You're More Like a Ghost Than I Am

Late at night, atop Hogwarts' North Tower, in the shadows of the Astronomy observation platform.

Professor Quirrell lay slumped against the stone railing like a discarded rag doll, his purple turban lifted at one corner by the night wind, revealing the writhing, ghastly outline of a face bulging beneath the pale skin of his neck.

His eyes rolled back, but from his throat slithered a serpentine hiss: "You're... late... Caesar..."

Caesar stepped out from the shadows of the spiral staircase, his pace a half-beat slower than usual.

When his left foot landed, there was an almost imperceptible hesitation. At that exact moment, moonlight pierced through a gap in the clouds, illuminating half his face.

Now, beneath his skin, faint silver-gray currents slithered like living things, sliding from his cheekbone down to his neck, then vanishing beneath the collar of his black robe.

Voldemort sniffed through Quirrell's senses, his hiss suddenly sharpening: "Your body is resisting magic? No—magic is devouring you!"

Caesar stopped ten feet from Quirrell—close enough for conversation, far enough to evade any sudden spell attack.

He didn't deny it. Instead, he slowly raised his left hand and unbuttoned his cuff.

From wrist to forearm, his skin was covered in a web of ghostly blue cracks.

Like shattered porcelain barely glued back together with cheap adhesive, the fissures glowed from within with a mineral coldness that didn't belong to flesh and blood.

Even though this was a simulation, the pain was real.

He had been careless.

But now wasn't the time to let Voldemort notice anything unusual. If his own body was abnormal, then this pale, boiled-egg-headed bastard was mentally unhinged.

Their cooperation could turn into a backstab at any moment, affecting the final outcome.

"A price." Caesar's voice was steady, but every word seemed chiseled out from beneath a layer of ice. "Studying certain forbidden ancient contract magic always costs something."

He lowered his sleeve, hiding the shocking cracks. "The Philosopher's Stone can stabilize it. At least buy me a few more years."

Quirrell's head snapped back at a grotesque angle, the face on the back of his skull fully emerging, two black pits where nostrils should be:

"Curing an illness? Ha. A wizard like you, reduced to such a state just to 'live'?"

"Only by living can I keep researching." Caesar's right hand unconsciously pressed against his chest, where the jade pendant burned through his robes, searing into his very marrow.

"And the Philosopher's Stone happens to be both my most effective research subject and my medicinal catalyst right now."

The air fell silent for a few seconds, only the wind howling through the tower's stone crevices.

Voldemort was weighing his options.

A severely injured, dying collaborator with vast knowledge was easier to control than one at full power—but also far more unpredictable.

"Tomorrow night..." The hiss rose again, carrying the probing tone of a coiled viper. "After the moon sets, the final watch over the Philosopher's Stone will be Snape. I can arrange for him to 'conveniently' leave his post for fifteen minutes."

"Enough." Caesar pulled a rolled-up thestral hide map from an inner pocket of his robe and unfurled it in the air.

On the map, seven different routes to the fourth-floor restricted corridor were marked in goblin-blood ink, each annotated with guard weaknesses and avoidance methods.

Then, with a light tap of his fingertip, several lines of dancing runes appeared on the map:

"Hagrid's three-headed dog needs sustained hypnosis. I've already prepared a powerful calming agent mixed with dragon nerve powder. Sprout's Devil's Snare doesn't fear light—it fears sound waves at a specific frequency. As for the Mirror of Erised..."

"Dumbledore's trick!" Voldemort's hiss carried suppressed fury. "Only those who don't want to use the stone can retrieve it! Absurd!"

"So we need to make it 'think' we don't want to use it." Caesar put away the map, the ghostly light in his eyes darker than the night itself. "I have a way to temporarily deceive that mirror, making it 'voluntarily' hand over the stone."

Quirrell's body convulsed violently—Voldemort's emotions were clearly stirred. "What method?"

"Tomorrow at midnight, meet me before the mirror, and you'll see."

Caesar turned, his black robe billowing in the biting wind. "You just need to ensure two things: First, deploy every force you can mobilize around Hogwarts. The moment we get the stone, strike the castle directly. Second..."

Caesar looked back, his final gaze landing on the face at the back of Quirrell's head. His eyes were as cold as if he were inspecting an experiment about to be scrapped.

"Keep your curiosity in check, Tom. There are some ancient, powerful magics in this world—once you see them, there's no escape!"

With that, he vanished around the corner of the staircase, his footsteps still carrying that strange, halting rhythm.

Quirrell collapsed to the ground, the face on the back of his skull twisting, his hissing dissolving into a manic, low laugh: "No escape, haha. Caesar Black... you're more of a ghost than I am..."

Meanwhile, below the tower.

Hermione hid behind the massive shield raised by the Knight William II Statue, holding her breath.

She had layered three spells:

A Disillusionment Charm to blend her outline into the stone wall, an Eavesdropping Charm whose silver thread coiled from her wand tip up to the cracks in the tower's stonework.

And most crucially, a strand of hair wrapped around her left wrist—a few silver-black strands she had "accidentally" kept last year when Caesar was tutoring her in ancient runes.

Now, a variant of the blood-tracking spell made it faintly warm, pointing toward the top of the tower.

She had seen it.

Seen the half-second of stiffness in Caesar's left leg as he stepped onto the platform.

Seen the fleeting blue cracks beneath his skin when moonlight fell on his cheek—like the flash of a glacier splitting in the dead of night.

When she saw him unbutton his cuff, those terrible marks spreading from his wrist to his forearm—as if repeatedly slashed by invisible blades and then barely stitched back together—

Hermione's nails dug deep into her palms. The One-Winged Bird necklace burned against her chest like a brand.

This was no longer the warmth of resonance, but a sharp alarm. The other end of the contract was collapsing.

She heard it.

She heard the hoarse, inhuman voice rolling from Quirrell's throat: "Your body is rejecting magic?"

She heard Caesar admit the price in a tone calm to the point of cruelty: "A price always costs something."

She heard "The Philosopher's Stone can stabilize it" and "After the moon sets tomorrow night."

When Caesar said, "I have a way to temporarily deceive that mirror," Hermione nearly rushed out.

The protection on the Mirror of Erised was the final line of defense personally set by Dumbledore. How could he...

But she bit her lip hard.

Sixteen-year-old Hermione Granger had long since learned to bury secrets in her heart.

So.

She watched the unnatural bulge faintly visible beneath Caesar's black robe as he turned, at the position of his left shoulder blade—like some foreign object embedded in flesh and blood.

She listened to his retreating footsteps, each step carrying the sluggish friction of magic circulation blocked, like a rusted gear forced to turn.

She backed away slowly, inch by inch.

She dispelled the Eavesdropping Charm, lifted the Disillusionment Charm, and finally severed the tracking on the strand of hair at her wrist.

That lock of hair turned to ash between her fingers, ending the one-way connection.

She ran through the empty corridor. The pendant on her chest burned hotter and hotter. Red bloodstains had already soaked through her underclothes, seeping a small wet patch onto her robe.

She burst into her bedroom.

She locked the door.