The Most Fortunate Malfoy In Harry Potter Chapter 47 47 : Victor Plan

Novel: The Most Fortunate Malfoy In Harry Potter Author: Devilsatan Updated: Jun 16, 2026

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Now reading: Chapter 47 47 : Victor Plan from The Most Fortunate Malfoy In Harry Potter, a Action novel by Devilsatan.

"Expelliarmus!"

The red bolt struck Quirrell squarely. His wand flew from his hand and clattered across the stone floor, spinning out of reach.

Quirrell barely had ti to react.

"Depulso!"

A second spell hit him full in the chest.

The force of the spell sent Quirrell hurtling backward. His body struck the far wall with a heavy crash, stone cracking beneath the impact before he crumpled to the floor.

He hadn't wanted to give Voldemort even the smallest chance to retaliate.

Without a wand, a wizard's magic was weaker—unstable, difficult to control. Voldemort would be at a disadvantage.

So he had chosen the elent of surprise.

He struck first.

"Victor!" Hermione cried.

"Have you gone mad?" Harry shouted, staring at him in disbelief. "He's a professor!"

Victor didn't lower his wand.

"Are you two blind?" he snapped, eyes still fixed on Quirrell. "He just admitted he tried to kill you. You wanted to stand there and let him finish?"

The two of them fell silent.

He was right.

In the shock of seeing a student attack a professor, they had reacted without thinking.

Then it ca.

A high, piercing scream ripped through the chamber.

The sound was unbearable—sharp and unnatural, as though it clawed directly at their minds. Harry dropped to one knee, clutching his head. Hermione cried out and covered her ears.

Victor staggered but remained standing.

The scream stopped abruptly.

Slowly, Quirrell pushed himself upright.

The burns from the spell were gone.

He was trembling—not with weakness, but with sothing else.

Without a word, he reached up and began to unwrap his turban.

Layer by layer, the cloth fell away.

He turned. Where the back of his head should have been smooth and bare, there was a face.

Pale. Flattened. Serpentine.

Red eyes opened.

Hermione gagged.

"Ew," she whispered faintly, unable to stop herself.

The eyes fixed on Victor.

"A Malfoy," the cold voice hissed. "You should be on our side. Your father would be most disappointed to know you oppose ."

Harry felt his stomach drop.

Victor tilted his head slightly.

"My father," he said evenly, "doesn't usually take orders from faces attached to the back of soone else's head."

He is pretending he doesn't know who this guy is for many reasons.

Quirrell stiffened.

"Fool!" he spat. "Bow down before the Dark Lord! This is Lord Voldemort!"

The red eyes narrowed.

For a brief mont, Victor lowered his wand.

"Oh," he said slowly. "Lord Voldemort."

He took a small step forward, his posture shifting—subtle, deliberate.

Harry's heart pounded.

Ron's voice echoed faintly in his mory: The Malfoys were always close to You-Know-Who…

Victor couldn't be—

Could he?

The red eyes glead.

Victor moved first.

"Reducto!"

The blasting spell shot forward — but Voldemort lifted a hand, and the magic shattered against an unseen shield. The impact cracked stone behind him instead.

"Pathetic," the cold voice hissed.

The body lurched forward, movents unnatural, too sharp, too deliberate. Arms shot out, fingers curled like claws, reaching for Victor's throat.

Victor twisted aside just in ti.

Up close, he saw it clearly with his eyes of the dead.

The body was failing.

Hairline fractures traced along the skin like cracks in old porcelain. Dark veins pulsed beneath the surface, magic leaking erratically, flaring and dimming in unstable waves. The body wasn't healthy flesh — it was sothing stretched past its limits.

It seems the body is on the verge of collapse—just needs a little push, Victor thought, watching the unstable magic flicker across Voldemort's borrowed flesh.

"I've heard quite a bit about you, Riddle," Victor said lightly, almost conversationally. "I must say… your performance is rather underwhelming."

With a casual motion of his foot, he kicked the fallen wand across the stone floor. It slid toward Harry, stopping near his trainers.

The effect was imdiate.

The red eyes flared with sothing far more volatile than rage.

"Do not call that," Voldemort hissed, the voice rising into sothing shriller, less controlled. "That na ans nothing."

But it did.

Tom Riddle. The na of a half-blood boy from a London orphanage. The na tied to a Muggle father he despised. The past he had tried to carve away and bury beneath power.

Victor tilted his head slightly.

"What?" he continued calmly. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. That's still your na, isn't it?"

"I am Lord Voldemort!" the voice shrieked, echoing through the chamber.

The fractures along the body deepened.

Victor's eyes sharpened.

Good.

Anger made him careless.

And careless would make him break.

Without a wand, Voldemort's magic grew erratic. Dark energy lashed outward in wild, unfocused bursts—violent, but lacking precision. Sparks split the air, scorching stone, yet none carried the deadly sharpness of a properly cast curse.

Hairline fractures spread rapidly across the skin. The legs faltered first. Blackened cracks deepened, and then the lower half of the body began to crumble.

"No—" Voldemort's voice warped, distorting between fury and disbelief.

The knees gave way.

Dust spilled onto the stone floor.

For a brief second, another voice broke through—thin, terrified.

"M-My Lord… what is happening?" Quirrell's voice trembled from sowhere within, panicked and confused, as if surfacing from deep water.

But it was too late.

The body could not endure the strain.

A piercing, inhuman scream tore through the chamber as the remaining flesh fractured completely. The torso collapsed inward, disintegrating into fine ash that scattered across the marble squares.

The red eyes vanished.

Silence fell.

Only a faint, cold ripple passed through the room—like sothing unseen fleeing into the darkness.

Where the body had stood, there was nothing but drifting dust.

Victor exhaled slowly.

"Whew," Victor muttered under his breath. "Finally."

From the mont he'd seen the cracks spreading through the unstable body, he had known it wouldn't last. He had only needed to push it.

Hermione was still staring at the dust scattered across the stone floor.

"Victor…" she said, her voice trembling. "You—you just killed the Dark Lord."

There was shock in her eyes. Fear too. However twisted and weakened he had been, that had still been Voldemort—the na no one dared speak.

Harry looked from the ashes to Victor, stunned. "You just… you actually…"

Victor lowered his wand at last.