"Since I've encountered this pair—the Dark Lord and his useless servant—I should at least leave an impression," Victor muttered.
Nothing dramatic. Just enough to be annoying.
Ahead, the hooded man slowed, hesitating near a corner where the torches burned low. Beneath the turban, a thin, icy whisper slid into his thoughts.
"Search," Voldemort hissed. "It must be here."
"Yes—yes, Master," Quirinus Quirrell replied, his voice tight with nerves. He glanced over his shoulder before speaking again.
"Curse Albus Dumbledore," Voldemort continued, venomous. "He removed the stone from Gringotts and buried it here under layers of tricks and protection."
Quirrell swallowed hard and nodded repeatedly.
"Y-yes, Master. I'll keep searching. I swear it."
A thin, satisfying pause followed.
"When I regain my body," Voldemort said softly, "you will be rewarded. You will stand beside me as a respected servant—acknowledged, honoured, basking in my glory."
Quirrell's breath caught.
"Yes, Master," Quirrell whispered. A small, nervous smile crept across his face.
Since his student days, Quirrell had never been good at people. He spoke too hesitantly, laughed at the wrong moments, and shrank under even mild scrutiny.
Other wizards had mocked him for it, dismissed him as weak, forgettable. He had learned to avoid attention—but he had never stopped resenting it.
If he could not command respect, perhaps he could discover it—and that was why he had gone searching for the Dark Lord. If he were the one to find Voldemort, then surely people would have to listen.
At the very least, he had imagined himself as the man who found the Dark Lord—the careful scholar clever enough to track down what others dismissed as myth. Someone history would have to acknowledge, even if it did not like him.
In that, his journey had been successful—though not in the way he had imagined.
He had found Voldemort. And he immediately understood how foolish his fantasies had been.
Even diminished, even bodiless, the Dark Lord had overwhelmed him with ease. Resistance lasted seconds. Submission followed naturally after that.
When Voldemort learned that Quirrell held a position at Hogwarts, the decision had been swift. Calculated.
Hogwarts means proximity. Opportunity. And so Voldemort had bound himself to Quirrell, clinging to his body like a shadow, waiting for the chance to return to power.
Still, even now, Quirrell allowed himself fragile hope.
If Voldemort truly rose again—if the Dark Lord reclaimed his former glory—then surely he would remember the one who helped.
Surely… he would be acknowledged.
Above them, invisible and thoroughly unimpressed, Victor hovered with his arms folded.
'Wingardium Leviosa,' he thought—almost experimentally.
The effect was instant.
Quirrell let out a startled gasp as his feet left the floor. He flailed, robes twisting as he was yanked upward without warning.
WHAM.
Then immediately,
WHAM.
Opposite wall.
Back and forth he went, slammed from one side of the corridor to the other like a badly thrown Quaffle, robes twisting, limbs pinwheeling uselessly. He never got a chance to reach for his wand; every attempt ended with another impact.
"MASTER—!" Quirrell shrieked, the word cut off as he slammed into the wall yet again.
In his current state, Voldemort was little more than a parasite, bound to his host and unable to act on his own.
But Quirrell was still a wizard.
Somehow, between impacts, he managed to fumble his wand into his hand.
"F-Finite!" Quirrell shouted desperately, waving his wand with shaking fingers.
The invisible force vanished at once.
Quirrell dropped straight to the floor with a heavy thud, coughing and gasping, limbs trembling as he scrambled weakly against the wall.
Above him, Victor hovered over, already prepared to try something else.
"Hm," he thought. So counter-spells still work.
He focused again—
And suddenly, everything pulled.
Not forward. Not sideways.
Back.
Victor stiffened as an unfamiliar force wrapped around him, sharp and irresistible, yanking him away from the corridor. The world blurred, the castle stretching unnaturally as though he were being reeled in.
"…What?" Victor muttered.
The infirmary flashed into view.
The ceiling rushed toward him.
And in the next instant—
Victor slammed back into his body, breath hitching as his eyes snapped open.
He lay there on the infirmary bed, heart steady but mind alert.
"…So that's a limit," he said quietly.
"Using spells makes the duration shorter," Victor thought quietly.
***
Like that, the weekend arrived.
With no classes scheduled, the four of them ended up gathered in the courtyard, where students usually relaxed on weekends—some chatting, some revising, others simply enjoying the rare free time. The autumn air was cool, and the castle loomed quietly around them.
Hermione was the first to react when Harry and Ron finally explained why they'd been sneaking around.
"What?" she exclaimed, eyes wide. "You went to the forbidden place? The third floor?"
She looked genuinely shocked. "Didn't the Headmaster clearly say it was out of bounds?"
"It's not like we planned to go there," Harry said quickly. "It was an accident."
"Yes," Ron added, nodding. "A stupid accident involving moving staircases that hate us."
Hermione looked unconvinced. "Accidents don't usually end with you running around after curfew."
"But do you know what we saw there?" Ron said, leaning forward, lowering his voice. "Something huge."
Hermione hesitated. "What?"
"A three-headed dog the size of a room," Victor said casually.
Harry and Ron both turned to him at the same time.
"…How do you know that?" Harry asked.
Victor didn't even hesitate. "While I was exploring, I got lost and ended up there," he said smoothly.
Hermione stared at him. "So now you too are sneaking around places teachers specifically warned us not to go?"
"That's what you focused on?" Ron said, incredulous. "You completely skipped the part about the huge three-headed dog."
"Yeah," Harry added. "That thing nearly ate us."
Victor tilted his head. "You two didn't notice the trapdoor underneath it?"
That was why he lied about going into the room. He knew these guys weren't particularly bright—so if anyone was going to bring it up, it had to be him.
Harry and Ron both blinked.
"The… what?" Ron said.
Victor kept his expression neutral. "Right below the dog. In the middle of the floor. A trapdoor."
Harry's eyes widened slightly. "I didn't see that."
"We were too busy trying not to get eaten," Ron muttered.
Hermione's expression changed immediately—curiosity pushing past shock. "A trapdoor… guarded by a three-headed dog?"
"That's what it looked like," Victor said.
Hermione pressed her lips together, thinking hard. "Then it must be guarding something important."
Otherwise, there'd be no reason to house such a dangerous creature inside a school.
Ron frowned. "But what?" he asked. "Why would Dumbledore need something like that guarded inside the school?"
Harry was quiet for a moment, his face thoughtful. Then something seemed to click.
"What if it's the thing Hagrid took from Gringotts?" he said suddenly.
"The one from that vault we went to. Vault seven hundred and thirteen. Hagrid said it was important—and then the newspaper said someone tried to break into it the same day."
Ron's eyes widened. "You don't think they moved it here?"
"It would make sense," Harry said slowly. "Gringotts is supposed to be safe, but if someone was after it, Hogwarts would be even harder to get into."
"And they wouldn't guard it with just spells," Hermione added. "They'd use something physical too."
Victor watched them quietly as the pieces fell into place.
"So the three-headed dog…" Ron said, lowering his voice, "…is guarding whatever Hagrid took."
Hermione nodded. "Whatever it is, it's valuable enough for Headmaster Dumbledore to hide it in the castle."
*****
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