, like an extension of his fist, was a golden brass knuckle that he had transfigured beforehand.
A flash — and Leopold is on the floor, his nose broken. A flash — and Gordon screams, his arm twisted. Throughout the ward, there were the squelching sounds of blows, the grinding of bones, and with each passing moment, the screams became more desperate. Those who tried to use their wands soon lost them, as Victor, like an experienced boxer, would rush into their personal space and knock the weapon out of their hands.
— Stop! — someone pleaded. — This isn't fair!
— Fair? — Victor's chilling laughter echoed in the darkness. — You came ten-to-one to beat up a "weak" person, and that's fair?
He paused, and the screams subsided, replaced by heavy, broken breathing. Then there was the sound of footsteps, followed by another scream and a dull thud. For several hours, the ward echoed only with wails of pain and rare, fragmented words filled with horror.
When the door finally opened, a pleased Victor emerged. On his right hand was a bloodied golden brass knuckle, which in an instant turned into a towel. Victor wiped his hands with it, then nonchalantly threw it on the floor.
— This is so good! — he said, taking a deep breath and exhaling. — I feel better.
Humming a little tune, he walked away with a contented smile. When Madam Pomfrey arrived in the morning, she was shocked: instead of one recovering patient, twelve beaten students were lying there.