A Professor of Magic at Hogwarts - Chapter 418: Lingering Soul

In the deep of night, atop a desolate mountain…

A weathered house, entwined with ivy, stood amidst the hills, radiant with an aura of spells. Felix paid it little heed, his gaze fixated on the darkened window on the top floor. With a gentle push, the door yielded, revealing a silent interior.

Navigating through a dim corridor, he approached an ancient door at the corridor’s end.

As he drew nearer, distant sounds reached his ears—a wheezing, panting wind-like noise mingled with the delicate clinking of glassware and the pouring of liquids.

“Bring the potion!” a chilling voice demanded.

Felix caught the sound of liquid trickling down a throat, followed by pained groans. Whoever imbibed it was suffering greatly, momentarily halting in agony.

“You’d better hope your son intercepts that elf, or you’ll endure much more…” The cold voice seemed to converse with someone, but Felix couldn’t hear any replies. He lightly tapped his forehead, tapping into magical sight, and spotted three sources of magic.

One seemed normal, but the other two… were disturbingly sinister.

Barty Crouch, Voldemort, and a dark wizard? Voldemort’s peculiar state—what set it apart? Why did Dumbledore have misgivings about this visit?

Felix’s mind raced, the Mirror of Erised swaying in his pocket. He raised his wand, focusing on the more pronounced magical disturbance. Dark arcs crackled at the wand’s tip, poised to unleash.

“Who’s out there?” the chilling voice echoed.

“Hiss!”

A bolt of darkness surged, piercing through the wooden door. Simultaneously, Felix pushed through the shattered remains, entering the room. His body shimmered with protective enchantments, cloaked in a coat woven from dragonhide and serpent skin.

Inside, a magical barrier intercepted his bolt. Yet, Felix took in everything.

It was a crude room. Barty Crouch stood by a chair, unsurprising, with a cradle on it—an infant resembling a skeletal figure, devoid of hair, covered in scales, skin dark and reddened, resembling wounded flesh.

Its limbs were thin and limp, its face a flat serpent’s visage with narrow slits in the eye’s place, emitting a haunting red glow.

“Mr. Voldemort, I must admit, seeing you in person is startling, despite my preparedness,” Felix said amiably, though his gaze remained fixed on the chair’s corner—a massive serpent, at least twelve feet long, slithering up Crouch’s body. Cleverly concealing most of itself, it revealed only its head behind Crouch’s neck, emitting a sinister hiss.

Felix’s initial target was that serpent.

The magical power within the serpent surpassed even the weakened Voldemort before him! He had misjudged the primary source based on magical sight. No, perhaps not…

Horcrux.

The word flashed in Felix’s mind.

Voldemort used a living being as a Horcrux. Hadn’t he considered that when this creature died, his fragmented soul would dissipate with it?

He gained a vivid understanding of Voldemort’s madness.

“Take Nagini and go,” Voldemort commanded from his seat.

At that moment, a bolt of darkness surged, aiming directly at the right side of Barty Crouch’s neck.

“Hiss! Hiss!”

After a teeth-grinding electrical crackle, the bolt was forcibly redirected, tearing a rift in the wall, allowing sparse moonlight to filter through.

Felix watched Voldemort, who breathed heavily, his chest emitting a wheezing noise akin to a bellows. Yet, it was sufficient, a mere potion and magical constructs forming a temporary vessel, deflected his attacks twice within moments.

He didn’t pursue further; Barty Crouch had already vanished with the serpent. Someone awaited them outside; Felix wondered if Voldemort would hemorrhage upon discovering.

White flames slowly materialized behind Felix. He looked at Voldemort with interest. “You personally intervening, it contradicts my impression of you… Are they crucial to you?”

“What makes you entertain such a ludicrous notion?” Voldemort said slowly, the previous two spells straining him. His infantile form leaned against the chair, resembling a talking mass of flesh.

His voice rasped, “If you had experienced my plight, felt my despair, you’d realize even a puppet, a lowly elf, cannot be easily abandoned…”

“So, you lack enough hands,” Felix nodded slightly, understanding why he survived. Flames behind him dwindled; Felix had absolute control, leaving nothing but a charred circle on the floor.

“You’re wondering why I don’t retaliate?” Voldemort’s discomforting voice echoed, “No need to worry. I’m currently powerless. My companions… months ago, I roamed the forests of Albania, possessing small creatures for extended periods, wearied by it all, yet unable to escape. I was worse than the most wretched ghost… I can only feel a shred of life through such means.”

“Until the dwarf, Peter, found you,” Felix stated, recognizing Voldemort’s single magical source within view. No portkeys, no magical traps—only Voldemort’s feeble but intensely malicious power twisted his perspective.

He suddenly realized Voldemort genuinely wanted to converse because he lacked the ability to resist.

“Yeah, until the dwarf, Peter, found me…” the raspy voice said, “A cowardly servant, though I hate to admit it. If he were still here, I’d be more at ease. A pity.” His tone was akin to losing a reusable napkin.

“Peter was taken by the Ministry’s people; he succumbed to a Dementor’s Kiss,” Felix narrated.

“I’m aware… he died, didn’t survive a week,” Voldemort replied indifferently. “I experimented, trying to extend their lives, but the results often fell short.”

“When you were at the peak?” Felix inquired.

“Only trivial play. When your minions are out glorifying your name, you need something to occupy yourself. Some of my servants… Bella enjoys torture, but I grew weary. I preferred studying dark magic, the arts of the abyss, as captivating as a starless, profound night…” Voldemort trailed off academically.

Then, slowly, he said, “My friend, ease your flames; we have ample time.”

Unmoved, Felix suppressed the flames further. His mastery over wildfire was exceptional; except for the charred circle on the ground, everything remained unscathed.

“Aren’t you going to speak? I’m listening, but forgive my limited patience,” Felix prodded.

Voldemort snickered, “I once thought of you as another Dumbledore, but you lack his patience…”

“Voldemort, you boast about your dark magic accomplishments, yet you couldn’t defeat Dumbledore. Do you know how people perceive your relationship? He’s the only one you fear. I’m curious, if not properly taught, would you allow such narratives to spread?”

“Dumbledore…” Voldemort murmured the name, his voice growing icier, “that old man hid himself too well. Everyone was deceived by him, a cunning hypocrite.”

He assessed Felix, sneering, “Perhaps you all perceive him as a babbling old man?”

“Isn’t he? He’s well over a hundred,” Felix pinpointed the crux, drawing upon valuable insights from his adversary.

Voldemort’s tone dripped with disdain, but he didn’t follow Felix’s

topic. “I’ve delved into your life, understood you in detail… Felix Harp, to my surprise, our origins are quite similar,” he murmured softly. “Both of us lived, not by choice, in a Muggle orphanage, gifted yet subject to peculiar stares—”

“Sorry, I was happy in the orphanage,” Felix interrupted, setting boundaries.

The air crackled with tension as the two wizards faced each other. Voldemort’s scarlet eyes flickered in the narrow slits, a crimson glow emanating from them. His tone, filled with nostalgia, spoke of irony. “So, a Muggle studies expert… how ironic. You are like my opposite.” He sighed wistfully, “I, too, once hoped to be your colleague. By your age, perhaps I could have been your professor. But Dumbledore refused me, without any mercy,” Voldemort lamented. “He always has been that way.”

“You must have been quite mischievous as a child to leave such a bad impression on him,” Felix teased.

Voldemort’s narrowed eyes snapped open, his skull-like face contorting. “Another one, another person brainwashed by him, Felix Harp. I suddenly don’t feel like killing you anymore. I want to see what he’ll do when you clash with him. From what I know, you’re not one to easily yield…”

Felix observed him intently. “Is this what it takes to become the Dark Lord? Extraordinary arrogance and imagination beyond measure?”

“It’s confidence and strategy,” Voldemort corrected.

“Alright,” Felix murmured, “then I need you to come with me. You better tell Dumbledore these words face to face; you surely have many private matters to discuss.”

“There will be a day for that, but not today. I’ll make a stirring speech over his dead body,” Voldemort declared.

Felix spread his hands wide, then swiftly brought them together. A pale, eerie fire converged at the center, coalescing into a long, pale sword that plummeted sharply.

Stepping back cautiously, Felix squinted, expecting Voldemort to employ some other tactic. Unexpectedly, the pale sword pierced Voldemort’s chest amid a burst of flames that engulfed him, climbing his form. The intense fire crackled and clung to Voldemort’s robes, consuming him fiercely.

In the raging inferno, Voldemort emitted a chilling scream, his narrow red eyes widening to their limits, fixated on Felix.

“Besides Dumbledore, you’re the second person to make me feel death, Felix Harp! I’ll remember you,” he cried out, his voice full of agony, consumed by the fiery pyre. A wispy, ethereal shadow arose from the flames, seeming insubstantial, like smoke, lacking substance.

In fire, he became fire; in water, a mere reflection.

“You can’t kill me, and I will return—,” the shadow twisted and howled in agony.

“Swoosh!”

A blinding green light pierced the shadow, but it had no effect. Following that, a silver shimmer crossed Felix’s eyes; spells like the Mind Palace and the Legilimens were futile.

Trouble.

Felix pondered. His magic was ineffective against Voldemort’s spectral form. And then he recalled that phrase:

“Worse than the lowliest wraith…”

Yet his hand remained steady. It was their first encounter, both caught off guard. Voldemort shielded his own Horcrux, and Felix pretended ignorance. He wasn’t sure if Dumbledore succeeded. If not, the next encounter could set a trap for the final blow.

Simultaneously, Voldemort had to stay, baiting himself. However, in his current state, he was powerless against Felix. He had prepared for losing this physical form; it meant little to him. Besides, engaging Felix in conversation might sow seeds of discord between him and Dumbledore.

Felix adeptly cast spells during this rare moment—Twisting Attraction, Black Lightning, Emerald Mist, Milky White Glow, Golden Flames—powerful magic surged at the Crouch residence, illuminating the night with dazzling brilliance.

He probed for the weak points in Voldemort’s residual soul, but Voldemort remained unfazed by these spells, breezing through the silver shields, drifting to a hole-riddled ceiling, sneering, “So many tricks, but for killing, one spell suffices!”

He left behind a veiled yet malicious gaze, darting toward the gloomy sky, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

After a moment of quiet, Felix breathed out softly.

“Once I complete the Tome of Magics, devising a runic script against you, you won’t escape,” he grumbled, realizing his magic was futile against Voldemort’s spectral form.

Voldemort was far from a true being at this point, beyond conventional means to harm. There was no recorded magic for this state in history. Perhaps that’s why Dumbledore knew about Voldemort’s lingering soul in the Albanian forest but refrained from action.

“Magic… memories… emotions… a projected existence. Is this his true form? A shadow cast amidst life and death, relying on Horcruxes to anchor a thread of himself. If I destroy all his Horcruxes before his rebirth, could I sever his foothold in reality?”

Felix pondered, reminiscent of his encounter with the loathsome Hallow’s Horcrux, questioning the same.

Though Voldemort ignored many of his spells, it was due to his peculiar state. Neither could affect the other. Voldemort’s urgency to flee suggested an unknown vulnerability.

He ruminated silently until a silver shadow abruptly appeared, descending upon the ruins.

Felix raised his arm, the silver phoenix guardian perching on his slender fingers. Dumbledore’s gentle voice resonated, “He fled, went underground… but I intercepted Barty and that snake.”

As the phoenix finished, it transformed into silver mist and dissipated.

“You’re something else,” Felix murmured, eyeing a picture frame on the table. Within it, Barty Crouch held his wife, beside them a handsome young man.

He had uncovered the identity of the spy within the castle.

Felix exited the room, leaving a torrent of roaring flames behind, devouring everything. He tossed the frame into the inferno, standing in the cold night, gazing at the consuming fire.

“Why isn’t anyone spreading your story, Voldemort?” He mused playfully.

Raising his wand high, he chanted a spell learned from Lucius Malfoy, “Reassemble Bones!” A green light soared into the sky.

A colossal, skeletal figure, composed of countless emerald, star-like pieces, emerged. A large serpent slithered from its mouth like a tongue. Ascending higher, the skeleton emitted a dazzling light amid a greenish mist, resembling a new constellation against the dark night sky.

In the distance, Dumbledore’s faint figure shook his head disapprovingly at Felix’s action. Still, he didn’t intervene. It was time for the Ministry of Magic to be vigilant.

He turned away; tonight had too much to handle. At least there was a spy in the castle, though he wasn’t sure if they’d capture them in time. Barty’s injuries were severe, and the only regret was the snake’s swift demise; it turned out to be a Horcrux, information he hadn’t received through the communication mirrors.

Felix waved his hand, extinguishing the roaring fire, leaving ruins in its wake.

He strode away, vanishing abruptly into the shelter of the woods, leaving behind a somber voice that lingered in the dark night.

“Until we meet again, Voldemort. I hope you’ve recovered by then…”

…

A few minutes ago—

Hogwarts Castle, Gryffindor Dormitory. Harry jolted awake from his bed, a splitting headache piercing his skull.

About the main character

issue, there’s an explanation in the top comment of the book’s reader circle, but many readers missed it. Here’s my reply to a reader in the reader circle, which still applies:

(Regarding the main character issue) I’m not sure either; the perspectives of readers and authors differ. The outline I’ve designed doesn’t hinge on any romantic pairing, and even popular pairings are too young, so even if there is a pairing, it’s something that will happen many years later. What I can assure is that this book won’t involve any romantic ambiguity (normal interactions don’t count).

When I write, I realize that while the outline sets the story’s direction, I have no idea about the specific plot for the next day. I need to think on the spot. Interactions with female characters happen naturally for me. As an author, I’ll try to lay groundwork, but whether it becomes the beginning of a relationship depends on the story’s development later on. I’ve thought multiple times about the story’s ending—it might be a sudden realization of solitude after a thousand years, or being under the spotlight amid a bustling crowd, or retiring to seclusion in the woods and finding solace.

Summing up, will there be romantic ambiguity in this book? No. Love scenes? Unlikely or minimal. Will there be pairings? It depends on the plot’s development, the author’s feeling while writing, and the feedback from readers about the female characters.

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