Harry, of course, did not return straight to the Gryffindor dormitory that night. Instead, he stopped by the forbidden third-floor corridor to confirm that Fluffy was indeed guarding the hidden entrance. Only then did he return, satisfied.
Wednesday's Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson was as dull as ever. The only difference was that Professor Quirrell seemed to have developed a particular hostility toward Gryffindor — and especially toward Harry.
Perhaps it was resentment over the snowball incident before Christmas. Perhaps he still remembered the biting cabbage that had "accidentally" struck the back of his turban. Whatever the reason, the look he gave Harry was strained, almost feverish.
"What did you do to him?" Hermione whispered. "The way Quirrell looks at you… honestly, not even Snape stares like that."
"Oh, nothing much," Ron replied with a shrug. "Just a small misunderstanding."
"What kind of misunderstanding?" Hermione pressed.
"I only threw a biting cabbage at the back of his head… by accident," Ron said casually, reaching for a chicken drumstick. His eyes gleamed. "Ah, my dear…"
Hermione stared at him in disbelief.
"You call that small?"
"No one had to visit the Hospital Wing, did they?" Ron replied contentedly.
Hermione sighed.
"First Professor Snape, now Professor Quirrell… we can forget about the House Cup this year."
"Let's be honest, we never win anyway," Ron said airily. "And now that Snape's even giving Harry points, who knows?"
He turned to Seamus and Neville.
"Tonight you two officially join the Duelling practice."
It had been Harry's idea. With Astronomy at eleven and detention beforehand, the timing was perfect.
"Then I'll finally test your courage, Ron," Seamus said eagerly.
"Just remember to bring Harry something to eat," Ron added suddenly. "He'll be starving after detention."
"Not just sandwiches," Hermione corrected. "Bring fruit as well. And perhaps some pumpkin tart. A balanced diet is important."
While they debated the menu, Harry was once again in Snape's underground office.
That evening, they were brewing Thunderbrew Potion — but this time, Harry worked alone under Snape's supervision.
Snape watched in silence. As Harry measured ingredients precisely and controlled the flame with steady focus, the severe lines of the professor's face softened almost imperceptibly.
The talent was undeniable.
Harry, however, was distracted. Half his mind focused on the potion; the other half lingered on Quirrell.
During class, he had discreetly attempted to see beyond appearances, but Quirrell's turban had seemed shielded by some mysterious magic. The discovery only deepened his suspicions.
Then he heard it.
"I am hungry… so hungry… so long…"
Harry froze.
It was not his stomach.
He looked up sharply.
"Professor… did you hear that?"
Snape raised an eyebrow.
"I heard nothing but your stomach, Mr. Potter."
"No, sir. A voice. Above us. It mentioned hunger… and blood."
Snape stared at him for a long moment, his black eyes unreadable.
After several seconds, he said coldly,
"Detention is over."
Harry hesitated but began cleaning up. When he attempted to take the freshly brewed vial, Snape stopped him and, with a sharp motion, confiscated it, locking it away.
"I imagine you are quite free to attend dinner," he added icily. "There is no need for theatrics to secure an early dismissal."
Frustrated, Harry left the dungeons.
The voice came again:
"Kill… tear… the time has come…"
It echoed along the stone walls, cold and distant — and moving.
Harry followed it through the corridors, up the stairs to the Entrance Hall. The voice grew fainter… then vanished.
He realized he had stepped into a puddle.
Looking down, he saw water spread across the floor. Reflected in it was the flickering light of a torch — and something hanging from the wall.
Harry looked up.
Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat, was suspended stiffly against the wall, her eyes wide and unblinking.
"What have you done, Potter?!"
Filch appeared out of nowhere, stumbling toward his cat. He leapt uselessly, trying to reach her.
Students poured in from the Great Hall within seconds.
Filch turned on Harry, his face twisted with fury.
"You! You killed my Mrs. Norris! I'll—I'll finish you!"
He lunged forward.
Hungry and now falsely accused, Harry felt anger surge through him. In one swift motion, he drew his wand and pointed it at Filch.
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