Evening twilight gradually deepened over Hogwarts Castle, enveloping its ancient walls in a mystical blue. The corridors, usually filled with chatter and laughter, were now empty, only rare shadows gliding through them, heading towards their common rooms. Viktor waited. He had chosen the perfect spot: a dark, unremarkable alcove in one of the long, winding third-floor corridors, near a staircase. Leaning against the cold stone wall, he indifferently examined his short-clipped nails, as if it were the most fascinating activity in the world. He knew exactly that, according to the schedule, Marcus Flint was supposed to return this way after his Transfiguration elective with Professor McGonagall.
Viktor's heart beat steadily, without a hint of excitement.
A couple of minutes later, precisely as calculated, Viktor heard approaching footsteps. Heavy, slightly uneven, they betrayed a person lost in their own thoughts. Viktor peeked around the corner and saw Marcus. The fourth-year Slytherin walked with his head down, his large teeth, which gave his face a slightly predatory expression, hidden in shadow. He looked tired, his gaze fixed somewhere into space, completely oblivious to his surroundings, especially the small figure lurking in the shadows. Viktor, wand at the ready, waited until Marcus passed him, literally by inches. Then, with a sharp but precise movement, Viktor touched the tip of his wand to Marcus's temple. The wand glowed with a faint blue light.
Marcus's eyes, previously empty, instantly dulled even further, becoming glassy, devoid of any expression. His body tensed for a fraction of a second, and then slowly, like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut, Marcus collapsed to his knees, his head falling to his chest.
Viktor closed his eyes with his free hand, removed his wand, and quietly but firmly pronounced, his voice echoing in the empty corridor: "Focus on the darkness... close your eyes... I count to three, and you will fall asleep." Then he slowly, distinctly began to count: "One... two... three..." With each number, Marcus's body relaxed further. Removing his hand from his eyes, Viktor looked at him, ensuring the depth of the trance, and said: "Stand up." And Marcus, unwillingly, as if controlled by an invisible force, rose to his feet.
This wasn't his first such "experiment," though the scale and consequences this time promised to be significantly more spectacular. While he was in the psychiatric clinic, time hadn't been wasted. Besides learning languages and devouring books on a wide variety of subjects—from history to theoretical physics—he observed how psychiatrists manipulated patients' minds, saw how words could become invisible chains, and gestures, keys to another's mind. Immersing himself in specialized literature, he quickly understood the principles of the human psyche, its vulnerabilities, and methods of influence. For him, this was not just knowledge, but a new, exciting tool of control.
Viktor couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction. This wasn't just subjugation; it was the erasure of will, the temporary transformation of a person into an obedient puppet. He reveled in this sense of boundless power, which allowed him to penetrate and control another's mind.
"Where are you going?" Viktor asked, checking the level of submission and clarity of response.
"To Slytherin," Marcus answered monotonously, his voice devoid of any inflection, mechanical and empty.
"Are you meeting today to discuss me?" Viktor continued, his voice calm, almost gentle.
"Yes," Marcus confirmed briefly, like a robot.
"What exactly is the topic of the meeting?" Viktor took his time, savoring each answer.
"We are bewildered why, instead of subduing you, the first years submitted to you," Marcus replied, his voice remaining monotonous, revealing the true concerns of the older Slytherins.
Viktor smiled. This was exactly what he wanted to hear. Their pride was wounded, their hierarchy disrupted. Perfect. He asked a couple more questions of interest, clarifying the details of the meeting: who would be present, how important the meeting was to them, what the mood was among the older students. Having received exhaustive answers, Viktor sighed, as if canceling an invisible spell. "Good. Now describe the meeting place to me."
Marcus, with the same impassive precision, described a dark, vaulted room somewhere in the Slytherin dungeons, its location behind a hidden door, even the number of chairs and the shape of the table.
"Good," Viktor nodded, imprinting the information in his memory. "Now, come closer, I want to give you a task." He brought his lips to Marcus's ear and began to whisper something, his voice barely audible, words flowing like snake venom, penetrating deep into the subconscious, solidifying the command. It was a complex, multi-stage suggestion, designed to work at the right moment.
Finishing, Viktor stepped back a few paces, observing Marcus. "Now I count to three, and you will wake up remembering nothing, except that you need to go to the Slytherin common room." Then he slowly began to walk away, his gaze fixed on Marcus, as he counted: "One... two..." Viktor reached the corner of the corridor, hid behind it, cast a final glance at Marcus's helpless figure, smiled, and barely audibly pronounced: "Three!"
Marcus flinched, his eyes focused, as if he had just emerged from a deep sleep. He looked around, blinked slightly, then shrugged, as if nothing unusual had happened, and, as if by instinct, continued down the corridor towards the Slytherin common room.
Viktor waited until his puppet was completely out of sight. Then he allowed himself to relax. First, he chuckled silently, then the chuckle grew into an exaggerated, theatrical laugh that echoed through the empty corridor. He laughed so hard that he eventually coughed, gasping for air.
"Damn," he muttered. "I need to practice my villainous laugh. It's not impressive enough yet." Then he pondered, looking at the ceiling, as if reflecting on something profound. "Wait, am I a villain?" He frowned, and then a wide, mischievous smile lit up his face. "Pffffff... no, I'm just a good boy who wants to protect himself from bullies. And bullies need to be punished so they learn their lesson." With this cheerful and utterly immoral thought, he walked lightly and easily towards the Slytherin dungeons, anticipating the coming show.
Darkness and oppressive silence. Somewhere deep in the Slytherin dungeons, behind one of the unremarkable, moss-covered stone doors, was a secret room. This was an unofficial but well-known gathering place for the older and most influential students of the house, a kind of headquarters for conspiracies and discussions of important matters. Inside, around a massive, roughly hewn stone table, several people had already gathered—members of Slytherin's high society, third, fourth, and fifth-year students. Their faces, illuminated only by the flickering light of a single magical lamp, expressed a mixture of arrogance, boredom, and slight unease. They spoke in hushed tones, exchanging displeased glances.
At that moment, the door creaked, and Marcus shuffled into the room. He looked ordinary, but his eyes were slightly emptier than usual, as if he had just woken up.
"Marcus, are you alright?" asked one of the boys, sitting closest to the entrance, noticing his slightly distracted appearance.
Marcus shrugged. "Yes, just... a strange feeling. As if I forgot something." He slumped into a chair, his thoughts somewhere far away; he felt unwell, not physically, but as if his brain was foggy and a bad premonition churned in his stomach. He barely listened to the sluggish gossip of the others.
At this moment, Gemma entered the room confidently, head held high. Her appearance immediately brought a note of seriousness and discipline. Her aura of authority was almost palpable. Taking the head seat at the table, she surveyed everyone with a cold, evaluating gaze.
"And can someone explain to me what's going on with the first-years and where Malfoy is?" she asked, her voice as hard as steel. "I asked him to be called too. We need to discuss how to put this upstart in his place."
The girl sitting to Gemma's right carefully stood up. "I invited him, Gemma. He said he was busy today." A slight bewilderment was in her voice.
Gemma frowned. "And Greengrass?"
The girl sighed heavily. "She didn't even talk. Just turned away and left." She paused, then added with a worried expression: "I think everyone in first year is afraid of Viktor. I asked others what happened, but they're silent and just run away, as if they're enchanted."
Gemma shook her head, her brows knitted together. "Yes, I even heard Viktor is sleeping in a private room. A room usually reserved for pure-bloods." Surprise was in her voice.
The boy who had previously spoken to Marcus jumped up, slamming his fist on the table. His face contorted with anger. "How dare that... that Mudblood occupy—"
But before he could finish speaking, Marcus, sitting nearby, suddenly stood up abruptly. Everyone in the room looked at him strangely, sensing a sudden, eerie change in the atmosphere. His eyes, which a second ago had only been empty, now became glassy, lifeless, with no flicker of consciousness; they looked as if he was somewhere far away.
"Marcus, what's wrong with you?!" the boy cried out, stepping back, feeling a strange, frightening aura emanating from Flint.
Marcus had felt unwell all evening. Not physically, but as if an invisible hand was squeezing his brain, causing an unsettling, oppressive premonition. He could barely concentrate on the conversations, words merging into an indiscernible background. But when the word "Mudblood" reached his ears—it was a word spoken with particular contempt and hatred in his pure-blood family—something inside him clicked. The trigger had been pulled.
Suddenly, Marcus smiled. It wasn't his usual, slightly awkward smile, but a wide, eerie, distorted grimace, full of a foreign, malicious glee that completely mismatched his face. His body tensed.
"My master asked me to deliver..." Marcus began, his voice sounding alien and low, as if it didn't belong to him but to a distant echo. "...he asked me to deliver a gift in return for the one you presented to him."
Then, before anyone could react, before Gemma could even open her mouth to order something, Marcus sharply drew his wand from his robe sleeve, its wooden tip gleaming in the dim light. He pointed it directly at the center of the massive stone table, on which scrolls and parchments lay, and yelled, his voice loud and sharp, echoing through the cramped room:
"BOMBARDA MAXIMA!"
A powerful, deafening explosion shook not only the room but the entire dungeon. The stone table shattered into thousands of fragments, the shockwave throwing everyone sitting around it backwards. Part of the walls collapsed, raising clouds of dust, and the heavy wooden door flew out of its frame with a horrible screech, crashing to the corridor floor. A flash of light illuminated the ruined room, and then everything plunged into semi-darkness, filled with groans and debris.
Viktor, sitting in his private room, calmly reading some ancient runic book, heard a dull but perceptible explosion that shook the stone walls. He put down the book, and a wide, satisfied smile spread across his face. His eyes gleamed with mischievous fire. He began to laugh silently, his shoulders shaking, and unconcealed triumph in his eyes.
"Yes," he muttered, looking at the ceiling as if talking to the universe, "art is an explosion." With a smile, he continued to read his book, as if nothing unusual had happened, and the sounds of chaos coming from the common room were merely pleasant background noise.
In the Slytherin common room, a real uproar immediately began. The loud bang and subsequent crash woke or frightened most students. Dormitory doors opened one after another, and students, half-asleep or terrified, ran into the common room, their faces pale, their hair disheveled.
"What was that?!" someone shouted from the crowd, looking around in panic.
"An earthquake?!" another muttered.
A third, peeking into the corridor from where groans and shouts emanated, pointed a trembling hand at the ruined room. "It's in there! In that room! What happened?!"
Everyone in the common room, gripped by panicked curiosity, rushed to the scene. The door, once sturdy, now lay on the floor, torn from its hinges. Inside the room, chaos reigned: shards of the stone table were scattered across the floor, furniture was splintered, part of the walls had collapsed, exposing bare stones. And on the floor, amidst the debris, lay the figures of the older students—those who had been at the meeting. Some were unconscious, others groaned in pain, trying to regain consciousness, covered in dust and minor wounds. The air was filled with the acrid smell of burnt debris.
The Slytherin first-years, drawn out of their dormitories by the general commotion, also approached the scene. They saw the chaos, the groans of the older students, the ruined room. And although shock and horror were visible on the faces of other students, the first-years merely exchanged glances among themselves. There was no fear on their faces, not even curiosity. Their eyes showed shock, then, as if nothing had happened, they, one by one, quietly, almost silently, returned to their dormitories, leaving the older students in a state of panic and bewilderment. Today, their fear of Viktor grew even stronger.