The high-pitched, gleeful cackle of Peeves, followed by a truly magnificent crash that sounded like an entire shelf of knight's armor collapsing, reverberated through the corridor just outside Filch's office. Argus Filch's face, which had been set in a grimace of anticipation at the prospect of punishing Viktor, contorted further, turning a mottled, furious red. His small, watery eyes, fixed on Viktor moments before, now swiveled with panicked indignation towards the source of the delightful chaos.
"PEEVES! THAT WRETCHED, MISCHIEVOUS SPIRIT!" Filch shrieked, his voice raw with outrage, cracking with indignation. He quivered, his scrawny frame shaking with barely contained fury, clearly torn between the satisfying joy of disciplining a caught first-year and the unbearable thought of his precious, immaculate (in his own mind) corridors being vandalized by the poltergeist. The crashing and cackling continued, a relentless affront to his orderly existence.
"STAY EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE!" he bellowed at Viktor, pointing a trembling, grimy finger that seemed to twitch with frustrated menace. With a final, sputtering sigh of profound annoyance, Filch spun around and began to waddle, then break into a surprisingly rapid, crab-like scurry down the corridor, his heavy, shuffling footsteps thudding against the ancient stone. Close behind him, a loyal, low-slung shadow, slinked the skeletal form of Mrs. Norris, her glowing red eyes burning with shared, disapproving indignation, fixed firmly on the direction of the nuisance.
The very moment their footsteps faded, leaving behind only the distant, diminishing sounds of Peeves's ongoing rampage and Filch's increasingly faint, furious bellows, Viktor sprang into action. This was his narrow window, a precious, fleeting opportunity.
He darted towards Filch's desk, a colossal, dark, and utterly vile piece of furniture that seemed to ooze neglect and despair. The office itself was a grim, dusty den of misery, suffocatingly cluttered with bizarre and unpleasant implements. Cobwebs, thick and grey, clung to the ceiling like grim draperies. Chains, some rusty, some glinting faintly, hung haphazardly from the low ceiling, catching the dim, flickering light from a single, sputtering torch, alongside what looked suspiciously like rusted manacles and an assortment of medieval torture devices.
Lists of student infractions, detailing punishments in precise, looping script, were pinned haphazardly to a corkboard, some yellowed with age, others disturbingly fresh. A faint, cloying scent of stale tea, unwashed cat fur, and something indefinably musty and stagnant hung heavy in the air. Viktor instinctively wrinkled his nose; the place was truly repulsive, an oppressive testament to misery and despair, and he wanted out. Quickly.
He knew he didn't have much time. Filch, though distracted, would eventually deal with Peeves, or at least chase him off, and then return, undoubtedly boiling with a desire for retribution, eager to unleash his pent-up frustration on Viktor. Viktor pointed his wand at the desk drawers, targeting the top one first. "Alohomora!" he whispered, his voice urgent, almost a desperate plea. The old, dark wood of the drawer groaned and creaked in protest, like an ancient beast awakening, as the magic unlatched it. He yanked it wide, revealing a chaotic mess of crumpled papers, broken quills with splotches of dried ink, yellowed detention slips, and various confiscated, mundane items: half-eaten sweets, bent spoons, tattered comics, and even a single, lonely, threadbare sock. He rifled through it, his eyes scanning frantically, tossing aside a mummified toad and a suspiciously sticky piece of string. Nothing.
"Alohomora!" he tried on the next drawer, the sound louder this time, the creak more mournful, as if the desk itself resented his intrusion. Another tangle of dusty parchment, empty inkwells, forgotten keys, and what looked like a collection of particularly robust dust bunnies. His frustration mounted with each empty cavity, a cold knot forming in his stomach. Where is it? he thought, his mental clamor growing. It's supposed to be here! My memories... this is where it's kept! Why isn't this working?! The sheer, overwhelming reality of the cluttered, uncooperative office was a stark contrast to the clean, precise information he held in his mind. He expected efficiency, a clear path, but was instead confronted with mundane chaos.
He even tried the Accio spell, a silent incantation directed at the cluttered mess, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. "Accio map... Accio Marauder's Map... Accio secret parchment... Accio enchanted item!" he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with growing disbelief. Nothing. Not a flicker. The spell simply sank into the stagnant air of the office, producing no response, as if the magic itself was refusing to cooperate. He even cast a quick, silent general detection charm, only for it to register a myriad of mundane magical objects – Filch's own perpetually damp cleaning rag, a self-stirring cauldron cleaner, a low-level anti-Peeves charm on a dusty shelf – but no distinct, powerful signature for the map he sought. His "perfect knowledge" from his past life, his System-enhanced memory, felt utterly useless when faced with the sheer, overwhelming mundane clutter and unexpected absence of the object. The unexpected difficulty was an irritating sensation, a challenge to his assumed infallibility, making a bead of sweat trickle down his temple.
With magic failing him, and precious seconds ticking away like drops of water, he resorted to pure, manual search. He became a whirlwind of frantic, desperate energy. His fingers brushed against grimy surfaces, he coughed slightly from the disturbed dust motes dancing in the dim light. He tore through papers, pulled out more drawers with a series of frantic clunks and thumps, scattering files and objects in his haste. He even got dust on his robes, an abhorrent thought under normal circumstances, but now utterly disregarded. He felt under the desk, tapped the walls, scanned every surface, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The desk quickly became a disaster zone, a mountain of disarray, a testament to his panicked, fruitless efforts. His eyes burned with the strain, every muscle taut with the effort. Still, no map.
After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a few minutes, the distant commotion of Peeves's antics began to die down. The frantic screams and crashes lessened, replaced by a lingering, furious mumbling. Then, ominously, the familiar, heavy footsteps and angry shouts of Filch started to grow closer, louder, echoing up the corridor, each thud a hammer blow to Viktor's already racing heart. Panic, cold and sharp as a fresh blade, gripped Viktor's chest. He hadn't found it!
He acted instinctively, a surge of pure survival instinct overriding his frustration. Waving his wand with a flurry of quick, efficient organizing spells, he sent papers fluttering back into drawers and scattered items sliding back into place. The drawers groaned again, protesting but obedient, creaking shut with loud, final clunks. He worked with blinding speed, his magic a green blur in the dim light. Just as the last drawer clicked shut with a definitive thud, he heard it: a distinct, smug meow from right outside the office door, followed by a heavy sniff. Mrs. Norris. Too close. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat. He quickly shoved his wand into his right-hand sleeve, the cool wood pressing against his skin, trying to feign an innocent, startled expression, his breathing shallow.
The very next second, the office door burst open with a jarring bang. Filch stood framed in the doorway, his face still contorted with indignation, his stringy grey hair disheveled and plastered to his forehead from his chase. He was panting, his chest heaving, his eyes narrowed into furious, bloodshot slits. He glared at Viktor, his gaze sharp and accusatory, clearly still fuming from his encounter with Peeves. He was too preoccupied with his ire at the poltergeist to bother with a formal detention or prolonged interrogation, though. The memory of Peeves's destruction clearly took precedence.
"OUT!" Filch snarled, his voice a guttural rasp, pointing a trembling finger at the door. "GET OUT, you disruptive nuisance! Before I find something truly unpleasant for you to polish! And don't you dare set foot in this office again!" he added, his voice trailing off into a series of disgruntled grumbles. He merely wanted Viktor gone.
Viktor didn't need to be told twice. A wave of profound relief washed over him, making his knees feel momentarily weak. He complied instantly, practically sprinting out of the office, eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and the fuming caretaker. He didn't look back, not daring to test Filch's patience or provoke a change of heart. He ran through the quiet corridors, the cold air on his face a stark contrast to the stifling heat of his adrenaline, the thumping of his heart a rapid, desperate drumbeat of escape. He pushed himself, not stopping until the sounds of Filch's office were a distant memory, replaced by the hushed whispers of the castle at night.
He found Hailey and Claire huddled in a discreet, shadowed alcove on the third floor, a quiet nook near a tapestry depicting a particularly grumpy-looking wizard contemplating a goblet. Their faces were etched with anxiety, their eyes wide with worry, but they lit up with profound relief as he finally appeared, safe but disheveled, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
"Viktor! Are you alright?" Hailey whispered, her voice tight with concern, rushing forward slightly. "We heard Filch yelling. Did you get it? Did you manage to find the map?"
Viktor shook his head, running a hand through his greasy black fringe. "No. No luck. The office is a nightmare. It's so cluttered, crammed with his unpleasant little treasures, and the map... it just wasn't there. I searched everywhere, opened every single drawer. Even tried Accio, but nothing. It was like it didn't exist." He recounted the chaotic office, the utter disarray, his frantic, fruitless search for the map, and the terrifyingly close call with Filch and Mrs. Norris, painting a vivid, almost theatrical picture of Filch's incandescent indignation and Peeves's gleeful destruction.
Claire's brow furrowed with vexation at the setback. She listened intently, then tapped a finger against her chin. "So, the legendary item remains elusive. A significant disappointment. Perhaps your 'sources' were mistaken on its precise location? Or Filch has moved it since their... encounter. Caretakers are creatures of habit, but even they might relocate particularly vexing contraband."
Hailey sighed dramatically, slumping against the cold stone wall, the initial relief giving way to frustration. "All that risk for nothing! And it was so terrifying! We could have all been caught and expelled on our first week, just for a shower!" she exclaimed, her voice still trembling slightly.
Viktor felt the familiar sting of failure, a prickle of annoyance that his comprehensive knowledge had not guaranteed success. But it was quickly overshadowed by a renewed surge of determination, a challenging spark in his eyes. The map was out there, he knew it. But if it wasn't where it was supposed to be, then relying solely on his canon knowledge wouldn't work. They needed a new approach, a more personal, direct method.
"Since the original map proved elusive," Viktor said, his voice firming with a new resolve, "then we'll simply have to make our own." He looked at each of them, his gaze resolute, a spark of pure Slytherin cunning and ambition igniting in his eyes. "A truly comprehensive map of Hogwarts. Every secret passage, every hidden room, every forgotten nook and cranny. We'll chart them all ourselves."
Hailey's eyes widened, a slow, excited grin spreading across her face, chasing away the remnants of fear and frustration. Her earlier disappointment transformed into renewed enthusiasm. "Make our own map? ... how hard could that be?" she asked, her voice laced with a mixture of awe and naive, boundless optimism.
Claire's thoughtful expression shifted from vexation to one of genuine intrigue, a calculating gleam entering her eyes as she considered the ambitious proposal. "A rather monumental project for first-years, certainly," she conceded, "but not impossible. We do possess rather advanced theoretical knowledge of charm-work" she began, looking pointedly at Viktor, "and considerable practical talent."
"Exactly!" Viktor affirmed, leaning in conspiratorially, his voice low and confident. "And It's just a matter of systematic application, a bit of strategic exploration, and a good deal of... initiative, isn't it? We're not common first-years; we have methods." He grinned, feeding into their shared hubris, allowing the youthful overconfidence to take hold. "Think of the power such knowledge would give us. We'd know this castle better than Dumbledore himself. Every secret passage, every hidden escape route, every quiet corner. Think of the bathrooms!."