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Two Weeks After Harry Acquires Sylvia
The Potions classroom in the dungeons had never been what Harry would call welcoming, but lately it felt actively hostile. Not because of the pickled creatures floating in jars or the perpetual chill that seemed to seep from the stone walls, those were just atmospheric. No, the hostility came from one specific source, and that source was currently glaring at Harry from behind his desk with such loathing.
Professor Severus Snape had disliked Harry from the very first class. But something had shifted in the past two weeks, ever since Harry had acquired Sylvia. The dislike had metastasated into something darker, more personal, more vindictive.
"Today," Snape announced in his silky, dangerous voice, "you will be brewing a Forgetfulness Potion. The instructions are on the board. You have one hour. Begin."
Harry glanced at the blackboard, quickly memorizing the steps. It seemed straightforward enough, mistletoe berries, Lethe River water, Valerian sprigs, and a few other standard ingredients. Nothing he couldn't handle.
Beside him, Theodore Nott was already gathering ingredients from the store cupboard. They'd been paired together for the past three lessons, which suited Harry fine. Theodore worked methodically and didn't make careless mistakes.
"Four mistletoe berries," Theodore murmured, reading from the board. "Crushed, not whole."
Harry nodded, retrieving his mortar and pestle. As he crushed the berries, he was peripherally aware of Snape moving through the classroom, his black robes making him look like an overgrown bat.
The professor paused at various tables, praising Draco and Crabbe's preparation work with faint approval, nodding at Daphne's precise measurements.
Then he reached Harry's table.
"Potter." The name dripped with contempt. "Let me see your ingredient preparation."
Harry presented his crushed mistletoe berries without comment. They were perfectly ground to the consistency specified in the textbook, fine enough to dissolve quickly, but not so fine as to turn into powder.
Snape stared at them for a long moment. "Acceptable," he finally said, the word forced out like he was admitting to a personal failure. Then, as he turned away, Harry saw it.
A flick of Snape's wand.
Something small and dark dropped into Harry's cauldron.
Harry's eyes widened fractionally, but he didn't react otherwise. He couldn't be certain what Snape had added; the motion had been too quick. But he knew with absolute certainty that something had just been sabotaged.
Theodore had been organizing their Valerian sprigs and hadn't noticed. The other students were focused on their own work. Only Harry had been watching Snape closely enough to catch it.
He's actively sabotaging my potion, Harry realized, a cold fury settling in his stomach. In front of the entire class, and no one else saw.
He considered his options. Accusing Snape without proof would be worse than useless—it would make him look like he was making excuses. Trying to fix the potion blindly could make things worse. But doing nothing meant accepting failure.
Harry made his decision. He continued brewing exactly as instructed, following every step precisely, measuring every ingredient with meticulous care. If the potion failed, and he was certain now that it would, at least he'd have followed the instructions perfectly.
Thirty minutes later, his potion had turned an alarming shade of orange instead of the prescribed pale grey.
"Potter." Snape's voice cut through the classroom chatter like a blade. "What is that abomination in your cauldron?"
Every student stopped working to look.
Harry met Snape's eyes steadily. "It appears to be a failed Forgetfulness Potion, Professor."
"It appears to be?" Snape moved closer, his expression one of theatrical disgust. "Can you not tell the difference between success and failure? Or are you simply too arrogant to admit when you've made a mistake?"
"I followed the instructions exactly as written, sir," Harry said calmly.
"Did you?" Snape's voice was silky with false curiosity. "Then perhaps you're simply incompetent. Or perhaps—" he paused for maximum effect, "—you weren't paying attention. Too busy showing off your stolen pet to properly focus on your work."
Several Gryffindors snickered. Even some Slytherins looked uncomfortable, though whether from secondhand embarrassment or uncertainty, Harry couldn't tell.
"Sylvia wasn't stolen," Harry corrected quietly. "She chose—"
"I don't recall asking for your pet's life story, Potter." Snape's voice cracked like a whip. "Five points from Slytherin for your failed potion. Another five for wasting expensive ingredients through carelessness. And ten more for talking back to a professor."
The classroom went deathly silent.
Twenty points. From his own house. In a single class period.
Harry felt the weight of his housemates' stares. Twenty points was significant, especially this early in the term.
"Clean up your station," Snape commanded. "And Potter? Perhaps next time you'll focus more on your work and less on cultivating your celebrity status."
Three Days Later
Harry had arrived at Potions early the next week, determined to give Snape no excuse for criticism. He'd read ahead in the textbook, practiced the wand movements for heating spells, and mentally reviewed every ingredient they might possibly use.
Today's assignment was a Cure for Boils, ironically, one they'd brewed successfully in their very first Potions class. It should have been routine.
Harry worked with meticulous precision, measuring each ingredient exactly, stirring at precise intervals, and maintaining perfect temperature control. Theodore, working beside him, kept shooting him glances but said nothing.
Everything was going perfectly. His potion had achieved the exact shade of pink specified in the instructions. The consistency was correct. Even the subtle shimmer on the surface matched the textbook illustration.
Then Snape walked past.
This time, Harry was watching. This time, he caught the motion clearly, Snape's hand moving to his pocket, withdrawing something small, dropping it into Harry's cauldron with a flick so quick it might have been mistaken for a gesture.
The potion immediately began bubbling violently.
"POTTER!" Snape's roar drew every eye in the classroom. "What have you done?"
The cauldron was now producing thick, noxious green smoke. The potion had turned a sickly brown color and was expanding rapidly, threatening to overflow.
"I—" Harry began, but Snape was already moving.
With a sharp wand movement, Snape vanished the contents of Harry's cauldron. The smoke dissipated, leaving behind only the acrid smell of ruined potion.
"Incompetence," Snape hissed, his face inches from Harry's. "Absolute, unforgivable incompetence. You added the porcupine quills before removing the cauldron from the heat, didn't you?"
"No sir, I—"
"Don't lie to me, Potter!" Snape's voice rose. "I saw you. Your arrogance nearly caused an explosion that could have injured your classmates!"
Harry opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. There was no point. Snape had manufactured this failure, and now he was manufacturing the explanation. Anything Harry said would only be twisted into further evidence of his supposed incompetence or arrogance.
"Twenty points from Slytherin," Snape declared. "And you'll spend this evening in detention, scrubbing cauldrons. Perhaps manual labor will teach you the value of careful work."
As the class filed out, Harry felt the weight of hostile stares from his own housemates. Forty points lost in less than a week, all from one student.
Harry knew his fellow Slytherins were clearly not happy about his failures; the only ones who seemed to understand that it wasn't exactly his fault were Daphne, Theodore, and Blaise Zabini, but they never said a word.
After the class ended, Draco asked him, looking annoyed. "Why are you losing us points, Potter?"
Harry looked back at him, ready to say something, but if he said that it was all Snape's fault, most would not believe him, sure, they knew Snape did not like him, but they wouldn't think he would make his potion go bad, and then lose him House Points, especially since Snape is the Head House of the Slytherins.
"And I earned sixty points this week in all the other classes," Harry pointed out.
"So what, are you doing this for shits and giggles, is this a prank, are you the Weasley Twins," another Slytherin asked, but in that moment, Sylvia decided she did not like the way so many students were looking at his master, and raised it's head, she did not hiss at them, but just raising her head was enough to make them all back down.
"I don't think, Harry is doing this on purpose," it was Crabbe who said it, but most did not pay attention to him.
One Week Later - Common Room Tensions
"Twenty points! Again!"
The voice echoed through the Slytherin common room, and Harry didn't need to turn around to know it was directed at him. Marcus Belby, a second-year with a perpetually sour expression, had apparently decided to make his feelings known publicly.
"That's eighty points this month, Potter," Belby continued, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "Eighty points because you can't brew a simple potion without making a mess. You're dragging down the whole house."
Harry, who'd been reading by the fire with Sylvia coiled around his shoulders, carefully marked his page before looking up. Several students had stopped their conversations to watch. This felt orchestrated, like Belby had been working up the courage—or been encouraged—to confront him publicly.
"I see you're keeping count," Harry observed mildly. "That's very dedicated of you."
"This isn't funny!" Belby's face flushed. "Ravenclaw is ahead of us in points. Ravenclaw! And it's because of you!"
"Actually," Theodore called from where he sat with a Transfiguration textbook, "if you check the hourglasses in the Great Hall, you'll see that Potter has earned Slytherin more points in other classes than he's lost in Potions. Net positive, overall."
"That's not the point!" Belby sputtered. "He's making us look bad! Making Slytherin look incompetent!"
Daphne, who'd been practicing wand movements in the corner, finally spoke up. Her voice was cold as winter frost. "Strange, Belby. I don't recall you complaining when Potter earned twenty points in Charms for performing third-year magic. Or when he got fifteen points for that transfiguration essay Professor McGonagall called 'exceptional.'"
"That's different—"
"How is it different?" Daphne's ice-blue eyes fixed on him. "Points are points. Or do they only count when they fit your narrative?"
Belby opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "Professor Snape wouldn't take points from Potter unless he deserved it. He's our Head of House. He's fair."
The silence that followed that statement was profound.
Blaise raised an eyebrow and said, "You are right, Professor Snape is always fair, that is known by everyone, maybe he is a little stricter with Potter here, but yes, he is fair, ask anyone in this castle."
Harry had remained silent through this exchange, but now he felt multiple eyes turning to him expectantly. They wanted an explanation, a defense, something to make sense of why their Head of House seemed to actively despise one of their own first-years.
"I don't know why Professor Snape...is stricter with me," Harry said, choosing his words carefully. "I can only tell you that I've followed every instruction exactly as given, measured every ingredient precisely, and maintained proper technique. Yet my potions still fail. Draw your own conclusions."
"You're saying Snape's sabotaging you?" Belby demanded. "That's a serious accusation!"
"I'm saying my potions fail despite following proper procedure," Harry corrected. "That's a statement of fact. Your speculations are yours alone, not mine."
As he returned to his book, his mind was already working through possibilities. Snape thought he could use point loss to turn the house against Harry, to isolate him, to make him look incompetent. It was a clever strategy to undermine Harry's standing with his own housemates while maintaining plausible deniability.
But it cuts both ways, Harry thought, absently stroking Sylvia's scales. If Snape's willing to hurt his own house to get at me, that says something about his priorities. And if I can demonstrate that clearly enough...
The beginning of a plan began to form.
Harry had been hoping that he could somehow find a way to get on the good side of Professor Snape, but it was clear that Snape was like Aunt Petunia. Harry had tried to get into her good grace for years, but soon he had learned that for some people, it did not matter what you did, how you did it, you were always Guilty.
And Snape wanted everyone to look at him the same way, by losing him points, he was trying to make sure that Slytherins would start to dislike him a lot, and it was only a matter of time until Snape did something more, perhaps he would start being inssufrable towards Slytherins who spend time with him, that way, those same students would be forced to leave him, and Harry would be left alone. Harry would not allow that to happen. If Snape had no good grace to give, then Harry would do the same thing he did to Aunt Petunia.
Make him realise that being against him is more bad than good.
Tomorrow
The Great Hall had transformed overnight into a Halloween wonderland that somehow managed to be both whimsical and vaguely threatening, a very Hogwarts combination. Live bats swooped between the enchanted jack-o'-lanterns suspended from the ceiling, their squeaking barely audible over the breakfast chatter. The four house tables groaned under platters of eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast that never seemed to diminish no matter how many students filled their plates.
Harry Potter sat at the Slytherin table with Sylvia draped across his shoulders like a living scarf. The milk snake had become such a fixture of his appearance over the past two weeks that most students no longer gave her a second glance, though first-years from other houses still occasionally stared at him with unease, as if waiting for Harry to strike them.
"I still can't believe the match is only two weeks away," Draco said, gesturing with a piece of bacon for emphasis. His grey eyes gleamed with the particular excitement he reserved for Quidditch discussions. "Slytherin versus Gryffindor. Father says it's the most important match of the season—sets the tone for the entire year."
"Your father says a lot of things," Blaise observed mildly, reaching for the marmalade. "Though in this case, he's probably right. The rivalry between our houses makes every match feel like a declaration of war."
Theodore Nott looked up from the copy of Advanced Potion-Making he'd been reading while eating. "Flint's been running the team ragged with extra practices. I heard him telling Pucey they're training every evening this week."
"Every evening?" Tracey Davis repeated, pausing mid-sip of her pumpkin juice. "That seems excessive."
"Not if you want to crush Gryffindor," Draco said with satisfaction. "Which we absolutely do. Did I mention Father once watched a match where—"
"Yes," came a chorus of voices.
Draco's ears turned slightly pink, but he pressed on undeterred. "I'm just saying, Quidditch is serious business. The Slytherin team hasn't lost to Gryffindor in three years, and Flint's determined to keep that streak alive."
Harry had been listening to this exchange with apparent casualness, methodically working his way through scrambled eggs while his mind turned over calculations. Sylvia shifted slightly against his neck, her tongue flicking out to taste the air. She always seemed to sense when he was thinking particularly hard about something.
"Speaking of practice," Harry said, keeping his tone light and conversational, "is it possible to watch the team train? I mean, are students allowed to observe?"
Several heads turned toward him with varying degrees of interest.
"Why would you want to watch practice?" Goyle asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. "It's not like watching a real match. Just a lot of flying around and shouting."
"I'm interested in Quidditch," Harry replied with a slight shrug. "Thought it might be educational to see how a house team actually trains. You know, strategy, formations, that sort of thing."
"You could just read about it," Millicent Bulstrode pointed out from across the table. "There are entire books on Quidditch tactics in the library."
"Reading's not the same as seeing," Harry said. "I learn better by watching."
Theodore set down his book. "This is about you not playing Quidditch, isn't that right?"
"What do you mean?" Draco asked, not understanding.
"Potter here had a short visit with Professor Snape last week, Madam Hooch decided to bring him to his office, something about playing for the team, but whatever happened, Porfessor Snape did not agree to let Harry be part of the team."Theodore explained.
"I just want to watch practice. Is that so suspicious?" Harry asked.
"Yes," Daphne, Theodore, and Blaise said simultaneously, but Harry just shrugged, and Theodore decided to get into the meat of the problem.
"There's still the small matter of actually getting permission to watch practice," Theodore pointed out pragmatically. "Flint's not exactly known for his welcoming personality. He might just tell you to sod off."
"That's where I come in," Draco announced, straightening in his seat with obvious pride. "Father knows Flint's parents, they move in the same social circles. I can introduce Harry formally, make it harder for Flint to refuse without seeming rude. Pureblood politics," he added with a knowing look. "Sometimes the old ways are useful."
"The practice is this afternoon," Theodore said, apparently having committed the team's schedule to memory. "Right after lunch. They've booked the pitch until dinner."
"Perfect timing," Harry said. "Gives me most of the day to prepare."
"Prepare what?" Goyle asked. "I thought you were just watching?"
"Watching, yes. But first impressions matter. I need to approach this correctly." Harry said with his smile, and his friends gave him looks, especially Daphne. They knew he was brewing something, but they weren't sure what it was yet.
Sylvia chose that moment to raise her head, her dark eyes focusing on something across the Great Hall. Harry followed her gaze and spotted Marcus Flint entering through the main doors, his broad shoulders and stern expression making him easily identifiable even at a distance.
"There he is," Draco said unnecessarily, tracking Flint's progress toward the Slytherin table. "Ready?"
"Ready," he confirmed. "Remember, Draco. We should not sound like we are begging them."
"I know how to do this, Potter," Draco said with a hint of his characteristic arrogance. "I've been navigating pureblood social politics since I could talk. Just follow my lead and try not to look too eager."
"I never look eager," Harry replied mildly. "Eager is for Hufflepuffs."
Theodore snorted into his pumpkin juice while Tracey tried to hide a smile behind her hand.
Flint had reached the Slytherin table and was settling into a seat with several of his teammates—Adrian Pucey, one of the Chasers, and Miles Bletchley, the current Seeker. They were already deep in conversation about something, gesturing with their hands in ways that suggested flying formations.
"Now or never," Blaise said quietly.
Harry stood, Sylvia adjusting her coils to maintain her balance. Several students nearby glanced his way.
Draco rose as well, adopting the slightly haughty posture that came naturally to him in formal situations. "Let me handle the initial approach. You just look interested and respectful."
"Yes, because I'm known for my inability to manage social situations," Harry said dryly.
"You're known for your ability to acquire other people's snakes through mysterious means," Theodore called after them. "It's a different skill set."
Harry didn't dignify that with a response, instead following Draco toward where Flint sat.
As they approached, Adrian Pucey noticed them first, his eyes flicking to Harry's face and then to Sylvia. He said something to Flint, who turned in his seat to regard the two first-years with an expression that could generously be described as impatient.
"Flint," Draco greeted him with a slight nod. Perfect pureblood etiquette. "Sorry to interrupt your breakfast. I wanted to introduce you formally to my friend. I believe you know of Harry Potter."
Flint studied Harry for a long moment. Then his eyes drifted back to Sylvia, who'd raised her head slightly at all the attention. "That really Mulciber's snake?" he asked.
"She was," Harry said carefully. "But Mulciber and I came to an... understanding. She's with me now."
"An understanding," Flint echoed. "That's one way to put it. I heard those five fourth years that tried to bully you a few weeks ago were in the hospital wing. Heard it didn't go well for them."
"Define 'well,'" Harry replied with a slight smile.
The stocky boy next to Flint snorted with laughter. "I like him."
"You like everyone who's not actively hexing you, Lucian," the girl with the braid said dryly. Then, to Harry, "How'd you do it? Get the snake, I mean. Mulciber's had that thing since first year. It was practically his trademark."
Harry could feel multiple sets of eyes on him now—not just the team members, but students at neighboring sections of the table who'd noticed the conversation and were trying to listen in without appearing to.
"I'd like to hear that story too," Flint said slowly. "In fact, I'll make you a deal, Potter."
"I'm listening."
Flint leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "You can watch practice this afternoon. Hell, bring your friends if you want, no point making them sit in the common room while you're having all the fun. But in return, I want the real story. Not the sanitized version everyone's been speculating about. I want to know exactly how an eleven-year-old convinced a fourth-year's pet snake to abandon him."
It was a fair trade, and they both knew it.
"Deal," Harry said without hesitation. "Though I should warn you, the real story is probably less dramatic than whatever rumors have been going around."
"I'll be the judge of that." Flint's expression suggested he very much doubted the story would be boring.
Harry paused, then decided to push his luck. "And I'd like to try flying at least once. While you're practicing."
Bletchley's fork clattered against his plate. "You're joking."
"I'm not," Harry said calmly, keeping his attention on Flint rather than the incredulous Seeker. "Madam Hoose said I was decent enough and I would like to try again."
"Just once," Flint repeated, something unreadable in his tone. "You want to try flying during Slytherin team practice."
"If it's not too much trouble," Harry replied, and he was careful to keep any trace of challenge out of his voice.
Flint exchanged glances with his teammates. Pucey looked intrigued, his head tilted slightly as if reassessing Harry. The girl with the braid seemed amused. Lucian was grinning outright. But Bletchley's expression had gone cold, his jaw tight.
"First-years aren't allowed their own brooms," Bletchley said sharply. "Everyone knows that. It's school policy."
"I'm aware," Harry replied evenly. "I'm not asking to join the team or break any rules. I'm just asking to try flying once, on a school broom, while people who actually know what they're doing are around to make sure I don't do anything stupid."
"You want us to babysit you," Bletchley translated flatly.
"I want to learn," Harry corrected. "There's a difference."
Flint was watching this exchange with calculating eyes. Finally, the captain spoke. "I heard you were never in a broom before coming to Hogwarts, is that right?"
"Never."
"Not even as a kid? Most wizarding families at least let their children try hovering by the time they're five or six."
"I was raised by Magic hating Muggles," Harry reminded him. "They didn't exactly have a broom lying around for me to experiment with."
Flint and all those around him looked disgusted at the thought. "Right. I'd heard that." He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. "I remember Hooch making a fuss about you after that first flying lesson. Heard she wanted you for Seeker but Professor Snape shut it down."
"Professor Snape has his reasons, I'm sure." Harry said with a respectful tone.
"I'm sure he does," Flint agreed, but there was a note in his voice that suggested he had opinions about those reasons. He glanced at Bletchley, whose expression had gone from cold to hostile. "Miles, what do you think? Should we let Potter try flying?"
"I think it's a waste of practice time," Bletchley said bluntly. "We've got two weeks until Gryffindor. We should be running drills, not holding hands with first-years who want to play pretend."
"Fair point," Flint acknowledged. Then, to Harry, "What position interests you?"
The question felt like a test. Harry could feel multiple layers of meaning behind it, what he wanted, what he thought he could do, how ambitious he was willing to admit to being.
"Seeker," Harry said simply. "Always been interested in finding things."
Bletchley let out a mocking laugh. "Of course you are. Everyone wants to be Seeker. It's the glory position—catch the Snitch, win the game, get all the attention. But watching and doing are very different things, Potter. You might find you're not as natural at it as you think."
"I might," Harry agreed easily. "That's why I want to try. Better to find out during a practice than during an actual match."
"You're not going to be in an actual match," Bletchley said flatly. "You're eleven."
"I'm aware of my age," Harry replied, and for the first time, there was an edge to his voice. "I'm not asking for anything except the chance to try. Once. If I'm terrible at it, then I'll know. If I'm decent, then maybe I've learned something. Either way, it's experience."
Flint seemed to have enjoyed the exchange between the two. Now he held up a hand, cutting off whatever Bletchley had been about to say. "Alright. Here's what we're going to do."
Everyone leaned in slightly, even Bletchley, despite his obvious displeasure.
"Potter, you and your friends can watch practice this afternoon. You'll tell me that story about the snake, and I'll decide if it's interesting enough to warrant the audience." Flint's expression made it clear this wasn't really negotiable. "And yeah, you can try flying. One chance, on a school broom, and if you're dangerous or incompetent, you're back on the ground immediately. Understood?"
"Understood," Harry confirmed.
"But," Flint continued, his voice hardening slightly, "you bring your friends, they stay quiet and out of the way. I don't want a bunch of first-years chattering through drills or distracting my team. They watch, they learn, they keep their mouths shut. Can you guarantee that?"
Harry thought of Draco's tendency to commentary and Tracey's habit of asking questions, but he nodded anyway. "They'll behave. You have my word."
"Your word," Flint repeated, as if testing how much weight that carried. Then he extended his hand across the table. "Deal."
Harry clasped his hand, feeling the calluses from years of broom-handling against his palm.
"Practice is at four," Flint said as they released hands. "Be at the pitch by three-forty-five. Late arrivals don't fly."
"We'll be there," Harry promised.
"And Potter?" Flint's expression shifted into something that might have been a smile on a less severe face. "That story about the snake better be good. I don't give up practice time for boring tales."
"I think you'll find it interesting," Harry replied. "If nothing else, it'll explain why Mulciber avoids looking at me in corridors."
Pucey laughed at that. "Now I'm definitely curious."
As Harry and Draco turned to leave, Bletchley's voice followed them. "Don't get too excited, Potter. Most people think they're natural flyers until they actually get in the air. Then they realize it's harder than it looks."
Harry paused and looked back over his shoulder, meeting the older boy's gaze. "I guess we'll find out which kind I am."
"Yeah," Bletchley said softly. "I guess we will."
As they walked back to their section of the table, Draco was practically vibrating with excitement. "That was brilliant! You actually talked Flint into letting us watch practice AND letting you fly! Father's going to be so impressed when I write him about this."
Harry made a noncommittal sound, his mind already racing ahead. First step complete, he thought, feeling Sylvia shift contentedly against his neck. Now comes the important part.
If all went according to plan, Snape would be cornered, and Harry would have one less thing to worry about, but he knew Snape would stick around; that's for sure. But Harry needed this so his own House would be more on his side.
Harry knew that Sylvia had made many in Slytherin think twice about his presence in Slytherin, but that wasn't enough. Harry needed more if he wanted to go where he wanted to go, and right now, he could not afford a Head House with a big head, and even worse hair.
"What are you smiling about?" Draco asked suspiciously as they reached their friends.
"Just looking forward to flying," Harry replied innocently.
Sylvia hissed something that sounded remarkably like laughter against his ear, and Harry's smile widened.
Let's see how you handle this one, Professor Snape, he thought. Your move.
Professor Quirrell
The abandoned classroom on the seventh floor had been forgotten by everyone except the castle's ghosts and one very nervous Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Dust coated every surface in a thick, grey blanket. Cobwebs draped the corners like mourning veils.
Professor Quirinus Quirrell stood in the center of this desolation, his hands trembling as they always did lately. But now the trembling had purpose; he was unwrapping the purple turban that had become his constant companion, his prison, his damnation.
The fabric fell away in careful loops, revealing more of his head with each rotation. First the pale skin of his forehead, then the back of his skull, and finally—
The face.
It wasn't human, not anymore. The features were serpentine, stretched, and distorted like melted wax that had cooled wrong. Slits for nostrils. Eyes that glowed with a dull red luminescence even in the dim light. Skin so pale it was nearly translucent, showing shadows of bone and sinew beneath.
Lord Voldemort existed now only as this parasite, this grotesque parody of life clinging to the back of his servant's head.
"Report." The voice that emerged from that ruined mouth was terrible.
Quirrell swallowed hard. "M-Master, everything proceeds as planned. Dumbledore suspects n-nothing. The third-floor corridor remains undisturbed. The three-headed d-dog—"
"Fluffy," Voldemort corrected with what might have been amusement. "Such a pedestrian name for such a dangerous beast. Only an idiot like Hagrid would name a monster like it loves a lapdog. He was always a fool."
"Y-yes, Master. Fluffy continues to guard the trap door. I've confirmed the other protections are in place—Sprout's Devil's Snare, Flitwick's charmed keys, McGonagall's chess set, Snape's potion riddle, and Quirrell's..." Quirrell hesitated, then continued, "and the Mirror at the end."
"The Mirror of Erised," Voldemort mused, his voice taking on a dreamy quality that was somehow more disturbing than his anger. "Dumbledore's masterstroke. A protection that cannot be overcome by dark magic or clever strategy. Only by desire itself." He paused. "Tell me, Quirrell, what do you see when you look in that mirror?"
Quirrell's trembling intensified. "I—I see myself, Master. Presenting you with the Stone. You restored to your full power, and I—I am honored as your most faithful servant."
"How touching." The sarcasm dripped like venom. "And how conveniently aligned with what you think I want to hear. But we digress. What of the troll?"
"Ready, Master." Quirrell's voice gained a fraction of confidence when discussing concrete plans. "I've been k-keeping it in the dungeons beneath the school. The old ones, where even Filch doesn't venture. I've been feeding it and... and preparing it."
"Preparing it for what, exactly?"
"To create chaos, Master. During the Halloween feast. I'll release it into the school. While everyone is distracted, teachers responding to the threat, students p-panicking—we can attempt to pass Fluffy and reach the Stone."
Voldemort was silent for a long moment, and Quirrell could feel the pressure of his Master's displeasure like a physical weight.
"Precisely." Voldemort's satisfaction was palpable. "Now. What news of the Potter boy?"
The question came so suddenly that Quirrell actually startled, causing both their heads to jerk awkwardly. "P-Potter, Master? The Potter boy? Why would—I mean, what interest is he to—"
"Do not question me," Voldemort said with icy precision. "Answer me. What news of Harry Potter?"
Quirrell's mind raced, trying to remember everything he'd observed about the famous first-year. "He's... he's been performing adequately in classes, Master. Better than adequately, actually. McGonagall praises his Transfiguration work. Flitwick awarded him twenty points two weeks ago for performing third-year Charms. He seems to have a natural aptitude for magic."
"How gratifying for him. And his demeanor? His friendships? How does the Boy Who Lived navigate the social waters of Hogwarts?"
This was strange territory. Quirrell had expected his Master to be indifferent to Potter—the boy who had somehow survived the Killing Curse and reduced Voldemort to this pitiful half-life. If anything, he'd expected Voldemort to want Potter dead, to be planning the boy's demise alongside the theft of the Stone.
Instead, his Master sounded... curious.
"He was sorted into Slytherin, Master," Quirrell said slowly, wanting to hear his reaction. "Not Gryffindor as everyone expected."
The silence that followed was so profound that Quirrell wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake. When Voldemort finally spoke, his voice had changed—lower, more contemplative, touched with something that might have been surprise or intrigue or dark amusement.
"Slytherin?" The word hung in the dusty air like a specter. "The Sorting Hat placed Harry Potter in my house?"
"Yes, Master. It caused quite a scandal at the time. The Boy Who Lived, in Slytherin. Many students and staff seemed... disturbed by it."
"I imagine they were." Voldemort's laugh was soft, almost to himself. "How deliciously ironic. James Potter's son, carrying Lily's blood, wearing the serpent on his robes. The Sorting Hat sees potential for greatness, then. Or perhaps it sees something darker. Something the boy himself may not yet recognize."
"D...do you...think the h.hat was wrong?" Quirrell asked, something he had heard the other Professors bring up, especially Snape.
"No. The Sorting Hat never makes a mistake, if it put Potter in Slytherin, it saw something in him." Voldemort said without a hint of doubt, and Quirrell wondered why his Master was so sure that the Sorting Hat never made a mistake, but did not dare to ask; instead, he.
Quirrell risked a question. "Does this change our plans, Master? If Potter is in Slytherin, he's more likely to... to align with your philosophy, isn't he? Perhaps he could even be an asset—"
"No." The word cracked like a whip. "Potter bears my mark, Quirrell. The Stone remains paramount," Voldemort continued. "Potter is... a curiosity. Nothing more. Not yet."
"Should I monitor him more closely, Master? Perhaps assign him extra essays to evaluate his thinking, his—"
"No." Voldemort's tone shifted to something almost amused. "Watch him, but don't interfere. Don't draw attention to your interest. I want to see what kind of serpent young Harry becomes without my influence. Let him develop naturally. Let him show his true colors."
"But Master, if he's in Slytherin, if he has the potential you speak of, shouldn't we—"
"What we should do," Voldemort interrupted, "is focus on the Stone. With the Elixir of Life, I will regain my body. With my body restored, I will have all the time in the world to evaluate young Potter's potential. To determine if he's a threat or an opportunity. To see if the boy is worthy of the scar he bears."
Quirrell nodded, though unease coiled in his stomach like a snake. "Yes, Master. Of course. The Stone first. Potter later."
"Precisely." There was a pause, then Voldemort's voice took on a speculative quality. "You know, Quirrell, there's a certain poetry to it. The boy who destroyed my body, sorted into my house. Learning the same arts I mastered. Walking the same halls I walked. Wearing the same colors I wore with pride."
His laugh was terrible, barely human, more like the hiss of escaping steam or the rattle of a dying man's breath.
"Perhaps he'll prove more interesting than his fool of a father. James Potter was all Gryffindor bluster, brave but stupid, noble but naive. But a Potter in Slytherin? That's a different creature entirely. Cunning combined with that damnable Potter luck. Ambition tempered by—" he paused, "—well, whatever passes for morality in that young mind."
"Y-yes, Master. I understand."
"Halloween approaches," Voldemort said, returning to the practical. "How many days?"
"Three days, Master. The feast is Wednesday evening."
"Good. Ready the troll. Ensure you can release it without being observed. Create your alibi—you'll need to be visible, panicking appropriately when the creature is discovered. Can you manage that, or has your acting deteriorated along with your courage?"
The insult stung, but Quirrell had long since learned not to respond to such barbs. "I can manage it, Master. I'll ensure everything is perfect."
"See that you do. And Quirrell?" Voldemort's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Do not fail me. The Stone is within our grasp. After so long, after so much suffering in this half-life, I will not tolerate failure. Am I clear?"
"Crystal clear, Master." Quirrell's hands had begun trembling again, so violently now that he could barely control them. "I won't fail you. I swear it."
"Swear all you like. Just succeed."
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