Roger's path in magic was still in its early stages.
Even though he had learned a lot from Professor McGonagall's books, it was like an ordinary person understanding the concept of advanced mathematics—it didn't mean they could actually do it. They still had to start from 1+1=2 and 2×2=4.
Roger's crisis sense allowed him to quickly turn what he had mastered into practical techniques once he fully learned a "formula." However, it didn't speed up his learning process.
Many spells he picked up quickly were due to his natural talent, not his prophetic ability.
His prophetic ability accelerated invention and development in areas related to himself and the human body but didn't speed up basic learning. It certainly couldn't create something from nothing.
One must keep their feet on the ground while looking at the stars.
The same applied to his magic research. Since deciding not to let Harry get involved and to handle the Philosopher's Stone himself, Roger planned to take things step by step.
If they could talk things out, they would. If not, they'd negotiate with weapons. And if that failed, there was always the final option.
...Even though Voldemort was currently just a remnant soul and not strong in terms of raw power, even a broken ship still had three pounds of nails. If he had some hidden trump card that injured a professor or student, that would be bad.
The troll incident ended quickly.
A low-intelligence magical creature was no real threat once its location was confirmed—the professors handled it easily.
And Quirrell, who was both intimidated by Roger's words and convinced that the Philosopher's Stone was on him, did not cause any trouble as he did in the original timeline.
Instead, in the quiet of midnight, he arrived on the eighth floor of Hogwarts Castle, next to a tapestry.
"Professor, you're not going to report me for breaking school rules and sneaking out at night, are you?" Roger, who had been waiting there for a while, joked when he saw Quirrell arrive.
Quirrell no longer had his usual timid demeanor. His face was dark, his eyes cold.
"You didn't bring me here just to say useless things, did you?" His mouth didn't move, but a deep voice came from the back of his head.
Back in the Great Hall, after Roger had whispered his identity, they had arranged to meet here tonight. That was why he was here.
Voldemort was in a foul mood.
He had assumed this so-called prophet either couldn't see him in his visions or had no intention of interfering.
Yet here he was, waiting for him.
"Alright, looks like you're not interested in small talk. Let's get straight to the point. Can we continue our previous discussion?" Roger smiled.
"Why should I?" Voldemort asked bluntly.
Voldemort hadn't always been strong. There were times he had to feign civility.
But now?
Why should he yield to an 11-year-old who barely knew magic?
Roger didn't answer directly. Instead, he said, "I'm actually doing this for your own good."
"You were never going to get the Philosopher's Stone anyway. Why waste the effort?"
"…A prophecy?" Voldemort caught the implication in Roger's words.
He sneered. "I control fate. Don't try to fool me with riddles."
Voldemort believed in fate—his numerous Horcruxes and the prophecy about Harry were proof of that.
But he had never obeyed fate.
He studied Arithmancy to control destiny, to use it for his own gain.
Harry Potter wasn't destined to be the Chosen One—Voldemort had chosen him, and that was what made him the Chosen One.
It was ironic. The more someone understood fate, the more they wanted to defy it—even while benefiting from it.
The prophet claimed he couldn't get the Philosopher's Stone? Voldemort wasn't convinced.
"Control fate?" Roger recalled Voldemort's original fate—how he had orchestrated his own downfall, much like a tragic figure from Greek mythology. He sighed.
"Seems like words alone won't convince you."
"Alright, let's play a little game." Roger finally took the step he had been holding back and pushed open a door that had appeared in the wall.
The Room of Requirement. It appeared after walking past this section of the wall three times.
Roger had expected things wouldn't go smoothly, so he had made other preparations.
"I heard you like researching fate, Voldemort. But in your entire life, you've never actually fought a real prophet, have you?"
By the time Voldemort rose to power, Grindelwald had already been imprisoned by Dumbledore.
And aside from Grindelwald, there were no true prophets in the wizarding world—at most, some had minor predictive abilities, but they were far from being actual seers.
"Don't you think that's a shame?"
Beyond the door, the Room of Requirement transformed into a vast arena, as large as a Quidditch pitch.
Seeing this, Voldemort had a rough idea of what Roger intended. Beneath his turban, a faint smirk appeared. "What game do you want to play?"
"In terms of power, how big is the gap between me and Professor Quirrell?" Roger asked.
Voldemort considered it. "Your potential is high, but it hasn't fully manifested. Based on my observations, you know no more than 30 spells, and most are not well-practiced. You excel at Transfiguration, the Levitation Charm, and the magic you created yourself."
"Your Transfiguration is combat-ready, which is rare. Your mental power is strong, but… you lack actual battle experience."
"Quirrell is weak, but he still meets the standards of an average Hogwarts professor. If you fought him head-on, I'd say he has a 70% chance of winning, and you 30%."
Roger nodded. "Good. Then here are the rules of the game."
"The rules are simple."
"If Professor Quirrell defeats me in a direct duel, the Philosopher's Stone is yours. I'll even wager my arm on it. The battle won't be decided in one match or best-of-three, but will last until the end of the school year. Quirrell gets one chance to challenge me per week."
"If he wins even once, you win."
"You can coach him, teach him spells, but you can't directly interfere. And you can't try to steal the Stone before the game ends."
"Likewise, I won't use outside help to interfere in the fight—no professors stepping in."
"Deal?" Roger asked casually.
Voldemort calculated. From now until June, Quirrell would have about 34 chances to win, with his own guidance.
34 battles. Only one win needed.
"Interesting. I accept." Voldemort was confident in his judgment. Even if Roger's abilities were slightly beyond expectations, they wouldn't be by much.
He understood Roger's true goal.
This young prophet wanted to show him how fate was manipulated.
To make him realize that getting the Philosopher's Stone from him was impossible.
Fine. If he wanted to play, Voldemort wasn't afraid.
He was curious to see what fate looked like in a prophet's hands.
If he tried to force things now?
Voldemort didn't believe a prophet would come unprepared.
"Then it's a deal." Roger extended his right hand.
The seemingly friendly gesture made Quirrell's pupils shrink.
[The Unbreakable Vow.]
Breaking the agreement meant death.
Quirrell hesitated, but after confirming no hidden traps in the terms, he grasped Roger's hand.
"Both of you?" Roger asked.
After a brief silence, Voldemort made Quirrell's other hand join.
The vow was sealed.
Roger smiled in satisfaction.
Now, there was no chance of unexpected chaos harming students or professors.
Since he had already altered fate for Harry's sake, he would bear the burden alone.
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