Knowledge is power
Category: Pink Sheep RPG
If pressed to admit it, one aspect of the Ministry Vincent admired was the fact that it rarely slept. Oh, it went quiet and dormant between the hours of five PM and eight AM, but the hive never slept. Which suited him when the stillness of the country and the Mews became too much. Unlike others who found the night rhythm comforting, he didn't seek out what had one been known, but what could be.
It was ridiculously easy to get into the Ministry Archives and Records room. The night receptionist was usually off banging some tosser in Magical Creatures by midnight, which left him more than enough time for a wander. He bypassed land deeds and family trees. None of that interested him. What he wanted was in the back, however, by the personal files, and access was restricted. It hadn't taken him too long to figure out his badge was the key.
The Ministry kept files. No big surprise there. But they kept files of all those that had a part in the final battle and everything that culminated to it. From the bint Draco's necklace had hexed to his wanker of a cousin who had a nice cushy job in International Magical Cooperation. Vincent smirked. Though he knew something the bastard didn't. Cormac Fucking MacLaggen wasn't up for a promotion for some years because he was caught banging the Department of Magical Transportation's daughter. It gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction.
Fingers ghosted over the various folders. Potter's file was locked. No surprise there. Vincent even doubted his uncle could access it at times. He had stopped trying to break in when the damn thing nearly burned the hair off his arm.
Last time he had made this excursion he had taken a look at Draco and Greg's files, content to know things about their lives while they went on living as if he had ceased to exist. He had taken on their sins and perished in the fire, freeing them from the wrong doing. Hypocrites. Similarly he bypassed Theo and Blaise's. He had no interest in pretty boys.
Parkinson held no interest for him either. Not since the last time he ran into her upturned nose and stilletos, though those shoes did make her arse and tits look like they were worth something. He had never liked her, not since they were children. He was base enough to admit that it had filled him with untold glee when he found out her fate after the fall of the Dark Lord. Pity the dementors didn't bring her down a peg or two, but at least she still had money and the family estate.
Last Vincent heard, Crabbe Manor was being used as a convalescent home, which probably had his father spinning in his grave. Served the bastard right. Not that Vincent cared all that much for the pile of stones and morter, but it was the principle of the matter.
Tracey Davis, now there was one he regretted seeing go to the island prison. Woman had a sadistic wand and even better mouth. He used to check up on her from time to time, Vincent had no need for the rantings of a madwoman.
There was, of course Daphne. She had left with the rest of the cowards, safe behind Daddy's money. Of course, he couldn't blame her too much. One was usually safer that way.
That brought him to the last of their cohort: Millicent. The one he had never been able to touch. Of course, he thought she'd married some Russkie bastard. Slipping the folder from it's place, he settled against a patch of bare wall and began to read, curious as to what the Ministry saw fit to record in the last eight years.
---
The grating laugh of the receptionist jerked Vincent from his thoughts. Bugger, the bint was back already. Hastily shoving the folder back in it's place, he was mostly done with it and there were spells stopping him from copying its contents, Vincent slid into the shadows, watching the broad. Now there was nothing to do but to wait.
That's alright. He had things to plan. He had forgotten; it was Millie's birthday soon.
Summary: Unable to sleep, Vincent does some research. Better late than never, right?
If pressed to admit it, one aspect of the Ministry Vincent admired was the fact that it rarely slept. Oh, it went quiet and dormant between the hours of five PM and eight AM, but the hive never slept. Which suited him when the stillness of the country and the Mews became too much. Unlike others who found the night rhythm comforting, he didn't seek out what had one been known, but what could be.
It was ridiculously easy to get into the Ministry Archives and Records room. The night receptionist was usually off banging some tosser in Magical Creatures by midnight, which left him more than enough time for a wander. He bypassed land deeds and family trees. None of that interested him. What he wanted was in the back, however, by the personal files, and access was restricted. It hadn't taken him too long to figure out his badge was the key.
The Ministry kept files. No big surprise there. But they kept files of all those that had a part in the final battle and everything that culminated to it. From the bint Draco's necklace had hexed to his wanker of a cousin who had a nice cushy job in International Magical Cooperation. Vincent smirked. Though he knew something the bastard didn't. Cormac Fucking MacLaggen wasn't up for a promotion for some years because he was caught banging the Department of Magical Transportation's daughter. It gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction.
Fingers ghosted over the various folders. Potter's file was locked. No surprise there. Vincent even doubted his uncle could access it at times. He had stopped trying to break in when the damn thing nearly burned the hair off his arm.
Last time he had made this excursion he had taken a look at Draco and Greg's files, content to know things about their lives while they went on living as if he had ceased to exist. He had taken on their sins and perished in the fire, freeing them from the wrong doing. Hypocrites. Similarly he bypassed Theo and Blaise's. He had no interest in pretty boys.
Parkinson held no interest for him either. Not since the last time he ran into her upturned nose and stilletos, though those shoes did make her arse and tits look like they were worth something. He had never liked her, not since they were children. He was base enough to admit that it had filled him with untold glee when he found out her fate after the fall of the Dark Lord. Pity the dementors didn't bring her down a peg or two, but at least she still had money and the family estate.
Last Vincent heard, Crabbe Manor was being used as a convalescent home, which probably had his father spinning in his grave. Served the bastard right. Not that Vincent cared all that much for the pile of stones and morter, but it was the principle of the matter.
Tracey Davis, now there was one he regretted seeing go to the island prison. Woman had a sadistic wand and even better mouth. He used to check up on her from time to time, Vincent had no need for the rantings of a madwoman.
There was, of course Daphne. She had left with the rest of the cowards, safe behind Daddy's money. Of course, he couldn't blame her too much. One was usually safer that way.
That brought him to the last of their cohort: Millicent. The one he had never been able to touch. Of course, he thought she'd married some Russkie bastard. Slipping the folder from it's place, he settled against a patch of bare wall and began to read, curious as to what the Ministry saw fit to record in the last eight years.
---
The grating laugh of the receptionist jerked Vincent from his thoughts. Bugger, the bint was back already. Hastily shoving the folder back in it's place, he was mostly done with it and there were spells stopping him from copying its contents, Vincent slid into the shadows, watching the broad. Now there was nothing to do but to wait.
That's alright. He had things to plan. He had forgotten; it was Millie's birthday soon.
Summary: Unable to sleep, Vincent does some research. Better late than never, right?