There was only one person Vincent knew who had a face on the back of his head.
Only one.
He didn’t dare move.
Hidden among the rain-soaked grass, he held his breath.
The wizard lying in the distance gasped for air through the howling wind, each ragged breath sounding like someone who had barely escaped drowning.
“…Pathetic.”
The voice was hoarse, cold, and razor-sharp.
“It was merely a journey from Albania to Britain… and you’ve reduced yourself to this state.”
The face on the back of the wizard’s head writhed grotesquely beneath the soaked cloth, resembling a pulsating mass of pale flesh.
“I-I’m sorry, Master…”
The body’s owner answered weakly between gasps.
“I’ve never been good at long-distance Apparition. Albania is far away… and we had to leave in such a hurry…”
“This isn’t Little Hangleton…”
The cold voice interrupted him.
“Where have you brought us?”
“The grasslands of Shropshire, Master.”
“I’ve practiced magic here before.”
“It’s isolated… open… and rarely visited.”
“Good.”
“Hurry.”
“The Aurors must not discover we’ve entered Britain.”
“We’ve only just joined together.”
“I remain extremely weak.”
“We cannot risk attracting attention.”
“And certainly not by passing through official Ministry channels.”
Another bolt of lightning split the sky.
For a brief instant…
The entire grassland shone as brightly as day.
Vincent saw the twisted face on the back of the man’s head slowly turn toward him.
Every hair on his body stood on end.
He instinctively began backing away.
“Someone’s there!”
The shrill voice screamed.
Without hesitation, the wizard raised his wand.
A flash of emerald light burst into the darkness.
The Killing Curse.
It crossed the distance almost instantly.
Vincent watched the deadly green light race toward him.
Death itself seemed to ride upon the humid night wind.
Then—
The curse streaked past him.
Ten feet away, something exploded.
Only then did Vincent realize he had unknowingly circled back near the old graveyard.
A weathered gravestone shattered into pieces beneath the curse.
Its broken silhouette collapsed into the rain.
From a distance…
The dark outline could easily have been mistaken for a person.
“He’s in the grass, you fool!”
The cold voice shrieked.
“My Lord… my Lord…”
“Please forgive me…”
Quirinus Quirrell stammered nervously as he swung his wand toward the meadow once more.
Vincent’s heart pounded wildly inside the tiny body of the least weasel.
Quirinus Quirrell.
Harry Potter’s future Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
And the face attached to the back of his head…
There could be no mistake.
Lord Voldemort.
Tom Marvolo Riddle himself.
Vincent’s scalp went numb.
I’m not even a Hogwarts student yet…
And I’ve already run into Voldemort.
His thoughts raced.
Quirrell had travelled throughout Europe during the summer of 1991.
While in Albania, he encountered the weakened Voldemort, who eventually attached himself to Quirrell and returned with him to Britain.
Together, they would later attempt to steal the Philosopher’s Stone, setting the events of Harry Potter’s first year into motion.
Late July…
So this is the night Quirrell returned to Britain?
The thunderstorm.
That explained everything.
Vincent had chosen tonight because he believed the storm would conceal both his Animagus transformation and his spellcasting.
Quirrell had clearly reached the same conclusion.
An empty grassland.
Terrible weather.
No witnesses.
Another flash of emerald light shot toward him.
Vincent twisted aside.
The curse grazed the tops of the grass.
Where it passed, lush green stalks instantly withered into brittle yellow husks before crumbling into black ash.
He’s using the Killing Curse!
Cold sweat ran down Vincent’s back.
He accelerated immediately.
People often compared the Killing Curse to a bullet.
But facing someone capable of firing an endless stream of bullets…
…was far more terrifying.
Only moments earlier, Vincent had believed an Animagus capable of casting spells would become incredibly powerful.
Reality had reminded him how naïve that thought was.
He wasn’t even a first-year student yet.
His knowledge came entirely from self-study.
He hadn’t even mastered the Disarming Charm.
How could he possibly fight Voldemort?
Another Killing Curse struck the ground behind him.
Fortunately…
The tall grass concealed his tiny body.
The least weasel was naturally swift and elusive.
Between the darkness…
The rain…
And the dense vegetation…
Even Quirrell struggled to track him.
Green flashes erupted repeatedly throughout the meadow.
None found their target.
But Vincent understood something clearly.
This couldn’t continue forever.
Quirrell could miss a hundred times.
Vincent only needed to make one mistake.
I have to escape.
I have to lose them.
The orphanage was out of the question.
Only children lived there.
Ms.
Kenna knew about magic, but she wasn’t a witch.
Even if she somehow managed to contact the Ministry…
There wouldn’t be enough time.
If Voldemort reached the orphanage…
A few seconds would be enough to slaughter everyone inside.
Vincent darted into the forest.
Mud splashed beneath his paws as he slipped between thick roots and tangled undergrowth.
Here…
The forest became his greatest ally.
His tiny Animagus form could pass through gaps no human could follow.
Quirrell, no matter how capable, still occupied an ordinary human body.
After nearly fifteen minutes of pursuit…
The crashing footsteps gradually faded.
Eventually…
Silence.
Vincent hid behind the roots of an ancient oak and cautiously looked back.
Nothing.
It seemed even Voldemort couldn’t easily catch a least weasel in a storm-darkened forest.
Good.
I’ll stay hidden until they give up.
Then I’ll notify the wizarding world.
This is serious enough that Dumbledore himself may need to know.
Just then—
The treetops rustled.
Vincent’s ears twitched.
They’re leaving?
He climbed the oak in a matter of seconds.
Hidden among the branches, he peered toward the sound.
Without the protection of the canopy, rain lashed mercilessly against his fur.
Below…
Quirrell emerged from the darkness.
His black robes whipped violently in the wind.
He pointed his wand downward.
“Wingardium Leviosa.”
His body slowly rose above the forest.
Hovering among the treetops, Quirrell adjusted his turban before slowly scanning the landscape.
Then…
He looked toward the only building visible in the distance.
The orphanage.
Vincent’s expression changed instantly.
Voldemort already knew a wizard had been nearby.
If Quirrell failed to find him…
The nearest building would become the obvious place to search.
The children knew nothing.
Ms.
Kenna knew about magic…
But she didn’t know Vincent could become a least weasel.
None of that mattered.
Voldemort wasn’t the sort of man who spared innocent people simply because they weren’t his target.
If Quirrell went there…
Everyone would die.
Vincent made his decision immediately.
He leaped from the treetop.
His tiny body deliberately rustled the branches.
Lightning flashed once again, briefly illuminating his brown-and-white fur.
Ahead…
Quirrell stopped.
Then slowly turned back.