Voldemort’s foul presence still lingered on the wind.
Sometimes the stench of garlic was faint.
Sometimes it became almost overwhelming.
Several times, Vincent thought he was finished.
The closest call came when his spell count reached seventy-two.
The sickly scent of decay seemed to drift directly past the bus window.
Fortunately…
The bus rounded a corner.
Ahead lay a brightly lit town.
It was a small, remote community.
Near its center stood a surprisingly large long-distance bus station.
Although it wasn’t crowded, people were constantly arriving and departing.
The oppressive feeling immediately lessened.
Vincent stood on the seat beneath the window and looked outside.
The large clock in the station square read 11:20 p.m.
He had felt as though he had been running for an entire night.
Yet…
Midnight hadn’t even arrived.
Dawn still seemed impossibly far away.
Even now, he could still faintly smell Voldemort lingering somewhere beyond the town.
The station bustled with activity.
With so many Muggles nearby, even the weakened Voldemort wouldn’t dare launch an indiscriminate attack.
A large-scale magical incident would immediately attract the attention of the Ministry of Magic.
Sooner or later…
Aurors would investigate.
In Voldemort’s current condition, that was a risk he couldn’t afford.
Realizing this, Vincent felt conflicted.
Part of him hoped the coach would remain at the station indefinitely.
The longer it stayed…
The more time he had to practice magic.
Yet another part feared Voldemort would eventually lose patience and attack anyway.
The bus, naturally, ignored his concerns.
It rolled into its assigned bay and came to a stop.
Passengers stepped off.
Others climbed aboard.
Suitcases rattled across the aisle.
Umbrellas dripped onto the floor.
The smell of rain filled the cabin.
“Finally made it!”
“What horrible weather!”
“I’m soaked.”
“That’s because you were late!”
“If we’d left fifteen minutes earlier, we wouldn’t look like drowned chickens.”
The new passengers filled many of the empty seats.
Vincent couldn’t decide whether that made the situation better…
Or worse.
“Maybe I should change buses.”
“If Voldemort attacks…”
“At least fewer innocent people would be caught in it.”
Before he could decide…
Someone sat in the seat directly in front of him.
A weary middle-aged woman sighed loudly.
“You wouldn’t believe what happened at the car park today.”
Her companion laughed.
“What now?”
“A hundred owls!”
“They flew into the parking lot carrying dead mice, feathers…”
“…and hundreds of letters.”
“It happened right before I finished work.”
“I thought it was some ridiculous prank.”
“The letters were all addressed to…”
She frowned as she recalled the name.
“‘Mr. Harry Potter.’ ‘Middle of the Hut-on-the-Rock.’ Honestly, who writes addresses like that?”
“I spent ages chasing the owls away.”
“Then I watched a family drive out in a panic.”
“I shouted after them, but they just drove faster.”
“Because of all that nonsense, I didn’t get off work until more than two hours late.”
“I hope the police catch whoever’s responsible.”
Harry Potter.
Owls.
Acceptance letters.
Vincent froze.
Then…
It hit him like lightning.
The date.
The reason it had felt so familiar all evening.
July 30th.
Tomorrow…
No.
In less than an hour…
Harry Potter would turn eleven.
And at midnight…
Rubeus Hagrid would arrive at the Hut-on-the-Rock to personally deliver Harry’s Hogwarts letter after the owls had failed to do so.
The storm outside.
The endless rain.
It was the very same storm described in the book.
The same night Voldemort secretly returned to Britain…
The same night Vincent completed his Animagus transformation…
And the same night Harry Potter’s destiny truly began.
Vincent’s thoughts raced.
“Which way did that family drive?”
“Hm?”
The woman looked around, puzzled.
“I thought I heard a little boy.”
Behind her…
The least weasel had already slipped through the open window.
Vincent landed lightly outside the coach.
His mind worked feverishly.
This wasn’t 1998.
The prophecy had not yet reached its conclusion.
Voldemort had not regained a body.
His Horcruxes still existed.
Most importantly…
He still could not touch Harry Potter.
Quirrell, while possessed by Voldemort, had attempted exactly that during Harry’s first year.
The ancient sacrificial protection left by Lily Potter had caused Quirrell unbearable pain whenever he touched Harry, eventually destroying Quirrell’s body and forcing Voldemort’s spirit to flee.
Harry is the safest person Voldemort could possibly encounter tonight.
And Harry wasn’t alone.
By midnight…
Hagrid would arrive.
Hagrid carried his pink umbrella, concealed within it the fragments of his wand, and was more than capable of defending Harry if necessary.
If Vincent could simply reach them…
Everything might change.
“My goodness!”
“A rat!”
A little girl pointed toward him.
Vincent ignored her.
He sprinted across the platform, scanning every destination board.
Black Rock Beach.
Several routes passed nearby.
One coach had already begun pulling away.
Vincent accelerated.
Just before the doors closed…
He leaped aboard.
The bus rolled away from the bright lights of the town and back into the storm.
Vincent hid beneath another row of seats.
For the first time that night…
A genuine sense of hope appeared.
Followed almost immediately…
By even greater anxiety.
Black Rock Beach was isolated.
That was precisely why Vernon Dursley had chosen it as Harry’s hiding place.
But isolation also meant something else.
No witnesses.
No help.
Exactly the kind of place Voldemort would prefer.
Who would reach the hut first?
Would Vincent arrive before Quirrell?
Or would Voldemort attack the bus before it reached the coast?
Vincent couldn’t know.
All he could do…
Was move as quickly as possible.
And continue practicing magic.
Resting one tiny paw against the leg of the seat…
He quietly cast another spell.
The system panel flickered once more as the count continued to rise.