To Voldemort, whose mastery of magic was deep enough to perceive Roger's strength, Roger was an undeniable "monster."
But to the average student, Roger was just a "weirdo."
Anyone who spoke with him would find his politeness and composure reassuring.
In class, he could cast almost every spell successfully on the first try and master them at an astonishing speed.
He kept a certain distance from everyone, never getting too close or playing around.
He was always reading, jotting down strange and cryptic notes in his notebook, exuding an air of a "prophet"—a mix of mystery and a hint of madness.
To many ordinary students, Roger was a contradiction.
One thing, however, was certain.
No one dared provoke him.
Especially after a few Slytherins—either ignorant of his reputation, misinformed, or just plain stupid—tried to mess with him and ended up floating like "balloons" for hours after Roger used a Levitation Charm on them, humiliating them as they spun in midair.
Beyond his politeness, Roger also knew how to strike back.
When Harry Potter described Roger as "mysterious and powerful, but also a good person who protects his friends," Quirrell wasn't satisfied.
He wasn't interested in surface-level observations—he wanted to uncover deeper secrets.
"I heard Roger is researching immortality?" Quirrell asked casually.
Roger had mentioned it to him as if he were talking about having fried chicken for dinner.
Either he didn't think it needed to be kept secret, or he was deliberately hinting at something.
Quirrell tried probing Harry for more information.
"Yeah… he is," Harry said calmly after thinking for a moment.
Having grown up in a Muggle household, Harry didn't see anything wrong with pursuing immortality.
Muggle wizard tales were full of old wizards who lived for centuries. Even the chocolate frog card he collected on the Hogwarts Express mentioned that Dumbledore was over 100 years old!
To Harry, wizards were supposed to have long lifespans, so wanting to extend that wasn't strange at all.
"He even asked if I was interested, but I think wizard chess is more fun."
At Hogwarts, seating arrangements weren't fixed, so students could sit wherever they liked.
Sometimes, Harry would sit next to Roger in class.
Once, he had sneakily glanced at Roger's notes, densely packed with annotations. Just looking at them sent chills down his spine.
Roger had assumed Harry was interested… but immortality was an incredibly long journey. Achieving longevity was only the first insignificant step toward true eternal life. He wouldn't mind having a companion on this difficult road, but unfortunately, Harry declined.
"I think he also asked Neville?" Harry added uncertainly.
Quirrell nodded.
No need to ask further.
He had been overthinking it.
This so-called "prophet" was just a monster who had been obsessed with researching immortality since he was eleven—not some cryptic oracle playing mind games with him.
Feeling reassured, Quirrell gave Harry a meaningful glance before turning away.
From now on, most of his energy would be focused on obtaining the Philosopher's Stone.
He would only keep a basic level of vigilance toward Roger.
And if the opportunity arose, it would be even better to eliminate Harry Potter for his master.
---
In the wizarding world, prophecies weren't just the ramblings of self-proclaimed seers—they held real power.
Once a prophecy was made, a ritual-like force would form, shaping what people called "fate." If left unchecked or even encouraged, this force could exert terrifying influence at a crucial moment.
It didn't matter whether he was forced into it or went along willingly—either way, he was already on Voldemort's sinking ship and couldn't get off.
Killing Harry Potter while he was still weak wouldn't just raise his standing with his master, it would also prevent another disaster where the Dark Lord was defeated by the so-called "Chosen One"—dragging Quirrell down with him.
Suppressing his inner turmoil, Professor Quirrell fully embraced Voldemort as his master.
As he walked away from Harry, his eyes gleamed with… murder.
Hidden beneath his turban, Voldemort's lips curled into a sneer.
Who exactly he was mocking was unclear.
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