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    The heavy rain over the countryside had locked the people inside their houses on what should’ve been a lovely Sunday morning.  The same went for the people living inside the West manor in Herefordshire, with the downpour showing no sign of stopping any time soon.


    Even in the rain, the day seemed its own kind of perfect, with the wind a little cooler than usual, a gentle rain breeze that wafted through the house without bringing a humid quality in.


    But for Quinn, it was less than perfect. . . it was as far as it could be from perfect.  He ced his suitcase by the door, and when his fingers left the still pristine leather, the suitcase went invisible.  He faced the door to the home office and took a breath as he smoothened the suit he had put on.


    “Alright, let’s do it.”


    Quinn knocked on the door, and the sounds of his heartbeat overshadowed the sound of the knocking.  He uncurled his hand and found it to be a little sweaty— he couldn’t remember thest time his hands were sweaty, and he had an excellent memory.


    He stepped inside when the call to enter came from inside.  Despite maintaining the AID office and another office inside his suitcase for years, he envied what his grandfather had built in his home office— every inch of the room sang pure English ss with not a single thing out of ce.  Quinn remembered how much time he had spent in the office in the pre-Hogwarts days, thinking he would have something like this of his own.


    As he was admiring the office, George walked in from another part of the office with two sheets of paper that he wasparing.  “What is it, child?  Give me a moment to sort this out, and then we shall talk,” he asked and nced up for a moment.  “Is that a new suit?  I haven’t seen that one; did Taylor stitch that one for you?”


    Quinn looked down at his sky blue suit.  “. . . No, it is not from him.  I. . . I made this on one on my own.”


    “Oh, did you.  It looks great on you, dear.  I would say that you have a talent for stitching.  Sit down.”


    Quinn sat down and stared at the man who sat on top, arguably the biggest empire on the magical side of the world.  He was sure that if one day he walked down the street to ask random people the question: Albus Dumbledore or George West, who would you like to be?  He would be lucky to find someone who had remotely heard of the name George West. . . but Quinn was sure if they knew the two options well, most would choose to be his grandfather.  It took something else to be chosen over Albus Dumbledore in the British Isles.


    “. . . talk about. . . . Quinn?  Quinn!”


    Quinn snapped out of his thoughts when he saw George staring at him, calling his name.  “Yes. . . my apologies, I was away for a moment,” he said.


    “Are you alright?”


    “I’m alright.”


    “Are you sure?”


    “Yes, I’m sure.”


    “Alright.  What do you want to talk about?”


    Quinn took a silent breath.  He opened his mouth and found that he was at a loss for words.  This was difficult, he thought.  He had prepared the words he was going to speak, but despite his lumency, he couldn’t find them.  It was like Karna’s curse in Mahabharata— to forget all his knowledge at the moment he needed it the most. . . which had ultimately led to the hero’s death.


    “I ran into Dumbledore a few days back,” said Quinn.


    “Oh, where was that?” he asked without stopping his work.  “What did you two talk about?  I hope he didn’t try to get you to include in some of his ns.  He will be spinning some maniptions if he wants you involved; stay clear away from him.”


    Every time the topic of Dumbledore came between them, it got clear that there was love spared between George and him.  Even the mention of Dumbledore sprung the usually taciturn man into a stretch about not trusting Dumbledore.


    “. . . That is right about what happened,” said Quinn, making George stop and look up at him.


    “What?”


    “He wants to get me involved in one of his maniptions.  He wants you to get involved in a web of his maniptions.”  Quinn chuckled with pursed lips, “Dumbledore was quite straightforward about it, didn’t hide the fact that he was going to use both of us.”


    George reached for his wand, and with a swing, everything on his desk was tidied up and pushed aside or into its ce, leaving behind an empty space between them.  Quinn had his full attention.


    “What did he want?  Tell me what he said word for word; don’t leave a single thing out.”


    Quinn shook his head with a semi-bowed head.  That wasn’t how he wanted the conversation to go.  Dumbledore wasn’t going to be the focus of this conversation. . . this was between him and his grandfather.


    “He knows a weakness of mine,” said Quinn with a bitter smile.  “He’s nning to exploit it to get to you.  But don’t worry, I have—”


    “What weakness,” George cut him short.


    “First, let me finish—”


    “What weakness?”


    Quinn and George stared at each other, thetter’s gaze much fiercer than the former.


    For a moment, Quinn’s hand trembled.  A gush of panicked thoughts passed through his mind.  They were alone in the room, which was covered with sound-dampening charms that Quinn had personally cast.  Anything that happened in there wasn’t going to get out.  This was his chance to turn back what had been said and pretend the conversation hadn’t started yet.  Maybe there was some way else he could approach this where he didn’t have to involve his grandfather.  He could take Dumbledore; who knew, perhaps he could fight the master of the Elder wand ande out victorious. . . .


    Quinn closed his eyes and leaned into the chair.


    Who was he kidding?  Taking on Dumbledore wasn’t the answer.  Lying to his grandfather once again wasn’t the answer.


    ‘I know the answer. . . there’s no running from it.’


    Quinn ced his hand over the table, hovering inches above the surface.  He breathed out as a ck substance effused out of his hand onto the table; it hardened to form a familiar ck mask. . . familiar to him at least.


    “What is this?” asked George, frowning.  “How is this rted to your weakness, Quinn.  You are well aware that I do not like to beat around the bush or anything that isn’t direct to the point, so get to the point.”


    The ‘Invisible’ in Invisible Vignte still held true.  Except for those in the Aurors and the Hit Wizard, no one knew what the Invisible Vignte’s attire looked like.  Even after the Ministry appearance, when his appearance coted from the hostages in the Ministry Atrium was published in the papers, it wasn’t urate due to the fear-addled brains of the people who gave the descriptions.


    “This is my mask,” Quinn tapped the conjured mask made from a special magical polymer that Quinn had blended on his own. . . and that was just the opening act of what he was about to reveal.


    Under George’s confused gaze, Quinn tapped his ‘self-made’ suit on the chest, and the light blue fabric turned into a thicker weave of ck in a pulsating wave that traveled through his entire body.  Gone was the stylish suit, reced by the all-practicalbative outfit.


    “This is my gear,” said Quinn, clenching and releasing his hand.  “I call it the Noir adaptive gear. . . version seventeen.”  He picked up the mask and gently ced it on his face.  There was radio silence before the usual distorted voice came from behind the mask, “I’m the Invisible Vignte.”


    An elevated heartbeat was always part of the deal when he put on the Noir gear.  Be it due to the exertion of hunting Death Eaters outside a Quidditch stadium, facing the most dangerous Werewolf in the country, saving Amelia Bones from the Dark Lord, or facing Fiendfyre cast the Dark Lord.  But today, the heartbeat was louder and faster than ever; it felt like it would beat itself out before he could even speak a single word.


    “. . . What?  No, no,” George shook his head, “you are not. . . you can’t be the Invisible Vignte. . .”


    “Grandfather—”


    George mmed his fist onto the table.  An immediate tension filled the room.  He was fuming; Quinn hadn’t seen fuming from George.  “Remove that,” he said.


    Quinnplied.  The mask melted into fumes, but the Noir gear stayed in the ckbative form.  George needed to see who his grandson really was— he had seen the good side, and now it was time to have the nasty side shining in his face.


    “. . . The Invisible Vignte is used of murder,” said George, as if he couldn’t get the words out.


    “I am wanted for murder,” said Quinn.


    “You’re not making this easier,” said George, his voice on the edge of growling.  “How did this happen, Quinn?  Didn’t I tell you that we are staying away?”


    “I started long before that grandfather.”


    “Then you should’ve stopped when I told you to stop!” George leaned forward with his hands clenched over the table.  “Do you think this is a game or one of those experiments of yours?  This is real life, Quinn!”  He pressed a finger into his temple, “You. . . You faced the Dark Lord in the Ministry.  What were you thinking, child?  You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”


    “Instead, I costed him an eye.”


    ‘That doesn’t—”


    “It wasn’t the first time, anyway.”


    “. . . What do you mean?” asked George, confused.


    “I was the one who rescued Amelia Bones when her house was attacked by the Dark Lord,” said Quinn.  “I know what I am doing, grandfather.  I know you’re worried, but what is done is already done— dwelling on it won’t change, so let’s move forward.”


    “Move forward?  No, no, this isn’t—”


    Quinn waved his hand, “Dumbledore knows I’m the Invisible Vignte, and he has proof connecting that I’m indeed him.”  George looked like he was about to burst again, but Quinn pressed forward.  “He wants your resources in the war.  He will hold whatever he has over your head into bing a vault with an unlimited amount of coin.  He will make you publicly oppose Voldemort and ensure that the most resourceful man in the country is working for him.”


    “Then I will give him whatever he wants,” said George immediately, with no hesitation.


    Quinn shook his head and kept his smile to himself.  “No, that’s the worst thing you can do, grandfather.  If he had leverage on you, it wouldn’t ever stop.  First, it will be war, then it will be politics, and whatever he wants. . . . we don’t want to give Dumbledore any leverage.”


    “Then we leave the country,” said George with finality.  “He can do whatever he wants, but if we leave, it won’t matter to us.  We can cut ties with the country and never return.”


    “That’s called running, grandfather, and I’m no runner.”


    “Then what do you want me to do!” George raised his voice.  “I do not want my grandson to be arrested by the Aurors!”


    “I won’t be arrested,” said Quinn calmly,  “What Dumbledore has won’t work in the court ofw, but if he presented it to the Aurors Office, they would start looking into me— and with only one person as a suspect, they will develop a tunnel vision towards me, especially with not finding any leads in such a long time.  Rufus Scrimgeour doesn’t like the Invisible Vignte, grandfather.  If he sets a target, he will do anything to ensure I’m punished—”


    “You don’t need to be worried about Scrimgeour,” said George.  “He’s looking to sign a deal with me, and if I put that over him, he will stay quiet— choosing to ignore a lesser evil in favor of a greater one.  He will make sure that everything is scrubbed, never to be brought up again.”


    Quinn smiled gently, but it wasn’t a relieved smile.  “No, grandfather.  Giving Dumbledore leverage is not good, but giving Scrimgeour isn’t any better.  He was big aspirations; wants to be the Minister of Magic and wants to stay in that position for long.  He will use you every step of the way, grandfather.  I don’t want that.”


    “I don’t mind helping if it keeps you out of trouble.  You know that, child.”


    “I know; of course, I know. . . but I don’t n on stopping, grandfather.”


    George shook his head.  “You promised,” he stood up and walked around the table, “you promised you would do anything for me.  I want you to stop.  I want you to leave the country and leave everything to me.  Grandfather will sort all of it, child; please listen to me.”


    Quinn felt pain spike up inside him.  It pained him to see his grandfather like this.  However, this was bigger than both of them.  “I can’t leave it,” he said and stood up.  “I have to finish what I started.”


    George grabbed Quinn’s wrist.  He said, “I can’t lose you; I have lost too much. . . I can’t lose anymore.”


    Quinn took George’s hand into his own, “You won’t be losing me, grandfather.”  He kissed the hand, “Don’t give anything to Dumbledore when you meet him, don’t let him pull you into the public.  I will handle him, but I didn’t want you to know all of this from anyone else.


    And even if I am not, you still have to follow the rule— stay away, grandfather.”


    He took out a small ck puck and ced it on the table, “Tap it with your wand— only your wand will work— and it will give you everything you need in case Dumbledorees to you.  Don’t let him exploit the Wests.”


    He pulled his hand out of George’s grip and turned away, but George grabbed his hand again and said, “Where are you going?  No!  You’re staying here!”


    Quinn shook his head.  “I will see you soon, grandfather.  Please call Lia home and tell her, and everyone else, everything,” he didn’t want George to go through this alone.  He ced his hand on George’s cheek, and before the man could speak another syble, he was knocked by Quinn’s magic.  He transfigured the chairs into afy bed-cot andid George on it.


    “I’m sorry,” he took in George’s face.  “Everything will be over soon.”


    Quinn stood up, and without taking another look, he walked out of the office.  He feared that he wouldn’t be able to leave if he looked back.  He changed hisbative outfit to the sky blue suit and picked up his suitcase.


    It was time to leave home.


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    Quinn West – MC – Truth is bitter.


    George West – Grandfather – Sad to say, but this will affect his health.


    FictionOnlyReader – Author – I don’t like this chapter.


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    The link is in the synopsis!