This Hogwarts is not normal

Chapter 1323 I'm not a superhero, I'm the Dark Lord

Arthur went to the Auror headquarters to find Kingsley to learn about the Muggle casualties from the previous night, but was told that the Aurors had not yet returned.

He wanted to check out the vicinity of the Department of Mysteries, but found that the elevator leading to the ninth floor was temporarily closed, and even the stairwells were guarded by staff, with the reason being that "the site is still under investigation and unauthorized personnel are prohibited from entering."

He arrived at the door of his new office in a daze. The doorplate was brand new and shiny. The office was indeed small and empty, with nothing but basic desks, chairs and filing cabinets.

There was no assistant, no piles of to-do documents, and it was eerily quiet.

Arthur sat on the cold chair, gazing out the window at the empty corridor. He could almost hear the howling of the spell, Voldemort's roar, and Vincent's heartbreakingly steady footsteps as he left.

The child took all the blame, while he, the one in the know, could only sit here, accepting honors and empty promotions based on lies.

The Daily Prophet lay open on the table, its headline glaringly obvious.

He could imagine how many wizards across Britain were pointing at newspapers, talking about the "cruelty" and "madness" of the Dark Lord Vincent Wayne, and rejoicing in the Ministry of Magic's "decisiveness" and "victory".

They will never know the truth about last night, and perhaps they never will: the Dark Lord, who was stigmatized by a deluge of lies, was actually the true hero.

Arthur slowly closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

The air, thick with the scent of "victory," was so murky and suffocating.

The long, terrifying Christmas Eve was over, but his nightmare seemed to have only just begun.

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The afternoon sun struggled to pierce the haze over London, casting a pale, weary golden hue over Oxford Street, the last rescue site.

The disaster is nearing its end, but the bitterness in the air has not yet dissipated.

The pungent smell of disinfectant could not mask the wounds left by the magical curse and the panic-induced trampling.

Outside the makeshift medical station, neat rows of stained stretchers lay on people who no longer needed emergency treatment.

They were covered by white sheets, their silence telling the story of how horrific the disaster that erupted on Christmas Eve was.

Outside the cordon, medical staff, police officers, and some low-key but sharp-eyed MI6 agents moved about, creating a tense but orderly atmosphere.

Inside the cordon, the Maxma Force, the Order of the Order, and the Aurors were all present.

With the curse on the last victim completely removed by the gentle light emanating from the Twin Serpents Staff, the disaster caused by Aiden Selwyn was finally brought to an end.

The preliminary casualty statistics are cold and brutal, with nearly 10,000 people in London directly or indirectly affected by the cursed items, and the number of confirmed deaths exceeding 100.

The pain brought by the curse, the trampling and collisions during the crowd's escape, and the complications caused by their own illnesses intertwined, making the casualty figures shocking.

On Oxford Street alone, broken shop windows, overturned decorations, scattered goods, and dried stains are everywhere, with economic losses estimated at millions of pounds. If other areas are included, the total could reach hundreds of millions.

However, in the face of the grief of losing loved ones and the bewilderment of surviving a catastrophe, the loss of money is of no importance.

Scrimgeour stood in front of a tent outside the cordon, clutching today's Daily Prophet tightly in his hand, his gaze fixed on the last group of wounded men being loaded into ambulances by the Aurors.

He turned to look at the medical station, where stretchers covered with white sheets were being carried away.

After a heavy sigh, he seemed to have aged ten years in an instant.

When he saw Vincent walking towards him, he subconsciously hid the newspaper behind his back. His eyes did not show relief, but rather an indescribable weariness.

Vincent clearly noticed, but didn't say much. "Fudge won't let you get away with this."

“I know,” Scringer said in a hoarse voice. “Even if I don’t resign voluntarily, I will be forced into early retirement or transferred to some archives department.”

He paused, then said, "But it doesn't matter. The Aurors did a good job, and that's enough."

Vincent nodded to him. "Director Scrimgeour, would you like to know what happened at the Ministry of Magic?"

Scrimgeour paused for a moment. "No, you're doing the right thing, these people—"

He turned and gestured for Vincent to look at the other side of the street, where many of the least affected people, who were already able to move, stood. "You saved them, and many, many more. That's an undeniable fact."

Vincent looked away and glanced at the newspaper hidden behind him. "Is that so? No one can deny it?"

Scringer quietly crumpled the newspaper in his hand into a ball, wishing he could tear it to shreds immediately.

"Wayne, don't worry about it—"

“Director Scrimgeour,” Vincent interrupted him, “when did you learn to comfort people?”

Surprisingly, Scrimgeour wasn't angry at being teased. Instead, he looked at Vincent with more admiration. "You've been working so hard. Go back and rest. Leave this to me."

“Okay.” Vincent didn’t leave immediately, but looked at the other side of the street again.

He knew some of them: Mrs. Figg, who ran a dessert shop; the old Italian gentleman who ran a coffee shop; the owner of a stationery store; and Mrs. Jones, Wayne's old neighbor who had watched him grow up.

Vincent walked toward them, and after a few steps, acquaintances gathered around him.

"Child, are you Vincent? Vincent Wayne?"

“It’s me, Mrs. Jones.”

"On television and in newspapers..."

"That's me too."

"My God!" Mrs. Jones exclaimed, her eyes shining with excitement, no longer as cautious as before. "Child, how did you do that?"

Vincent looked at them, smiling at their expectant gazes. "That's a secret. Let's ask another question."

These words acted like a switch, dispelling the guarded attitudes of those who had been displaying complex emotions.

Mr. Martini, who runs the coffee shop, almost threw out his back. "You kid, you still love to joke around like before."

Everyone couldn't help but chuckle. Just then, a little boy who was being led by his mother suddenly broke free and ran over, staring at Vincent with bright, sparkling eyes.

"Big brother, are you a superhero? One of those in comic books?"

The adults were stunned for a moment, then awkwardly tried to pull the child away.

Vincent crouched down, reached out and patted the little boy's head, then shook his head seriously. "I'm not a superhero, I'm the Dark Lord."

The little boy's eyes lit up even more. "Wow—the Dark Lord? That's so cool!"

He ran back to his mother with a smile, shouting that when he grew up, he wouldn't be a superhero anymore, he wanted to be the Dark Lord.

Vincent stood up, feeling both amused and exasperated.

If this little boy is lucky enough to be blessed by magic, a few years later, Hogwarts might have a new student who wants to become the Dark Lord.

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