The logs in the fireplace burned brightly, orange flames dancing and banishing the chill from the Slytherin common room.
Outside the window, the waters of the Black Lake looked as deep as ink in the night, with the occasional unknown creature swimming slowly past, leaving a glowing trail that dragged fleeting ribbons of light through the water.
Alvin Vance sat cross-legged on a soft chaise lounge near the fireplace, a book borrowed from the library, *A Study of Medieval Magical Social Structure*, spread across his lap.
His eyes, however, were not on the pages; instead, they drifted over the book’s spine toward the carved stone table in the center of the common room.
Draco and Blaise were in the middle of a game of wizard’s chess.
On the stone table, the black and white chess pieces stood silently.
Each was carved from ebony and ivory, crafted so exquisitely that even the features of their faces were clearly visible.
At this moment, the battle was nearing its end.
The white Queen had been cornered by the black Knight, and the black Rook was closing in on the white King.
“Checkmate,” Draco said, picking up a black Bishop with two fingers and setting it down on a square, his tone dripping with unconcealed smugness.
Blaise stared at the board for three seconds before leaning back in frustration, crossing his arms.
“I’m done, I’m done!
Three games in a row, and you won every single one.
Draco, did you cast some kind of spell on this board?”
Draco elegantly adjusted his cuffs, his grey-blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
“Blaise, it isn’t that hard to admit you’re outmatched.
I’ve been playing chess with my father since I was seven.
It’s only natural that you lost to me.”
Blaise snorted.
His eyes swept around the room and landed on Alvin, who was quietly reading nearby.
Recalling Alvin’s brilliant performance in class, Blaise’s eyes lit up.
“Alvin!
Come here!
Help me teach this insufferably arrogant Chief Malfoy a lesson!”
Alvin Vance looked up, his gaze shifting from the pages to the chessboard, and then to Draco.
Draco looked over as well, a haughty curve on his lips.
He didn’t speak, but his expression clearly said: *Do you dare?*
Alvin put down his book and walked over to the stone table.
Blaise immediately stood up, eagerly ushering him into his seat.
“Come, come, sit here.
Get some revenge for me!”
Alvin didn’t refuse.
His eyes fell upon the lifelike chess pieces, studying them carefully for a moment.
The material, quantity, and arrangement of these pieces…
all reminded him of a xiangqi set treasured by his uncle, a master of the game at the Taoist temple at the foot of Mount Qingcheng.
It was also thirty-two pieces, also two opposing armies, also containing a “General” (King), “Minister” (Bishop), “Horse” (Knight), and “Chariot” (Rook)…
The rules differed slightly, but the underlying logic was the same: protect your core, annihilate the enemy’s main forces, and ultimately checkmate the opponent’s King.
Seeing him stare at the board in silence, Draco assumed he was getting cold feet.
The smirk on his lips widened.
“Alvin, are you sure you want to play against me?
I don’t want to bully a novice who has never even seen a wizard’s chess set before.
After all, you’re from China—wizards over there probably don’t play this.”
He deliberately emphasized the word “China,” his tone carrying a slight dismissiveness toward “foreign” wizards—not malicious, just a deeply ingrained sense of superiority.
Alvin looked up, his expression calm.
“Are the rules similar to xiangqi?”
Draco blinked.
“Xiangqi?
What’s that?”
“An Eastern board game,” Alvin said briefly.
“Same number of pieces, same objective.
Just slightly different movements.”
Draco blinked again, clearly not expecting this answer.
He snorted.
“Fair enough.
Since you know how to play chess, let’s give it a try.
Let me explain the rules of wizard’s chess first.
The Queen can move any number of squares horizontally, vertically, or diagonally, but cannot jump over pieces.
The Bishop can only move diagonally.
The Knight moves in an L-shape and can jump over other pieces.
The Rook moves horizontally or vertically.
The Pawn can move two squares on its first move and one square thereafter, captures diagonally, and can promote to any piece other than the King upon reaching the back rank.
Got it?”
Alvin nodded.
These rules were indeed very similar to xiangqi, though the Queen was far more flexible than the Chinese chess Adviser—essentially a combination of the Chariot and the Elephant.
The Bishop could only move diagonally, which was similar to the Elephant but without the restriction of the “Elephant’s eye” being blocked.
The Rook was identical to the Chariot.
The Knight moved in an L-shape, but without the “hobbling the horse’s leg” restriction of xiangqi.
The Pawn moved slightly differently, and the promotion rule was quite unique.
“Good.” Draco began resetting the board.
“Let’s see how many moves you can survive.”
The pieces automatically returned to their starting positions, setting up the confrontation between the black and white armies.
Blaise watched gleefully from the side, even calling Crabbe and Goyle over to watch.
Though those two probably didn’t even understand the rules, it didn’t stop them from joining in on the fun.
“White goes first.” Draco chin-pointed to indicate Alvin should make the first move.
“Consider it a courtesy.
Don’t say I bully beginners.”
The game began.
Draco’s play was quite seasoned, clearly the result of years of training.
His opening was solid and textbook, adhering to classical chess theory.
Alvin’s moves, however, seemed bizarre to Draco—some appeared overly conservative, while others were bold to the point of being reckless.
But after ten moves, the relaxed expression on Draco’s face began to fade.
Every single one of Alvin’s moves seemed to have anticipated Draco’s response.
His Knights always appeared in the most awkward spots at the perfect moments, and his Bishops were like two venomous snakes, crossing diagonally to shut down Draco’s queenside.
Blaise watched with shining eyes, letting out the occasional “Ooh” and “Ah.” Crabbe and Goyle couldn’t follow the strategy, but seeing Draco’s expression turn increasingly sour made them realize things were getting interesting.
On the twenty-third move:
Alvin’s Knight leapt deep into Draco’s defenses, simultaneously threatening his Queen and Rook.
Forced to capture the Knight with his Queen, Draco immediately fell into the trap Alvin had laid out.
Alvin’s Bishop, working in tandem with his Rook, moved to corner and checkmate Draco’s King.
“Checkmate.
No moves left,” Alvin said calmly, gently tapping Draco’s King with his finger.
The King slumped over, landing with a dull *thud*.
The common room fell silent for a brief moment.
Then Blaise burst into a roar of laughter.
“Merlin’s beard, Draco!
You lost!
You lost to a novice playing wizard’s chess for the very first time!”
Draco’s face turned from white to red, and then from red to white.
He stared at Alvin, his grey-blue eyes wide with sheer disbelief.
“You…
are you sure you’ve never played this before?”
“First time,” Alvin replied simply and directly, without any trace of boasting, merely stating a fact.
Draco took a deep breath and began resetting the board.
“Another game.”
The second game.
This time, Draco did not underestimate his opponent, carefully pondering every single move.
But Alvin’s playstyle was as elusive as water.
What seemed like an attack was actually a decoy; what seemed like defense turned out to be a trap, leaving Draco’s formation full of gaping holes in the very next turn.
Move thirty-seven.
Draco lost.
The third game.
Draco started to sweat.
Move forty-five.
Draco lost.
The fourth game.
Draco’s face had turned as dark and grim as Crabbe’s robes.
Move fifty-two.
Draco lost.
The fifth game.
Draco played in absolute silence, occasionally running his fingers through his platinum blonde hair in frustration.
Move sixty-three.
Draco lost.
When Alvin knocked over Draco’s King for the fifth time, Draco finally stopped reaching for the pieces.
He collapsed back into his armchair, looking like a peacock that had lost its bones.
His hair was messy, his collar slightly open, and his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
Blaise was no longer laughing; he was simply staring at Alvin as if he were looking at a monster.
Crabbe and Goyle had already slipped away.
After all, staying any longer risked drawing the wrath of the “Chief.”
“You…” Draco’s voice was hoarse and lifeless.
“What kind of monster are you, exactly?”
Alvin paused mid-motion as he reset the pieces.
“An ordinary person.”
“An ordinary person?” Draco bolted upright.
“An ordinary person wins five consecutive games of wizard’s chess on their very first try?
Do you take me for a fool?”
Alvin thought for a moment and decided to explain.
“Eastern chess—xiangqi—has different rules, but the strategic thinking is the same.
I’ve played with my uncle since I was young, so I’m used to calculating several moves ahead.
The pieces in wizard’s chess are more flexible, but the core tactics of ‘threats,’ ‘pins,’ ‘decoys,’ and ‘tactical strikes’ are no different from xiangqi.”
He paused, looking at Draco’s utterly defeated expression, and added a rare word of comfort: “Your play is actually quite good, you just rely too much on fixed openings and patterns.
It works against people who know the standard theory, but when you face an opponent who doesn’t play by the book, it’s easy to fall into a passive position.”
Draco stared at him.
After a long silence, he slumped heavily back into his chair, covering his face with his sleeve.
A muffled voice came from beneath the fabric: “I never want to play chess with you again.
Not for the rest of my life.”
Blaise finally couldn’t help but laugh out loud, only for Draco to kick his chair, cutting the laughter short.
The corners of Alvin’s lips curved slightly.
He picked up his copy of *A Study of Medieval Magical Social Structure* once more and returned to his chaise lounge.
The fire in the hearth remained warm, and the lake outside remained dark and deep.
Alvin’s gaze drifted over the page, catching a glimpse of the platinum-haired boy slumping in his chair, using his “dignity as the Chief” to threaten Blaise into keeping tonight’s events a secret.
Alvin thought to himself:
*This roommate isn’t that hard to deal with after all.*
…
Wednesday, September 4, 1991.
The morning’s Herbology class ended amid Professor Sprout’s high praise.
Alvin Vance once again earned five points for Slytherin due to his “extraordinary patience while repotting Devil’s Snare.”
Draco curled his lip slightly at the side but said nothing.
He seemed to still be processing his five consecutive defeats from the night before, making him much quieter than usual.
After lunch, the first-years walked through the castle to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom on the third floor.
This room was much darker than the Charms classroom.
The curtains were half-drawn, and only a few candles on the candelabra were lit, making the dim light rather drowsy.
The young wizards found their seats.
Alvin and Draco sat in the third row near the window.
Though it was called a window, it actually faced the castle’s inner wall, offering a view of nothing but grey stone.
The moment the classroom door was pushed open, Alvin’s eyes immediately locked onto the figure walking in.
Professor Quirrell.
He wore a massive purple turban that wrapped almost completely around his head, leaving only a pale, morbidly nervous face exposed.
He walked with a cowering gait, as if he might be frightened by something at any moment.
His robes emanated a strong smell of garlic—so pungent that several students in the front row shrank back in unison.
But it wasn’t the smell of garlic that caught Alvin’s attention.
It was the “qi” surrounding him.
As Professor Quirrell passed him and headed toward the podium, Alvin’s spiritual perception was pricked as if by an icy needle, instantly putting him on alert.
That aura…
was far too chaotic.
He could sense Quirrell’s own aura—a weak, anxious energy field that looked like a sickly greyish-white, as if it had been drained by something over a long period.
Yet, on top of this aura—or rather, deep within it—was another, entirely different presence.
That presence was bone-chilling, carrying a near-frozen coldness like an icy wind rising from the deepest subterranean depths.
It flowed slowly around Professor Quirrell, like an invisible snake tightly binding his soul, slowly eroding and suffocating his original life force, compressing it until it was almost extinguished.
Even stranger, this icy presence was not evenly distributed; it was densest at the back of Quirrell’s head, right where his turban was wrapped.
Alvin’s brow furrowed, a rare sight.
His fingers instinctively tightened around the silk pouch hidden beneath his robes.
What was this thing?
“G-Good…
good afternoon…” Professor Quirrell’s stuttering voice broke Alvin’s train of thought.
“D-Defense Against…
the Dark Arts…
I, I expect you all…
all know how important this subject is…”
Beside him, Draco rolled his eyes and murmured in a voice only Alvin could hear, “He can’t even speak properly.
Did a vampire scare the wits out of him to turn him into this pathetic wreck?”
Alvin’s heart stirred.
He turned his head and gently tapped Draco’s arm, gesturing for him to lean in.
Draco was taken aback for a second but leaned in anyway, tilting his head closer.
Alvin turned his head and whispered in his ear, “Do you know anything about Professor Quirrell?
He…
seems a bit off.”
Draco glanced at the stuttering, sweating figure at the front of the room, curling his lip in disgust.
“Of course.
Last summer, he took a trip to the Black Forest and apparently ran into some vampires.
My father told me he’s been twitchy ever since.
He keeps that turban wrapped around his head all day, and you can smell the garlic on him, right?
Supposedly, it keeps the vampires away.
He’s as timid as a mouse.
I have no idea what Dumbledore was thinking, letting him teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
He paused, then added, “Word is, the turban itself is stuffed with garlic too.
Tsk, pathetic.”
Alvin nodded thoughtfully.
*A vampire.
Attacked.
Changed ever since.*
His father had once told him that in the West, there existed humanoid creatures called “vampires” that fed on blood.
If a bitten victim survived, they would be turned into one of them.
Could that icy presence be the residual trace of a vampire’s bite?
Was Professor Quirrell slowly being turned into a vampire?
Was the aura eroding him, suppressing him, and eventually destined to consume him entirely?
But Alvin felt something wasn’t right.
The sheer freezing intensity of that presence didn’t quite match his father’s descriptions of vampires.
His eyes fell once again upon the back of Professor Quirrell’s head, right on that thick purple turban.
That was where the aura was densest.
Meanwhile, Professor Quirrell himself was currently speaking in an anxious, borderline neurotic tone about the importance of Defense Against the Dark Arts, occasionally darting glances in a particular direction.
Alvin followed his gaze and realized he was looking toward Harry.
Alvin retracted his gaze and flipped open his textbook, his face expressionless.
However, his brow remained furrowed.
The daylight outside the window grew increasingly gloomy, and the garlic smell in the classroom grew impossibly thick.