The morning sun spilled through the castle windows, washing the stone halls of Hogwarts in a warm golden light. Students moved in groups toward their next class, still buzzing about the incident that had shaken the school — the Hufflepuffs' mass complaint.
Roy, calm as always, walked beside Daphne and Cassandra toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. His sharp blue eyes caught every detail — the nervous chatter, the curious stares. Yet beneath his serene smile, his mind worked quietly, calculating.
Today's class, however, felt… different.
When Professor Quirrell entered the room, there was no trembling voice, no hunched posture, no stammering "W–Welcome, students." Instead, he stood tall — his movements fluid, his tone commanding.
"Open your textbooks," he said smoothly, his dark eyes gleaming with quiet power. "Today, we will learn how to repel magical creatures that feed on fear — the Boggart, the Kappa, and the Hinkypunk."
A hush fell over the class. The transformation was so sudden that several students exchanged bewildered looks. Even Hermione, who never missed a detail, frowned slightly, quill hovering over her parchment.
But Roy — sitting near the back — didn't react at all. He simply watched, an unreadable look in his blue diamond-like eyes.
So… it's finally happened.
He could feel it — the faint ripple of malevolent magic in the air, like a thin mist clinging to the walls. It wasn't Quirrell anymore. The subtle tremor of human nervousness was gone; in its place was an aura of cold control, a fragment of something ancient and hungry.
Voldemort.
Roy rested his chin on his hand, pretending to take notes as Quirrell lectured.
So, the Dark Lord's making his move earlier than the books said, he thought calmly. But I'm not Harry Potter. As long as he doesn't cross my path… I won't bother interfering yet.
For the rest of the period, Quirrell — or rather, Voldemort — demonstrated a few defensive charms with unnerving precision. The man's magic felt smooth, effortless, like an artist painting death in slow motion.
When the bell rang, the students began packing up, whispering excitedly about how amazing Professor Quirrell suddenly seemed.
But then—
"Mr. Valvas," Quirrell's smooth voice called. "A moment, please."
The chatter died instantly. A few students cast curious glances, but Roy merely nodded and stayed behind as the others left.
When the door closed, the silence was heavy. Voldemort's vessel turned toward him, eyes glinting like polished obsidian.
"You're quite attentive in class," Quirrell said slowly, his tone more… measured. "Tell me, Mr. Valvas, what did you think of my lesson today?"
Roy met his gaze without flinching.
"It was excellent, Professor. Clear, well-structured… and much more practical than before."
The faintest curl of a smile touched Quirrell's lips — the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes.
"I'm glad you approve. I find that fear is best conquered through power, not words."
Roy nodded, though his mind was sharp as a blade.
He's probing me. Trying to see if I notice the change.
Then, with almost casual grace, Quirrell reached under his desk and pulled out a small, black leather-bound book. The air around it pulsed faintly — dark, potent.
"Here," he said, sliding it across the table. "A gift. I believe a mind like yours may appreciate the… deeper arts."
Roy glanced down. The book's surface was cold to the touch, its edges humming with restrained malice. He recognized it immediately — a compendium of cursed incantations. Black magic.
He looked up, expression calm.
"That's quite generous, Professor. But I'm not interested in dark magic."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed slightly behind Quirrell's mild smile.
"Oh? And why is that, young man? Power is power, regardless of its color."
Roy tilted his head, his tone casual but firm.
"Power gained without control destroys the wielder. And I'd rather not end up as someone's puppet."
For the briefest instant, the temperature in the room dropped. Voldemort's presence inside Quirrell stirred. He almost smiled again — this time, a predator's amusement.
"Wise words for one so young," Quirrell murmured. "Very well, perhaps you prefer something… cleaner."
He scribbled something quickly on a piece of parchment and handed it to Roy. Two incantations glowed faintly in the old wizarding script:
Fulmen Arcanum – A lightning spell of raw precision, used by ancient duellists.
Glacius Nova – An advanced freezing charm that condensed the air into solid ice crystals.
"These are spells from my… travels," Quirrell said smoothly. "No darkness in them. Only discipline."
Roy accepted the paper, slipping it neatly into his notebook.
"Thank you, Professor. I'll test them out later."
He turned and began walking toward the door, but just before leaving, he paused — and glanced back over his shoulder.
"By the way," Roy said softly, "you're teaching much better these days. Almost like a new man."
Quirrell's — Voldemort's — smile froze slightly.
"…Indeed."
Roy smiled faintly and left, closing the door behind him.
When he was gone, Voldemort's voice hissed faintly from within Quirrell's mind.
"That boy… is not ordinary."
"No, my Lord," Quirrell whispered under his breath. "He saw through the change… I could feel it."
"Watch him," Voldemort hissed. "Do not provoke him yet. But if he interferes with my plans… he dies."
The candles flickered out one by one, leaving the room in darkness.