Chapter 22: The First Night at Hogwarts

The welcome feast drew to a close, an agonizing affair for the sweating and fidgeting Professor Quirrell. For everyone else, however, it was a joyous occasion. Harry, in particular, was wolfing down his food as if he hadn't eaten in weeks.

He was never starved at the Dursleys', but he was never truly full either, because Dudley would devour everything within his line of sight, including Harry’s share of the pasta. The last time he had truly eaten his fill, he recalled, was in the house of Baba Yaga.

The memory of that experience lingered in his mind, even as Percy began leading the Gryffindor first-years to their common room. So far, aside from the moving portraits, nothing at Hogwarts had quite measured up to the sheer magical strangeness of a hut that stood on chicken legs.

"Why doesn't the school make the cutlery move on its own?" Harry couldn't help but ask as they walked. "Then I wouldn't have to reach over to pour my own water."

Percy, walking ahead, replied without turning, "A bit unnecessary, isn't it? Generally, things that move like that are alchemical items. The photographs you see are made with alchemical cameras. To apply the same effect to thousands of plates would be a rather massive undertaking." He added, "But the main reason is that the school's dinnerware has been here for a very long time. It's a part of Hogwarts' memory, so there's no need to change what still works."

I see. Harry nodded, only half-understanding.

None of this, however, changed his firm belief that Professor Victor was an incredibly wealthy man. The fawning way Mr. Borgin had treated him was like watching someone stare into an open vault at Gringotts.

Lost in this thought, Harry's group passed through another corridor. In the dim glow of the magical candlelight, a pale face flashed in his vision at the far end of the hall. Harry recognized it instantly: it was Victor.

He couldn't resist glancing back one more time.

This time, he saw that Victor was not alone. Standing opposite him was a blood-stained, shackled ghost with a cold, impassive expression. It was the Bloody Baron of Slytherin.

Faint sounds drifted down the corridor.

"...I know your secret..."

"...I won't tell... the school..."

"...what trial must I pass? As long as... I can do anything..."

The voice was hoarse yet ethereal, a dreadful sound that seemed to rise from the very earth beneath him. Harry shivered involuntarily. He knew at once it was the voice of the Bloody Baron.

What was he saying—a trial?

Harry's mind flashed back to his first visit to Baba Yaga's hut. They had mentioned a "trial" then, too, and said that if he passed it, they would help him get his revenge. At the thought, his curiosity became unbearable. What if he could listen in and pass the trial himself? He didn't even need revenge—maybe he could just learn some magic? Like Divination!

"I'm just going to the washroom!" he called out to Percy.

He darted away before Percy could protest, leaving the prefect to shout after him, "Alright, but remember the password! It's 'Dragon Dregs'!"

Harry doubled back, sneaking quietly toward the corner where the Bloody Baron and Professor Victor stood. Nearly-Headless Nick, Gryffindor's ghost, had told him the Baron never spoke to anyone, but the exception to that rule was standing right before his eyes.

Pressing himself against the cold stone wall, Harry could hear the conversation clearly now.

First came Professor Victor's voice. "...I cannot agree. You no longer have a price to pay. Fulfilling any wish requires a fair exchange. If I spend my own magic seeing the future for free every day, I'll disappear before long."

Then, the Bloody Baron's dreadful rasp. "I can pay anything. If you will only let me see that moment, even my soul—"

"No, Mr. Baron," Victor's voice was unnervingly detached. "You no longer have a soul. What remains of you is merely the one memory you could not forget, and after being washed by centuries of time, it is no different from chewed-up tea dregs."

"Then what about time?" the Baron pressed. "I saw you that day! Trelawney traded her time with you, and she gained a true prophetic ability! You must help me! I would give anything for this—I have plenty of time! Take it all!"

Hiding behind the wall, Harry's eyes went wide with astonishment. Time? You can trade time? And Professor Trelawney... wasn't she the old Divination professor?

But the two in the corridor continued their argument without pause.

"You have nothing, Mr. Baron," Victor stated flatly. "The prerequisite for owning time is being alive. You have long been dead. You are an empty shell, devoid of any other emotion, and you possess no currency to exchange."

Victor continued to refuse him. But the Bloody Baron had clearly been pestering him for some time and had no intention of giving up. He asked several more questions, each one being methodically rejected.

Finally, Victor said with a clear note of annoyance, "Alright, alright, stop pestering me."

"Let's do this. Since you have no price to pay yourself, you can find something that can pay the price. For example, a genuine, emotional soul. Or a living person you can bring to me. A bad one would be best."

"A bad person? What do you mean?"

"A wizard with strong, evil emotions in their heart. They are emotionally volatile, neurotic, and have a great deal of magic. They have plenty of a price to pay. Bring me one to make the exchange for you, or tell me their secrets, and I can divine for you the path to your release."

There was a long silence.

Just as Harry thought the Baron must have disappeared, the ghost spoke again, his voice as cold and indifferent as his usual appearance.

"I understand."

Harry peeked around the corner just in time to see the Baron drift away through a solid wall, leaving Victor standing alone for a moment. Harry quickly pulled his head back, his mind racing.

What was this prophetic transaction Professor Victor was talking about? Why did he need secrets and emotions from other people?

"Could it really be..."

"Really be what?"

A quiet voice spoke from directly behind him. Harry felt his heart skip a beat.

Somehow, without making a sound, Victor was now standing right in front of him, looking down at him.

"I-I-I'm sorry, Professor Victor! I heard him say something about a trial and I couldn't help but be curious, and before, Baba Yaga said she had a trial for me, so I was thinking maybe I could pass it so I—" Harry was so frightened he was babbling incoherently.

But Victor still caught the important parts. "You want to pass Baba Yaga's trial? For what? Revenge on your aunt and uncle?"

"No! I—I just want to learn some magic," Harry confessed, his voice small. "The book Mr. Borgin gave me, From Bloodline to Blasphemy, Professor McGonagall took it away because I used a bad spell on the train."

"I'm worried I won't be able to learn any other spells now..." Harry looked down at his shoes, ashamed. "I'm sorry, Professor."

"That's of no concern."

Victor seemed completely unbothered by being eavesdropped on, or by the confiscation of the book. He simply thought for a moment, looking Harry up and down.

"It's not impossible," he said finally. "Your talent is quite special. You could come and help me with some trivial matters. Come assist me once a week, and I will teach you a little magic. How does that sound?"

"Yes, Professor! Absolutely!" Harry's head shot up. "But what kind of magic? Is it Divination?"

"A little magic," Victor said, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips, "that you won't find anywhere else."