The month flew by unnoticed, like a gust of magical wind, carrying away the last echoes of hospital routine. Victor fully immersed himself in his new life, savoring every moment of freedom and every new discovery. His new home became a true sanctuary where he could be himself, free from judgmental stares and suffocating control.
At first, he indulged himself. Various delicacies, from which he had been so long estranged, filled his refrigerator and table. Juicy steaks, aromatic Italian pasta, crispy French croissants, exotic fruits – he sampled a little of everything, savoring each taste as if making up for lost years. It wasn't just food; it was a return to normalcy, to simple human joys.
But most of his time was dedicated to books. Textbooks from Diagon Alley, which at first seemed like a jumble of incomprehensible symbols, quickly revealed their secrets to him. Victor was amazed at how easily magic came to him. He didn't just read spells – he felt them. It was as if magic had always been in his blood, only until now it had been constrained, like a stream seeking an outlet. He quickly learned one spell after another, and using them was even easier. Silent charms, which astonished McGonagall, now became second nature to him. Even before he got a wand, he could manipulate objects, make lamps flicker, or even create gusts of wind. Magic was a part of him; it responded to him instinctively.
And thanks to the wand, it became even easier. It wasn't just a tool but a conduit, amplifying his inner power. Spells flowed from his lips easily and naturally, as if he had been doing this his whole life. Books like "Standard Book of Spells" and "One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi" were read cover to cover, and "Transfiguration for Beginners" and "A Course in Transfiguration" were studied with particular care. He spent hours in his small garden, practicing summoning small butterflies from the air or making fallen leaves fly in circles. Inside the house, he tried to make objects dance, silently moving them from place to place, honing his wandless magic.
"Ugh! That's it, I'm tired! We got out of one hole, and here you are locked up again!" came the familiar disgruntled voice of Victor Number 2. He hovered around Victor as he read yet another book.
Victor merely grunted. "Why are you whining? I just found something new and I'm enjoying myself. It's awesome!"
"Whining?" Victor Number 2 hovered in the air directly in front of his face. "Have you forgotten that I'm the embodiment of your thoughts? If I'm whining, then deep down, you're whining too! And by the way, 'locked up' isn't just for show. You've been sitting here for a month! A whole month! We had one day of freedom in Diagon Alley, and even then, you were busy shopping!"
Victor pondered. Victor Number 2, as always, hit the nail on the head. He truly had become so engrossed in magic that he forgot about the outside world. But it was very important to learn everything before the school year began; he couldn't understand why his own thoughts didn't grasp this. Suddenly, it dawned on him, and he closed the book and said,
"Yeah, I think you're right. I need to go out and take a walk. I've been cooped up here too long."
He started getting dressed – jeans, a simple T-shirt, a jacket. Victor Number 2, who had been actively gesticulating, froze. His usually agile, somewhat childish demeanor became more composed.
"Victor," he said slowly, his voice unusually serious. "Don't you think..."
Victor abruptly cut him off. "No, you're imagining things. Now let's go for a walk."
Outside, twilight had already deepened into full night. The air was cool, with a faint smell of rain that seemed to linger somewhere in the distance. He chose one side of the street, and they walked for a long time, aimlessly, simply enjoying the feeling of freedom and the coolness of the evening air. The upscale neighborhood where his new home stood, with its neat lawns and expensive cars, gradually gave way to older houses. Here were dilapidated apartment buildings, dim streetlights, and a sense of abandonment.
"Victor, you understand that this is getting strange," Victor Number 2 said, his voice tenser than usual. He no longer flitted about but walked beside him, as if physically feeling the weight of the atmosphere. "We both understand this. I've stopped being just your thoughts. We're starting to...have a split personality. This can't go on."
Victor froze in place. A chill ran down his spine, despite the evening coolness. He knew Victor Number 2 was right. Their connection was changing. Sometimes he felt that Number 2's thoughts arose independently of his own, as if he truly had his own will, his own desires. The idea of merging, of returning to a "single whole," terrified him to his core. He was used to this inner voice, to this companion who was both his reflection and his best friend in the darkest times.
Tears began to well up in his eyes. He mumbled, "No, please... we'll figure something out."
Victor Number 2 smiled. "Now, now, why are you crying?" his voice was softer than usual, with a hint of tenderness. "I'm not going to die. We'll just become one again. It's natural, Victor. It's how it's supposed to be."
"I... I don't want to," Victor replied, his voice trembling. "I'll be alone again."
"See?" Victor Number 2 looked at him with a sad smile. "You're already separating me as a distinct being. This smells like a mental hospital, Victor. We can't be two. You are one. I am you. It's just that now... I'm a slightly more expressed part of you, and we'll find other friends, don't forget, we're going to Hogwarts."
Victor wiped his eyes, which were already wet. "Why do I need other friends if I have you?"
"No, we both knew this would happen eventually. You've imagined me as your thoughts for too long, and now you don't even understand whose thoughts are whose. You're going crazy, Victor, but this time for real," as Victor Number 2 finished his sentence, a piercing woman's scream for help echoed from a derelict house a little ahead. The scream was full of horror and despair.
Victor Number 2 immediately perked up, his image regaining its former vividness. "Let's see what's going on there?" his voice was once again excited, as if he had forgotten the conversation that had just taken place.
Victor nodded. The feeling of fear for himself faded into the background, replaced by curiosity. He cautiously approached the house, trying not to make a sound. The house looked abandoned: broken windows, peeling paint, overgrown weeds. Approaching one of the windows, Victor peered inside.
In the dim light, he saw a group of men. There were four of them, all burly, with rough faces, and two had glinting weapons in their hands – pistols. They were roughly shoving two young, frightened girls into a trapdoor in the floor leading to the basement.
"Shut up and get in the basement!" one of the men snarled, kicking a girl.
"When are they picking them up?" another asked, lighting a cigarette.
"Tomorrow," replied a third, older man with a nasty smirk. "Are we supposed to hang around here all night?"
"For this kind of money, I'm willing to guard them for a week," the fourth man burst out laughing.
"God, how easily they fall for it," the old man continued, spitting on the floor. "Promise them a career in modeling, and these fools walk right into our hands. Hahahaha!"
Victor felt rage boiling inside him. Selling girls. It was low, disgusting, beyond everything. Just as he was about to call for help...
"Well, shall we have some fun before we say goodbye, like that time, remember, with those wizards?" Victor Number 2's voice resonated in his head, but this time there was no usual playfulness. There was a sinister, predatory note.
Remembering the events of that night, a slow, bloodthirsty smile spread across Victor's face. That was the best day of his life, the day he exacted his sweet revenge. He felt his magic reacting to the fury, pulsating in his veins. The wand, which had been resting peacefully in his pocket, seemed to come alive, demanding action. "This will be fun," he whispered.
In the house where the thugs were, the light began to flicker. The men, who were drinking at a table, looked up in confusion. "What the hell? Something wrong with the light?" one grumbled.
Suddenly, the light went out completely for a few seconds. The house was plunged into utter darkness, broken only by the distant city lights. When the light came back on, Victor was crouching on the table in the middle of the room, like a ghost that had appeared out of nowhere. His eyes gleamed in the dim light.
The men, shocked by his sudden appearance, immediately stood up and drew their pistols. "Hey! Who are you?!" they shouted, aiming their guns at him.
Victor smiled, and that smile was cold and chilling. "I am your nightmare," he said in a low, almost bestial voice.
At that very second, the light went out again. The house was plunged into darkness. In the dark, a short, muffled scream rang out, followed by a distinct, eerie crunch. When the light came back on for a fraction of a second, Victor, still on the table, stood over the bandit closest to him. His head was twisted 180 degrees, his eyes staring at the ceiling in dead horror. Seeing their comrade killed, the other bandits panicked and opened indiscriminate fire, shooting into the darkness, at the spot where Victor had stood. Gunshots echoed through the empty house, piercing walls and furniture. But Victor had already disappeared.
Gunshots and cries of fear echoed through the dark house, then more screams. Then there was the sound of something heavy falling to the floor, and after that, only silence. And then, slowly, carefully, the light came on.
Four men lay on the floor. All were dead. Their faces were frozen in terror, and their bodies bore deep, jagged wounds, from which blood profusely oozed, forming dark pools on the floor.
A few minutes later, Victor stood by an old phone booth, a few blocks from that house. He picked up the receiver and dialed the emergency number.
"I want to report a shooting," he said calmly.
"Address?" the tired voice of the operator asked.
"Yes, write down the address..." Victor gave the exact address of the abandoned house.
"Can I have your name?" the operator asked.
Victor merely chuckled. He slowly lowered the receiver, without saying a word. Then he turned and walked away.
Having walked far enough from the house where his rage had manifested with such deadly force, he sat down on a bench in a quiet park. The night was deep, and bright stars were scattered above him.
Victor Number 2 sat beside him, his image transparent, almost unreal, but his voice was clear. "You were awesome," he whispered, and his voice held genuine admiration.
Victor chuckled, his smile weary but satisfied. "Hahaha... Yeah, you're right. We are awesome."
They sat in silence, gazing at the starry sky. The stillness was broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the city. Victor felt that strange sensation of merging growing within him, which he had felt even before he entered the house. It was inevitable.
"So," Victor said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper, "this is it. Goodbye."
Victor Number 2 shook his head. His transparent image began to flicker more intensely. "No, Victor. On the contrary. We're returning to our former self. To who you were before we separated. Now you'll be even stronger. More focused. And I... I will always be a part of you."
Victor closed his eyes. He felt his consciousness expanding, the boundaries between him and Victor Number 2 blurring. It wasn't painful; rather... it was like the return of something long lost. A feeling of completeness.
"Then... let's begin," Victor whispered.
Victor Number 2 smiled. His image flickered once more, then flared and vanished, dissolving into Victor's consciousness, leaving only a faint echo of its existence.
Victor sat for a long time with his eyes closed, feeling tears stream down his cheeks. When he finally opened them, the world seemed the same as before, but something within him had changed. He felt whole, complete. He exhaled deeply, looking at the stars. "Well, I'm alone again."