"Ron, this is all your fault," Harry said under his breath. "Because of you, we're lost and it's this late."
"How is this my fault?" Ron shot back. "The stairs moved!"
"I told you not to drink so much pumpkin juice," Harry hissed. "But no—you had glass after glass. Then you spent forever in the bathroom, and now we're late."
Ron scowled. "I was thirsty!"
"And now," Harry continued, glancing nervously around, "if Filch catches us, we'll definitely be punished. More points gone."
Ron grimaced. "We already have a bad reputation."
"Exactly," Harry said. "We've barely been here a week and we're already famous for losing points."
'Wow. What an excuse,' Victor thought dryly, floating a short distance behind them. He'd half-expected some grand mystery or heroic reason for their midnight wandering.
Instead, it was pumpkin juice.
'Truly legendary,' he mused.
The staircase finally deposited Harry and Ron onto a deserted corridor. The air felt colder here, the torches fewer and farther between.
Harry slowed. "Ron… don't you think this is the third floor?" he asked, glancing around uneasily. "The forbidden one?"
Before Ron could answer, a sharp meow echoed down the corridor.
"Filch's cat!" both of them hissed at the same time.
Panic set in instantly.
They broke into a run, shoes slapping against the stone, until they skidded to a halt in front of a door.
Ron grabbed the handle and twisted. Nothing.
"Harry, it's locked," he whispered urgently.
"Do something," Harry urged. "Don't you know any spell to unlock doors?"
Ron hesitated, scratching his head. "…Ummm."
The silence that followed said everything.
Both of them sighed.
'As expected, without Hermione, those two wouldn't have lasted a single day on their journey to defeat Voldemort.'
She was the one who remembered the spells, noticed what others overlooked, and thought three steps ahead while the rest were still arguing.
Truth be told, Ron often felt more like extra baggage than a vital part of the trio. He complained, worried, and panicked far more than he planned. Most of the time, his contribution amounted to moral support—and even that was unreliable when things went badly.
Still, every now and then, Ron surprised everyone. Most of the time, though, he was baggage.
He hovered closer, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
'But Harry does need to see what's inside.'
He couldn't involve himself directly to help Harry Potter—for several reasons. Doing so would only draw Dumbledore's attention, and that was the last thing he wanted.
He was, after all, a Malfoy, the son of a family whose loyalties had once aligned with Death Eaters. Any open support for Harry would raise doubts, questions he couldn't afford to answer.
Helping Harry too openly would not look like kindness or bravery—it would look suspicious.
'It'd be really convenient if I could use magic right now.'
A single thought crossed his mind.
'Alohomora.'
There was a soft click.
The door unlocked.
Harry and Ron froze.
"Did you—?" Ron started.
"I didn't—" Harry replied.
They didn't waste time questioning it. Harry pushed the door open, and both of them slipped inside.
Victor stared at the door, then at his own hand.
"…Wow," he muttered, raising his right hand and turning it slowly. "Did I do that?"
Then Filch came into the corridor, squinting suspiciously as his eyes swept the empty passageway. He paused, listening, but there was no sound apart from the distant creak of the castle.
"Mrs. Norris, there's no one here. Let's go," Filch muttered, glancing around once more before shuffling away.
"Now I don't have to worry, The plot will go on as usual—Hagrid getting drunk, Harry finding the Philosopher's Stone, and Voldemort failing to get it."
But one question still bothered him.
How was he able to use magic in this state?
Ten seconds later—
The door flew open again.
Harry and Ron burst out, faces drained of colour, eyes wide with pure terror.
"AHHHHH—!"
They didn't stop to close the door. They didn't even slow down. They simply ran, shoes pounding against the stone floor as their panicked shouting echoed through the corridor.
"I SAW ALL THREE HEADS—!"
"WHY DOES IT HAVE THREE HEADS—?!"
Their voices faded quickly as they disappeared around the corner, fleeing for their lives.
Victor hovered where he was, watching them go.
"…That," he thought calmly, "was very effective."
From inside the room came a deep, rumbling growl, followed by the heavy sound of something shifting its weight. A moment later, the door swung shut of its own accord.
"This Astral Projection is really useful,"
"So I can use magic without a wand like this… interesting."
He paused, then sat in the air, legs folding naturally as if he'd done it before. No resistance. No effort.
"I should test it," he decided. "See what works. See what doesn't."
With that, he drifted down the corridor.
As he floated around Hogwarts, Victor noticed a hooded figure moving ahead.
Tall. Adult height. Definitely not a student.
"…Who's that?" Victor muttered, drifting closer.
The figure moved quietly, almost gliding, robes brushing the stone floor. Victor followed—then stopped midair.
What he saw made him freeze.
Something was wrong.
It wasn't just a man in a cloak. Beneath the hood, clinging unnaturally close, was something else—something rotten. A twisted, shadowy presence wrapped around the man like a parasite. It didn't look human. It didn't even look alive.
It felt like a soul that should've been dead.
Victor stared.
"…What the actual hell is that?"
The thing shifted slightly, darkness rippling, and Victor felt a chill that had nothing to do with temperature.
"Oh no," he muttered. "No no no no—are you kidding me?"
Realisation hit.
Quirrell.
And that thing clinging to him—
"…You've got to be joking," Victor hissed quietly. "Is this because of my Eyes of the Dead?"
"Is that why I can actually see Voldemort's soul inside Quirinus Quirrell's body?"
He stared harder, equal parts fascinated and disturbed.
"So this is Voldemort, Reduced to a glorified soul fungus hitching a ride on a nervous professor."
The thing didn't even look like a soul anymore. It was warped, shredded, and wrong—dark wisps clinging together as if they barely remembered what "whole" meant.
Victor grimaced.
"Souls are supposed to be… delicate, he thought. And this idiot cut his into seven pieces and mutilated it beyond recognition."
That explained a lot.
"No wonder it looks like that," Victor muttered. "You can't expect a soul to stay pretty after you chop it up like a bad potion ingredient."
*****
A/N: If you'd like to read ahead of the public release, you can join my Patreon. Members get access to roughly four weeks' worth of chapters in advance.
Currently updated up to Chapter 27.
👉 patreon.com/JakeA30