Some people might say the Great Hall was a cliche, a repetitive spot for his activities… Perhaps. But he felt otherwise. The Great Hall was…the center of Hogwarts. A place they all went to, home within their home. Where they stuffed their faces and spoke with friends, where all the houses mixed together, dwelled with their teachers, felt safe…

He enjoyed ruining the sanctity of such a place.

They were moved from the forest rather easily, a simple levitating charm, the unconscious students hovering in front of him on his calming walk to the castle - though they probably made up a rather strange image to any unfortunate student looking out their window that night.

He left the three strewn haphazardly on the center table. They’d endured a rather…large amount of blood loss, he doubted that they’d really be able to wander off, even if they did come to anytime soon. And they did look rather appealing, strewn about so, limbs hanging limply, torn clothes revealing his work.

But it wasn’t quite complete yet, wasn’t quite the perfect picture. One little piggy, two little piggy, three little piggy; come little piggies, what were they missing -

He gave a dark laugh, then. A quick turn of his wand, and he held three apples, giving a gleeful hop as he circled the bunch, sinking their teeth into the apples, one by one. And when he backed away, there they were, the perfect picture, his little piggies… with their little apples, cut and trussed up like fresh meat for dinner -

When the students entered the hall for dinner that night, they’d find them laying there, the three missing students that only some had noticed missing at all. He supposed they’d try to pull them off the table, take them to the hospital wing, but he’d put a charm up - one that should last at least an hour after the students would first be found. After all, what was the fun if everyone didn’t get a chance to view his handiwork?

Such beautiful handiwork it was, too… He’d made good use of his canvases, though he’d chosen to create more of a poem than a painting on each of them - though the words flowing across their bared skin did have a rather aesthetic beauty all its own. Not a conventional poem, perhaps, but he certainly enjoyed it. No special messages or warnings, merely a random pattern of smiley faces and words - predominantly a simple, HAHA. But most noticeable was perhaps what he'd done to their faces - a precise and difficult process that had required much screaming and pain. Children apparently didn't enjoy knives so close to their faces, trying so desperately to pull away - but he'd warned them, warned them to keep still or he'd accidentally carve out their eyes - and they'd stilled enough for him to finish his carvings, screamed out and cried, salty tears mixed with the cuts in their skin. While the words cut into their bodies varied, their faces all matched - a delicate curving pattern, curling lines around their faces, ending in a picture that matched the same mask he'd worn to the ball those few nights. He did need to sign his work, did he not, and what better way than with a replication of the mask he'd worn? They'd wanted a masquerade, after all, and masks he gave them.

The words were carved deeply into their skin; some with a knife, some with a wand, but they all hurt just the same, had just the same effect. Some had already scabbed over, a dark burgundy layer with dried bloodstains; some were still fresh, a vibrant red paint created by their own bodies… The sight made him long to do more, but no, no, he’d done enough, he’d had his fun…

The girl seemed off-put.

He could see her eyes shifting back and forth through the mask, darting about the room as if in search for an excuse to pull away from this student she couldn’t recognize, a student that made her skin crawl and stomach churn for reasons she didn’t understand - 

Perhaps it was the fact that he did not speak, or the mask that somehow managed to hide the owner’s eyes, the cold she could feel even through his leather gloves - so many things that made him seem so frightening - 

When the girl seemed about ready to jump out of her shoes with her discomfort, he stepped away, releasing her hand and letting the other pull away from her waist. He gave a small bow, smirking to himself, and finally whispered. 

"Thank you for the dance," his cool whisper cutting through the noise effortlessly, and she nearly fell in her scramble to run back to her friends, to point out the frightening boy that had just asked her to dance - but he was gone, disappeared back into the crowd to terrorize another young student - 

He paused, frowning. He knew why he was here, of course, and as amusing as this was, he was not one to waste precious time. Not when there were much more exciting things to do. 

His eyes scanned through the crowd of children, a blur of colors and ridiculous dresses and glinting metals - and they stopped. Focused. Decided.

The rather…vibrantly dressed boy was clad in a mix of reds and golds that made him cringe, lip curling at the bright, garish colors. The boy seemed to jump between people quickly, obviously a rather…friendly boy, easily conversing with his peers and seemingly well-liked. 

He sighed, running over the list of students in his head. Too many of them - so many possibilities made for quite a lot of fun, but names and faces became nearly impossible. Trivial details, really, but without such details, how was he to know what made them tick, what made them shiver and scream in fear - 

Marc Chen. Ah, yes, quite the friendly boy, quite the unfriendly family… No matter, the details of his personal life mattered not at the moment. This was mere child’s play, a strike at the masses with a little flick of his finger. Almost too easy…

But he was getting impatient. He tutted lightly to himself, shaking his head. Come, now, after all this time, was now the moment to become impatient? Good things come to those who wait.

And so he waited; seconds, minutes, hours passing by as the boy…socialized. And then, finally, finally, the boy pulled away from his groups of friends, moving towards the tables of punch and whatever other disgusting liquids that were being served to the students. He followed him to the tables, students parting out of his way rather easily, all of them so unwilling to stand near him, yet so stupidly unaware as to why. He moved towards the boy, hand reaching out, fingers curling easily around the boy’s forearm - caught.

The boy turned to glance at the tight grip on his arm, attempting to shake it off. It did not loosen, and the boy turned with confusion to the owner of the arm, mouthing words at him that he could not hear over the annoying, blasting thing that they pretended to call music. He chose not to respond, instead pulling him lightly towards the doorway. The boy followed easily, perhaps assuming that he was guiding him outside somewhere where there was less noise, that there was something this mysterious stranger needed to tell him. 

It wasn’t until they were nearly halfway to the forest that the boy began to pull rather violently, his questions laced first with more confusion, then nervousness, before panic; and the Mastermind relished every bit of it; relished the boy’s attempts to yell through the leather glove he’d covered his mouth with, relished his attempts to reach for the wand hidden in his robes that he hadn’t noticed the man take from him earlier, relished the violent thrashes and attempts to escape the man’s unnaturally tight grip, and when they were deep enough in the forest that they could no longer be heard, the Mastermind relished the boy’s screams of terror, imagining just how soon they would become screams of pain.