By the time the New Year 1992 arrived, Victor was already aboard the train to Hogwarts.
He sat by the window of the Hogwarts Express, watching the winter countryside rush past—snow-dusted fields smearing into pale, fleeting streaks of white and grey.
"Finally," Victor muttered, resting his chin against the glass. "Back to Hogwarts."
Victor was painfully bored waiting around at home. Before, hunting for the Ravenclaw diadem had been a complete pain in the ass—months of digging through magical junk with nothing to show for it.
Now, with the Eyes of the Dead, it was practically glowing on his to-do list. Find it. Destroy it. One Horcrux gone. Count down: minus one.
As for how to destroy it—he already had that figured out.
A quiet trip into the Forbidden Forest. A quick Animagus transformation. One basilisk tooth. And then—crack—goodbye cursed tiara.
He had absolutely no intention of biting the Horcrux himself. No. Definitely not. He might tolerate many things, but gnawing on an object soaked in Voldemort's soul was firmly off the table. He had standards.
After that, it would be time to deal with Voldemort.
Or rather—make sure Voldemort's plans failed neatly, on schedule, every single time.
Victor had no desire to replace Harry Potter as the protagonist of this disaster. That sounded exhausting and came with far too much dramatic screaming.
Guiding events was enough. A push here. A delay there. Just enough to ensure the Dark Lord never got the Philosopher's Stone, never rebuilt a body, and remained a permanently inconvenienced ghost.
He did briefly consider killing Peter Pettigrew while the man was still a rat.
Very tempting.
Unfortunately, also very messy.
Voldemort would just find another slimy resurrection assistant, and Victor had no interest in playing "guess the replacement Death Eater." No—Pettigrew still had his uses. For now.
Victor sighed, his gaze fixed ahead as the train hurtled toward Hogwarts.
The compartment door slid open.
He looked up from the window just in time to see Hermione standing there, arms folded, her expression anything but pleased.
"Hermione," he said, mildly surprised. "What are you wandering around for? Lose something?"
She shot him an unmistakably sharp look and dropped onto the seat opposite him. "What do you think?"
Ah.
Victor winced inwardly as realisation caught up with him. Of course she was angry. He'd vanished from Hogwarts without a word—no explanation, no goodbye, nothing. From her perspective, he'd simply disappeared.
"It seems you're upset," he said carefully.
"Upset?" Hermione repeated. "You go blind, get dragged home by your parents, disappear for weeks, and no one tells me anything. Yes, Victor. Upset."
Right. Definitely upset.
Victor rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry," he said, more seriously now. "I didn't mean to worry you. My parents are… strict. Once they decided I was leaving, I didn't get much say in anything. Including saying goodbye."
Hermione's glare softened just a fraction, though she still looked unconvinced. "You could've sent a letter."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "You should know—I don't know your address. Hard to send a letter when I don't know where it's supposed to go."
Hermione paused… then sighed. Annoyingly, he was right.
She hesitated, then leaned a little closer, lowering her voice. "Well… your eyes. Are they fine now? Can you see properly, or—?"
"They're completely fine," Victor said easily. Then, with a faint grin, he added, "I can see your cute face and your bushy hair very clearly. Up close, too."
Hermione froze.
Then she realised just how close she'd leaned in.
She cleared her throat sharply, gave him a light shove on the arm, and leaned back in her seat. "Don't be ridiculous."
Victor chuckled, satisfied.
"So did anything happen while I was gone?" Victor asked, turning toward her.
Hermione shook her head. "Not really. Everything's still the same. Classes, homework, people panicking over homework."
"Comfortingly chaotic," Victor said.
She smiled, then asked, "So… how was your Christmas?"
Victor hesitated.
He very much wanted to say I got a fiancée at eleven, but he valued his peace—and Hermione's sanity—far too much.
If he said it now, he could be certain he wouldn't know a moment of quiet for months.
So he didn't.
"Nothing special," he said instead. "Same as usual. A house full of boring guests who like to talk about lineage and old alliances."
Hermione blinked. "That's your idea of Christmas?"
"That's my family's idea of one," Victor replied dryly.
Curiosity got the better of her. "So how is Christmas celebrated in wizarding families? Is it… different?"
"If anything, I'd prefer a normal Christmas," Victor said. "At my house it's more like a formal meeting. No heartfelt smiles—just polite ones. Everyone saying the right things at the right time."
Hermione stared at him.
"That sounds… miserable," she said at last. "Christmas is supposed to be warm. Family. Laughter. Friends."
Victor gave a faint shrug. "Not every family defines it the same way. Traditions differ."
She frowned. "I still don't understand why anyone would choose to celebrate Christmas like that."
Victor turned his gaze back to the window, watching the landscape blur as the train sped onwards.
"Tradition" he said quietly. "Some families celebrate joy. Others celebrate appearances."
*****
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