After stepping out of Snape’s office, Victor’s mood remained unaffected by the prophecy they had just discussed—still relaxed and at ease, a stark contrast to the other two who were far more entangled with the prophecy.

After all, it wasn’t his doom being foretold.

The biggest difference between Victor and Snape, though, was that Victor had no idea whose shrill voice had spoken the prophecy.

From Snape and Draco’s reactions, he could guess it was likely the legendary Dark Lord, with mentions of pureblood pride and such, but beyond that, he wasn’t particularly informed.

Victor’s thoughts were more along the lines of: Oh, so that Dark Lord isn’t dead yet… What’s the big deal?

In his fairytale-like world, things were much more perilous. Rivers could harbor demons sealed for millennia, each bottle uncorked was like playing the lottery—with the grand prize being imminent mortal peril. Goblins, witches, dragons who could talk and abduct princesses—there were at least a dozen figures comparable to Voldemort in their notoriety and accomplishments.

Even the ordinary people of his world would likely respond with:

"Another Dark Lord? Are you sure it’s not just a regular demon king? Oh, it’s not? That’s fine, I’ll just move. Heard the kingdom next door is wizard-protected, sounds safer."

It was as simple as that.

Thus, Victor didn’t give the matter much thought. He figured he’d deal with the Dark Lord when the time came.

“What are you thinking about?”

A voice suddenly called from behind him, carrying a distant, hazy tone but laced with undeniable glee at someone else’s misfortune.

Victor turned to see a peculiar-looking ghost. It resembled a tiny dwarf, with a pair of mischievous eyes and a wide mouth. It floated mid-air, waving its arms and legs with a devilish grin as it stared at Victor.

Victor observed the ghost for a moment, then asked in surprise:

“I didn’t know there were dwarves in the magical world. Where did you live before you died?”

“...?”

The diminutive ghost froze briefly, then its face twisted into an expression of rage.

“I’m Peeves the Poltergeist, not a dwarf! Peeves has always been at Hogwarts—the master of mischief!”

Victor looked at him blankly for a moment, then gave a disinterested “Oh.”

“Boring.”

He sounded regretful.

Had it been an actual dwarf, his magical life would have truly been complete—because dwarves loved drinking. All he’d need to do was bring some wine and drink the night away with them, and they’d sign a five-hundred-year labor contract without hesitation.

Not to mention, dwarves were walking treasures. Their beards, cultivated over decades, were the best fertilizer for magical herbs. Their bodies brimmed with magical energy, and apart from their livers, almost every part could be put to good use…

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But hearing that Peeves wasn’t a dwarf instantly deflated Victor’s interest.

For Peeves, however, this indifference was the ultimate insult. He zoomed in front of Victor, his beady black eyes glaring menacingly.

“Peeves overheard you lot whispering about prophecies—oh! The awakening of fear! Oh! Shadows of the future!”

He mimicked their earlier conversation in a dramatic singsong tone, gesturing wildly before leaning in close to Victor’s face with a sly chuckle.

“You scared that little Slytherin boy! He’s terrified. He won’t do it. He’s changing—poor little Draco’s going to behave now. You’re taking all the fun out of it for Peeves!”

Victor frowned in confusion. “Are you saying Malfoy’s so scared of me that he won’t even bother others anymore? That’s impossible.”

Peeves paused mid-air, then replied cryptically, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You don’t understand people~”

He twirled in the air, letting out another gleeful cackle.

Victor couldn’t be bothered to respond. He didn’t even feel annoyed—he simply waved Peeves off.

“Go away. We’ve got nothing to talk about.”

“Go? Impossible! I’m going to torment you, Bat Junior!” Peeves laughed again. “Did you know? That dull ghost, the Bloody Baron, has been so busy lately—running east and west across the castle, keeping an eye on someone. He doesn’t have time for me anymore!”

“So with the Baron gone, the castle belongs to Peeves now!”

“Hoo hoo hoo hoo…”

“But if you bow to me, I might make you Peeves’ second-in-command and let you help me prank old McGonagall… Since we’re so alike,” Peeves teased with a triumphant grin.

Victor paused mid-step.

“We’re alike?”

Peeves, still floating and grinning, waved his hand, making nearby candles float as well. “Of course. You, me—we’re the same.”

“Ah, haven’t told anyone yet, have you? Is it some big secret? Oh! Then I’ll have to think of a spectacular way to reveal it. Those little school kids would love to know!”

He spun in the air, gleefully planning aloud.

Victor, however, suddenly pulled a coin from his pocket and held it up.

“Let me bribe you, then,” he said with a smile. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Hmm?”

Peeves glanced at the coin. “A plain coin? You think that’s enough to bribe the great Peeves?”

“Oh, let me see what trick you’re playing!”

Stretching his ghostly hand toward the coin, Peeves grabbed it—only for an immense suction force to emanate from the coin, instantly pulling him in!

Peeves struggled, but it was futile. He was dragged into the coin without resistance.

“AAAAH!”

“Clink.”

“Ding ding ding…”

The coin spun on the floor before coming to a halt.

Now, the corridor was silent save for Victor’s presence.

A few seconds later, Victor bent down, picked up the coin, and muttered disdainfully, “You? Like me?”

Shaking his head, he glanced at the cursed coin containing Peeves before pocketing it.

Dealing with Peeves was simple—set up a ghost-catching spell in an empty classroom, lock the door, and tell Peeves not to open it… Within thirty minutes, he’d walk right into the trap.

Before storing the coin, Victor gave it a final glance, thinking, Let’s put this in the bottle with that grudge-bearing fellow against King Solomon. After all these years, he must be bored enough to enjoy some company.

His footsteps echoed down the empty hallway, gradually fading away.

Elsewhere, Malfoy stumbled out of the Potions classroom, one hand pressed to his forehead. His eyes were unfocused, and his steps were shaky.

As they exited, a faint “ding” sound came from afar, but neither he nor Snape paid it any mind.

“My head feels dizzy, Professor,” Draco Malfoy said, leaning against a wall and rubbing his temples, his vision blurred.

“That’s normal. It’ll pass,” Snape said coldly. “You’re allergic to the potion—probably due to the Flobberworm extract. Avoid live worms in the future.”

“I have matters to attend to with the Headmaster. Return to the common room on your own.”

Without waiting, Snape strode off, leaving Malfoy massaging his temples.

What… what had he gone in there for again?

Oh. He was supposed to confront Potter. Because Potter got into the Quidditch team, and he hadn’t, despite being a pure-blooded noble…

As the word pure-blood crossed his mind, Malfoy shuddered inexplicably. His usual fervor for bloodline pride waned, and even the thought of bothering Harry felt unappealing.

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