— What's the problem, exactly? I know what to do: just don't interfere, — the double stretched out languidly on the bed, clasping his hands behind his head.
— Yes, but I'm still worried. What if something goes wrong? — Victor tapped his cane irritably against the floor. — Maybe it's worth supervising the process?
— No, the Basilisk is an ancient and sensitive creature. It will definitely feel your presence.
— And what am I left with?
— Deciding. Stick to the canonical plot or save Hermione, — the double sat up, a predatory grin spreading across his face. — Although, there is another option... I could just destroy the diary and have some real fun with the Basilisk. I think it would be great!
— Ha-ah... Well, there they are: my hidden desires finally breaking through, — Victor sighed heavily. — You're no help at all.
— Hey, I'm just your clone. A living embodiment of your own thoughts, — the copy smiled.
— I don't want to mess with the main course of events, but I don't want to leave Hermione's life to chance either. I need a solution, or I'll go mad...
— Wait! There's always alchemy! — the double suddenly exclaimed.
— Exactly... How could I forget? — Victor extended his hand, and in his palm, an ancient pendant on a thin chain wove itself out of crimson smoke.
— It will work, — they said in unison.
— Nicolas created it to protect the soul when he first came into contact with the energy of the Philosopher's Stone, — the copy nodded.
— Precisely. If it can contain the power of the Stone—and I felt that personally—then the Basilisk's deadly gaze is something it can handle. Hermione's soul will remain safe even if her body suffers.
— And even if she doesn't manage to use the mirror like in the original, she'll only be petrified, not killed, — the double confirmed.
— Settled. I'll go and attach it to Hermione's robes, making it invisible.
— Hurray! We found a way out! — the copy clapped its hands joyfully and instantly dissolved into the air.
Victor touched himself with the tip of his wand, and his figure began to slowly fade. A moment later, the door to the room swung open soundlessly and immediately clicked shut.
For Victor, endlessly boring days followed. Immersed in eternal darkness, he lost track of time; days flew by like hours, merging into one gray canvas. First, he focused on training his senses, trying to feel his surroundings as deeply as possible. Before, he hadn't given it much importance, but now the magic permeating the world became tangible, almost physically dense.
Only now did Victor realize just how powerful Dumbledore was. He had nursed the illusion that he was gradually approaching the Headmaster's level, but reality hit hard and mercilessly. Having begun to perceive the magic of others as multicolored auras, he once encountered the Headmaster in the Great Hall and nearly suffocated: Dumbledore's magic flooded the entire room like a tsunami in which Victor helplessly drowned.
Judging by his aura, Victor himself barely reached Snape's level. This did not please him at all, as there were two more hidden monsters in the school standing a rank above the Potions Master—McGonagall and Flitwick.
The realization of this side of the coin threw him into a pit of apathy. He dropped his training and began to wander aimlessly through the castle, muttering to himself. He paid no attention to the suspicious glances of students and some teachers who began to doubt his blindness; he walked through Hogwarts with far too much confidence.
And so, on one of these days, he found himself at the door of the Potions classroom.
— And, having calculated it all in my head, I realized it's unprofitable. Though it would be nice to make a profit on this, — Victor said, sitting at Snape's teacher's desk.
— Not all potions yield a profit, — Snape replied, strolling slowly between the rows. — You should focus on simple compositions for which the ingredients cost pennies. Nott! Lower the heat, you're about to burn everything! — he snapped at a passing student.
— No, simple potions are sold on every corner. You can charge a premium for your name, and people will buy it. But me? An unknown potioneer. I'd have to lower the price to compete with others, — Victor sniffed the fumes rising over the nearest cauldron and winced. — By the way, he's already burned it.
Snape frowned and approached the third-year. Inspecting the cauldron, he gave a short nod:
— It is so. Empty it and start over.
— But, sir, there's almost no time left! I won't make it! — the boy cried out in despair.
— Then you are finished for today. Ten points from Slytherin, — Snape replied coldly. — And I will tell you this: make a name for yourself. You have talent in abundance.
Victor stood up and, tapping his cane, headed toward the smell of burning.
— What kind of name can a second-year make? If I opened a shop, I'd have to use your authority. Or if in France, the name of Nicolas Flamel. Without a big brand, the market will swallow me whole.
Reaching the desk of the unlucky student, Victor took a deep breath:
— Which faction are you from?
The student flinched visibly.
— I... I'm from Gemma's faction, — he stammered.
— Prepare new ingredients, — Victor ordered in a soft tone.
The student nodded hastily and set to work.
— I don't know how things stand with Flamel, but you won't be able to use my name, — Snape called out from the other end of the class. — I spent too long earning my reputation; you can forget about that.
— Well then... A promising student's commercial streak suffers because of your reputation, — Victor sighed. — Add dried Billywig stings.
The student began to drop them in carefully, one by one. Victor, hearing the quiet splashes, shook his head:
— You can drop all six at once. Go on, don't be afraid. Now stir slowly, and when it starts to bubble—throw in the snake fangs. And you can turn the heat to maximum for now.
— Why the sudden interest in trade? Short on gold? — Snape asked, approaching.
— No, not really. I just have nowhere to put my stocks. I've brewed a whole lot, and now Adele has started practicing every day. My bag is already full, — Victor replied. Feeling the edge of the table, he hopped onto it easily, swinging his legs. — Drop the fangs in one by one.
— But the cauldron hasn't boiled yet! — the Slytherin protested.
— It will boil in a few seconds. Start dropping and stirring. When you see the first bubbles—immediately lower the flame to a minimum.
— What potions is she preparing? — Snape asked, studying the third-year's work.
— Most recently, she mastered the Shrinking Solution, — Victor replied with pride.
The third-years looked at him in surprise. The Shrinking Solution was a fourth-year curriculum item, and Victor's sister was only a first-year.
— Yes, she has talent, — Snape nodded. — Let her take on something more serious. Have you heard about the Granger girl's stunt? As a teacher, I am, of course, outraged, but as a Potions Master... I am impressed.
— Polyjuice Potion? Yes, I brewed it once. Not that it's hard, just a tedious and long process. It's a bit early for Adele; she's too restless. Now, add the Wolfsbane and stir until the color becomes blue-green. Then extinguish the fire, continuing to stir until it's fully finished.
Snape returned to his desk.
— Bring me the potions you want to sell. This weekend, I will be delivering my own orders and can tuck yours in. And push your sister—if she needs ingredients, I will provide them from my private stores.
Victor jumped to the floor.
— Professor, have you ever tried not to pressure students, but to guide them gently?
— I haven't tried and I don't intend to. I have my own methods.
Victor shook his head:
— Fine, have your fun. I'm going to lunch. It takes us blind folk more time to get anywhere. And as for the potions—thanks, I'll send someone to bring them over. — Having said this, he walked out of the classroom.
— Professor, I'm finished! — the third-year announced proudly.
Snape shot him a stern look, not even standing up to check:
— And what are you waiting for? Bottle it. Or can you do nothing without a step-by-step narration? On the next lesson, you will repeat it on your own. Fail, and you'll stay to scrub cauldrons.
The student nodded confidently. He was sure that from now on, everything would go like clockwork. But he was bitterly mistaken. Without Victor's acute sense of smell and hearing, or experience like Snape's, repeating that success was impossible for him.
Victor reached the Great Hall much faster than he expected. Sinking into his place at the long table, he gave a disappointed sigh, touching the empty tabletop.
— No food, no people... Why was I in such a hurry?
— Why "no one"? I am here, my young friend, — a rattling, cold voice spoke right in his ear.
Victor jumped.
— The Bloody Baron! You startled me. I didn't even feel your presence.
— My apologies, I did not mean to disturb you, — the ghost of Slytherin bowed his head, his silver chains clinking softly. — But let me ask: why are you not in class? Playing truant?
— No, I'm exempt. By the way, do you know when the tables will be set? Usually, I arrive right at the end.
— Any minute now. The house-elves are already finishing the preparations.
— That's good, — Victor relaxed, leaning against the back of the bench. — Well, since we both have nothing better to do, tell me, how was your Christmas?
The ghost floated closer. His face, eternally stained by the marks of an ancient tragedy, seemed especially grim in the half-empty hall.
— As usual. Wandering the corridors, scaring Peeves, trying to talk to Helena. For us ghosts, the choice of entertainment is slim.
— Do you ever regret your decision to stay? — Victor asked quietly.
The ghost froze for a moment, as if listening to the echo of his own thoughts.
— Do I regret it? It is hard to say. Do I get bored? Certainly. Do I miss the taste of food and the warmth of the sun? Every second. But do I want to go there, beyond the Veil? Definitely not. I am too afraid of the unknown. Who knows what awaits me on the "other side"?
Victor frowned, pondering the spirit's words.
— You know, I'm curious... Is it really that simple—to become a ghost?
The Baron shook his head slowly.
— It is not as easy as it seems. You know, over time, memories of what happened immediately after my suicide began to return to me bit by bit. I remember my manor, but it became blindingly white, boundless... I wandered there alone for a long time. Until one day I felt a foreign, all-consuming presence.
The ghost fell silent, and the air around him became noticeably colder.
— I realized: Death had come for me. And as ashamed as I am to admit it, I simply ran. I began to frantically remember my life, clinging to unfinished business, to every little thing I hadn't managed to do. And when I began to think about how unfairly I had treated Helena, I suddenly found myself back here, in the world of the living. At first, I just wandered for decades before I gathered the courage to come to Hogwarts.
Victor remembered "The Tale of the Three Brothers."
— And what did she look like? Death?
— I told you: I only felt a presence. Powerful, inevitable... And besides, I didn't remember it right away. When I first became a ghost, memory was like a fog: only the cold of the dagger, and then I was already floating above the ground.
At that moment, the air in the hall filled with the aroma of fresh pastries and roasted meat. Victor smiled contentedly.
— I'd like to see what Death actually looks like one day.
The Bloody Baron looked at him with genuine surprise.
— You are a very strange young man, do you know that? Usually, people try to avoid her, but you crave the meeting.
Victor merely shrugged, feeling for a fork.
— We'll all meet her sooner or later. This way, I'll at least know exactly whose guest I'm becoming.
The ghost tilted his head, dissolving into the air.
— I hope you do not meet her soon. Well then... bon appétit.
— Thanks, — Victor nodded, beginning his meal.
Soon the hall doors swung open, and the silence was shattered by the roar of hundreds of voices as students arrived for lunch.