When no one was looking, Lycos silently slipped away from the line of first-years.
Since he had already decided to report everything he knew about Voldemort, he needed to make sure that information ended up in the hands of someone absolutely trustworthy.
For Lycos, this wasn't a difficult decision—he knew the story well enough to identify which professors were reliable, which ones were aware of deeper truths, and who might actually believe him.
One such person just happened to be nearby. On the way to the Slytherin common room earlier, Lycos had passed this professor's office with the other first-years.
Knock, knock, knock.
Standing alone in the cold dungeon corridor, Lycos rapped on the door.
"It's after hours. If you need something, speak to your prefect."
The greasy, languid voice that came from behind the door sounded as annoyed as ever.
"Professor, I have something very important to report," Lycos said, forcing down the nervous tension in his chest.
Truthfully, this professor was known for his bad temper.
If it weren't for the fact that the kinder professors weren't aware Voldemort had survived—and that getting into Dumbledore's office required a password—Lycos wouldn't have risked dealing with someone so notoriously unapproachable.
With a loud creak, the door swung open.
"This had better actually be important," came that same cold voice again.
Lycos took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The office was dimly lit. Rows of shelves lined the walls, stacked with cloudy glass jars full of slimy things—bits of creatures and herbs floating in fluids of varying hues.
From behind a cluttered desk stood a man with greasy black hair, sallow skin, and a prominent hooked nose. His sweeping black robes rustled as he moved, making him resemble a giant bat in the gloom.
"Good evening, Professor Snape," Lycos said as steadily as he could manage.
"A first-year?" Snape's brows drew together.
It was rare enough for anyone to voluntarily enter this office, much less a student—and especially on the first day of term.
"Yes, sir. The Sorting Hat placed me in Slytherin," Lycos replied.
"I'm well aware what House you're in. Otherwise, you wouldn't have made it past the door."
Snape's lip curled slightly as he locked his deep, dark eyes on Lycos.
"Now, tell me—what is this critical information you claim to have?"
Lycos nodded and quickly tried to organize his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak.
"Actually, Vol—"
He never finished the name.
The moment the word began to form on his tongue, something seized his throat—like an invisible hand choking him mid-syllable. His words died in his mouth.
At the same time, a piercing buzz rang in his head, and searing pain erupted from the Dark Mark on his forearm. It felt like a knife was scraping directly against muscle and bone.
A curse.
A deep, primal curse born from within his very body, screaming a warning.
Within seconds, the back of Lycos's robes was soaked with cold sweat.
He suddenly understood.
Of course Voldemort wouldn't trust a young Death Eater like him without adding a safeguard.
Then, a chilling realization struck him—something he remembered from the books:
The Unbreakable Vow.
Lycos had been bound by one.
It was impossible for him to divulge any information about Voldemort—not even to someone like Snape.
And if he tried to force it… he might very well die.
"Well?" Snape's sharp voice sliced through Lycos's daze. "I don't have time for riddles. Speak, or get out."
Lycos slowly looked up, meeting those piercing black eyes, his mind racing.
"Actually, Professor… I was wondering about something I couldn't quite understand—"
In a flash of inspiration, he remembered the three questions Snape had once asked Harry during his first Potions lesson.
He chose one at random and blurted it out.
"What's the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Snape fell silent.
His expression grew dark and dangerous.
"That's your urgent matter?"
"Get out."
With a sharp sweep of his robes, Snape flung open the door and practically hurled Lycos back into the corridor.
---
Lycos slumped beneath the sickly green glow of a torch, staring bleakly down the dark, endless hallway ahead.
His arm still throbbed with pain.
So much for that brilliant plan.
Bound by the Unbreakable Vow, he couldn't even speak Voldemort's name—let alone report him to Dumbledore.
So what now?
Was he really going to serve as Voldemort's spy?
He rubbed his temples, frustration mounting.
As someone who knew the future, he was fully aware that Dumbledore had brought the Philosopher's Stone to Hogwarts not for safekeeping—but as bait.
Dumbledore suspected Voldemort might still be alive, and the Stone was the lure. Voldemort, starving and desperate, was the fish—he'd have no choice but to bite, even knowing it might be a trap.
But under Dumbledore's surveillance, anyone acting on Voldemort's behalf was at serious risk of being exposed.
Especially him.
"Bloody hell…"
Lycos tilted his head back, resting against the rough stone wall. He stared up at the ceiling, eyes glazed over as he fixated on a tangle of cobwebs.
"Hey there, little one. What's got you so down?"
A voice, curious and light, suddenly floated into his ears.
A moment later, a pearly white ghost drifted into view.
Lycos nearly jumped out of his skin.
With a sharp jerk, he sprang to his feet.
Floating before him was a ghost with long, curly hair and an absurdly oversized ruff collar. Despite the collar, his head bobbed loosely with each movement.
"Oh! I don't believe I've introduced myself," the ghost said politely, bowing low—at which point his head promptly tumbled right off.
He hurriedly caught it, cleared his throat, and said, "Ahem! I'm Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—Gryffindor's house ghost, though I do occasionally wander down here to chat with the Bloody Baron."
"So, what were you mumbling about earlier? Sounded like you were in quite the pickle."
Lycos blinked.
Then an idea formed in his mind.
"Well, yes… I am facing a bit of trouble," he said gravely, nodding. "I've been studying ahead on my own, and there are a lot of things I can't quite understand. I went to see our Head of House just now, but he refused to help me."
He plastered on a troubled expression.
"Oh, my goodness!" Sir Nicholas gasped. "A self-motivated young scholar! How positively moving!"
"That Professor Snape—absolutely shameful, shirking his responsibilities like that!"
"Isn't it?" Lycos chuckled awkwardly.
"Er… Sir Nicholas, would you happen to know the way to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office?" he asked innocently. "I've still got a few questions I'd like to ask."