Harry didn’t return to the Gryffindor common room immediately. Instead, he made a detour to the abandoned classroom on the fourth floor to check on Fluffy. Only after confirming that the three-headed dog was still there did he head back, reassured.
Defense Against the Dark Arts on Wednesday was as tedious as ever. The only "new" development was Professor Quirrell’s growing tendency to single out Gryffindors for criticism.
Maybe it was payback for the snowball ambush during Christmas. Or perhaps it had something to do with the unfortunate incident involving a biting cabbage. Either way, the glint of barely restrained madness in Quirrell’s eyes when he looked at Harry was impossible to ignore.
“What’s wrong with Quirrell?” Hermione whispered. “The way he’s staring at Harry… honestly, even Snape doesn’t glare like that.”
“Oh, it’s nothing major,” Ron said with a grin. “Just a tiny misunderstanding between Harry and Quirrell.”
“What kind of misunderstanding?” Hermione asked, lowering her voice.
Ron tried to sound casual. “Well… Harry might’ve accidentally thrown a biting cabbage at the back of Quirrell’s head.”
Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded. “You call that a small misunderstanding?”
“What else would you call it?” Ron shrugged, reaching for a drumstick from the platter in front of him. Holding it aloft, he muttered, "My precious," in a flawless Gollum impression before taking a dramatic bite.
Hermione groaned. “Honestly, Ron! Between Professor Snape and now Quirrell, this year’s House Cup is doomed.”
“Relax,” Ron said dismissively. “We weren’t winning it anyway. Snape’s made sure of that. He docks points every time we so much as breathe near him.” Turning to Seamus and Neville, he added, “Anyway, tonight’s the night you officially join the Duelist Club.”
Harry had made the arrangements. With Astronomy class not until eleven, they had enough time before detention and class to initiate the new members.
“Looking forward to testing your skills, Ron,” Seamus said eagerly.
“Of course,” Ron replied. Then, shooting Seamus a meaningful look, he added, “Oh, but don’t forget to bring Harry a few sandwiches. He’s stuck in detention with Snape.”
“Not just sandwiches,” Hermione interjected. “Get some caramel pudding too—it’s excellent today. And maybe some fruit, for balance.”
While Harry’s friends planned his post-detention meal, he was in Snape’s dimly lit dungeon office, brewing a Thunderbrew potion under the professor’s watchful gaze.
For once, Snape wasn’t the one doing the brewing—Harry was.
As he worked, Snape’s perpetual scowl seemed to soften ever so slightly. The corners of his thin lips almost twitched, as if they were toying with the idea of forming a smile.
This boy… Snape thought to himself. He’s so much like Lily. Her talent for Potions runs in his veins.
Harry, oblivious to Snape’s musings, focused on the Thunderbrew while his mind churned over Quirrell. He was becoming more and more convinced that the man’s turban concealed something sinister. He had even attempted to cast Revelio during class, only to find that a strange protective magic shielded the turban, thwarting his efforts.
“Hungry… so hungry… it’s been so long…”
Harry froze. The words hadn’t been spoken aloud, but he was sure he had heard them.
Then, his stomach growled audibly, breaking the eerie silence.
Snape arched an eyebrow. “At your age, it’s common for young trolls to experience growth spurts. Your considerate professor won’t detain you for long—no need for melodramatic protests.”
Harry chose not to explain, instead focusing on carefully ladling the completed Thunderbrew into a container.
“Blood… slaughter… hungry…”
There it was again—a chilling voice, whispering from somewhere above.
“Professor, did you hear that?” Harry asked, looking up. “It sounded… cold. Talking about blood and slaughter.”
Snape’s dark eyes studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, in his usual slow drawl, he said, “Class dismissed.”
“Thank you, Professor.” Harry stood, ready to bolt.
Harry sighed, turning back. Without a word, he handed the Thunderbrew to Snape, who stored it in a cabinet with his usual brisk efficiency.
“Rip you apart… kill you…”
The voice was louder now, more distinct.
“Professor, are you sure you didn’t hear that?” Harry pressed again.
Snape’s glare hardened. “I believe I’ve already dismissed you, Mr. Potter. There’s no need to invent excuses to linger.”
With no other choice, Harry exited the dungeon.
Outside, he pressed his ear to the stone wall, straining to hear the voice again.
The whisper faded, replaced by the soft, unmistakable sound of something slithering.
Harry followed the noise up the stairs, leading to the Entrance Hall.
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
He glanced down and realized he had stepped into a puddle. Moving his foot aside, he saw the flickering reflection of a flame—and something else.
Looking up, his breath caught.
Hanging stiffly from a torch bracket was Mrs. Norris, Filch’s beloved cat. Her body was rigid, her eyes wide with terror, and her mouth frozen in a silent snarl.
Filch appeared, stumbling toward Mrs. Norris. His trembling hands reached out but didn’t touch her. Then, his gaze snapped to Harry, and his face twisted with fury.
“You! You killed her!” he bellowed. “I’ll… I’ll kill you!”
Before Harry could explain, Filch lunged at him.
Starving, falsely accused, and seething with frustration, Harry’s patience snapped. He smirked coldly, drawing his wand as the enraged caretaker charged.
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