Quirinus Quirrell, a Ravenclaw graduate, had always been known for his intelligence and promise during his time at Hogwarts. His solid theoretical knowledge and pragmatic nature set him apart from many of his peers. After completing his studies, Quirrell became a professor at Hogwarts, first teaching Muggle Studies and later transitioning to Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Despite being from Ravenclaw, Quirrell wasn't one to rely solely on books. He understood that true mastery of magical defense required more than just theoretical knowledge—it needed practical application. So, to prepare his students for the dangers they might face, Quirrell embarked on a journey to confront dark creatures firsthand. Werewolves, vampires, Inferi—he sought out these terrifying creatures, determined to learn the true nature of the Defense Against the Dark Arts through experience, not just words on a page.
His dedication to teaching was admirable, and his sense of responsibility was unquestionable. But it was that very responsibility that led to his downfall.
During one of his research expeditions in Albania, Quirrell crossed paths with Voldemort. What began as a promising journey for knowledge quickly turned into a nightmare. His mind was shattered, his will bent to the darkness, and Voldemort's soul slowly took control of his body. Quirrell, once a promising wizard with a bright future, was now a shell—his intelligence warped by Voldemort's overwhelming presence.
Gone was the responsible teacher who sought to protect his students. In his place stood a man capable of unleashing trolls in the heart of Hogwarts, indifferent to the lives of students, and fixated on gaining favor with his dark master—even if it meant targeting Harry Potter.
While Quirrell's mind was dominated by Voldemort, some remnants of his former self lingered, influencing his magic. The dark spellwork he now wielded was far more potent than what he could have conjured in his former state. His curse against Harry during the Quidditch match was proof of that, as was his ability to hold his ground against Snape, a wizard with decades of experience. Despite Snape's formidable magical prowess, Quirrell, empowered by Voldemort, was no easy opponent.
Ultimately, Quirrell's defeat came not from his lack of power, but from an unexpected source—Harry Potter's mother, Lily. The love she had left behind was a force Voldemort could not understand or combat. That love, in the form of an ancient protective charm, was Quirrell's undoing. Voldemort's own strength couldn't counter it, and in the end, Quirrell's tragic fall was sealed.
Now, Roger stood before Quirrell—once an intelligent, responsible wizard, now a mere puppet of darkness. Quirrell was serious, his wand already drawn, ready for the duel that would determine more than just a battle of magic—it would test the very will of the wizard before him.
Roger knew that Quirrell, though possessed, still retained some of his former brilliance. Yet, Quirrell had no idea how Roger's mind worked. The idea that this child—this 11-year-old who had studied magic for only three months—could be his equal in magical combat was, to him, absurd. Yet Voldemort, ever the calculating presence, had judged Roger's potential, and Quirrell trusted that judgment.
With a flick of his wand, Quirrell began the duel, his voice sharp as he cast, "Reducto!"
Roger reacted instantly, his wand sweeping through the air with practiced precision. "Summoning Charm!" he muttered, bringing forth a bag of flour.
The bag collided with Quirrell's curse, and with a violent bang, it shattered, sending flour flying and momentarily obscuring Roger's figure.
Seizing the opportunity, Roger cast the Creature Transformation spell, Transfiguration magic surging through him. As the flour cloud began to settle, seven identical figures of Roger floated into view, each one circling Quirrell rapidly. They weren't perfect copies—Transfiguration couldn't create true sentience—but they were enough to throw off his opponent.
Quirrell's sharp eyes tried to track the movements of the flying figures, but with so many, he was quickly overwhelmed. It wasn't long before his senses started to blur, unable to distinguish the real Roger from the illusions.
"Petrificus Totalus!" Roger whispered, sending a silent spell at Quirrell.
The curse barely grazed Quirrell's ear, but he reacted with a swift counter. "Protego!" With a flourish, a shimmering shield enveloped him. He then quickly cast another spell. "Avis!"
Quirrell's summoning of birds to chase Roger's clones was an impressive move, one that would ordinarily overwhelm an opponent. The summoned birds darted through the air, picking off Roger's illusions one by one, transforming them back into bricks as they were struck down.
Six… four… two… And finally, the last of the Rogers vanished in a puff of dust. But there was something left behind—something Quirrell didn't expect. A wand, still lying where the last Roger had stood.
Quirrell's mind immediately clicked into gear. The wand wasn't Roger's—it was an alchemical creation, a magical item designed to project spells. The "Petrificus Totalus" he had felt earlier wasn't from Roger—it had come from this wand.
The real Roger was still out there, somewhere, and Quirrell's eyes darted around, searching for any sign of movement. Left, right, front, back—nothing.
A flicker of thought crossed his mind. Could Roger be hiding underground? He quickly swung his wand upward and then downward, casting a sharp "Diffindo!" The ground beneath him split with a loud crack, but there was no sign of Roger.
Quirrell's clever move to prevent surprise attacks from below had, ironically, exposed him to the very trap Roger had set. The game was far from over.
The ground beneath Quirrell shattered completely under his own attack, the thin layer of soil that Roger had manipulated with Transfiguration crumbling away. Quirrell stepped into empty air, falling straight into the mud Roger had turned the ground into with a spell of Petrification.
"Wingardium Leviosa..."
Roger swiftly followed with an animal transformation spell. The stone monkey, now animated, grabbed Quirrell's ankle from the mud and dragged him deeper into the pit.
The Shield Charm could protect against spells, but it did nothing against physical restraint. Quirrell struggled to free himself, but before he could get far, something cold and hard pressed against his neck.
"Do you want me to chant the spell?" Roger's voice echoed calmly, sending a chill down Quirrell's spine.
It wasn't just a wand; it was the looming certainty of defeat. Quirrell froze, feeling the weight of the situation.
This was unlike any duel he had fought before. It wasn't about exchanging spells, seeing who could outwit the other with a deeper understanding of magic. No, this was a fight of tactics—of confusion, misdirection, and the careful manipulation of the battlefield. Roger wasn't just using magic; he was using his mind, crafting every move with precise intention.
It reminded Quirrell of something… Muggle warfare, perhaps? The constant adaptation, the relentless push to gain an advantage. But what Roger was doing went beyond tactics. It was the war of the mind itself.
"Not convinced?" Roger's voice sliced through the air with a cold precision. "Today's our grand opening special. You've got thirty minutes to challenge me as many times as you want. It won't count toward the victory conditions, of course, but you might witness the insurmountable gap between you and me."
Quirrell's spine tingled at Roger's words, but he steeled himself. The Seer's mind games wouldn't rattle him.
His response was simple, resolute: "Then continue."
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A barrage of attacks rained down, each one leaving Quirrell bruised and battered. Roger's relentless onslaught forced him into defense, barely keeping up with the sheer speed and power of the strikes. The next curse—a Blasting Curse—exploded in front of him, sending him stumbling back, only to be met by the tongue-tying hex that caused him to falter in his incantations. A magical backlash slammed into him, leaving him gasping for breath.
Seconds became hours as the battle raged on. Each round, Quirrell thought he had adapted, thought he would finally catch up. But the result was always the same—he lost faster and faster with each attempt.
"Again…" Quirrell's voice was hoarse, but before he could continue, a sharp pain struck the back of his head.
"Alright, stop embarrassing yourself, you waste," a deep voice hissed, and Quirrell froze, his body locking up.
It was Voldemort.
Quirrell didn't understand what had just happened, but Voldemort, ever the strategist, quickly recognized Roger's methods. Roger's eyes appeared to be focused on Quirrell, but Voldemort knew better. They weren't looking at Quirrell at all.
The Seer's gaze was somewhere else—across the span of fate itself.
Why was Roger considered a prophet in the Middle East? It wasn't just because of his words—Roger wasn't merely predicting the future; he was shaping it. He wasn't trying to avoid the inevitable, to sidestep the dangers. Instead, he moved through the chaos as if he had already seen the outcome.
In moments of extreme danger, Roger's mind didn't hesitate. It didn't analyze, it didn't plan. It reacted. His body moved before his conscious mind could process the danger, as if his every movement was preordained. It was like watching someone act from the other side of time, choosing the perfect moment, every time.
Roger wasn't just reacting to the present moment; he was orchestrating the future, acting before the danger even arrived. In the chaos of battle, he stood untouched.
"Prophecy... Ultra Instinct," Voldemort muttered, an understanding flashing in his eyes.
Throughout Roger's battles, he hadn't killed unless absolutely necessary. In fact, he had killed very few compared to the thousands others might have, but his approach was far more devastating. He didn't just survive; he turned the battlefield to his advantage, leading his forces—his people—to victory. It wasn't just about dodging bullets or avoiding death; it was about controlling the flow of fate itself.
A false prophet might predict the future from a distance, but a true one... a true prophet was unstoppable when their abilities came into play.
Roger had fought countless battles before, but it wasn't until the fifth battle—when shrapnel embedded itself in his flesh, piercing deep into his body—that he realized the limits of his power. He was not invincible. He wasn't some child of destiny. He was just a mortal, bound by the same physical limits as everyone else. And that, more than anything, shattered his arrogance.
Even Voldemort didn't fully understand how Roger's prophetic abilities worked, but he could see that Roger wasn't just playing a game. He was controlling fate itself.
Now, the question was: how could Voldemort—how could anyone—break the Seer's hold over the flow of battle?
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