One Hour Later Location: Outside the Library, post-dinner, casual clothes, collective trauma recovery in progress
The ragtag band of eleven-year-olds (plus one suspiciously peppy eleven-year-old Metamorphmagus) gathered outside the Hogwarts Library, decked in a medley of casual wear that screamed first-year chaos.
Harry had ditched the school robes for dark jeans, a Quidditch World Cup hoodie (Ireland, of course), and dragon-hide boots he absolutely should not have owned yet. He lounged against the wall like he was the protagonist of a YA novel, arms crossed and a smirk ready for deployment.
Daphne Greengrass wore sleek navy leggings and a charcoal cardigan, holding a book like it was both a fashion accessory and a weapon of choice. She gave off the vibe of someone who'd already read all three textbooks and was quietly judging everyone else.
Tracey Davis had gone full rebellion: oversized Hufflepuff-yellow jumper, fuzzy socks poking out from under gladiator sandals, and an expression that said, If I die during this homework session, bury me with snacks.
Hermione Granger looked like she'd time-traveled from a very productive future. Wool tights, pleated skirt, color-coded binders, and a "Hogwarts Reading Club – Founding Member" badge she'd clearly made herself. She stood with the posture of someone ready to organize a revolution.
Tonks—currently sporting neon bubblegum-pink hair, a Weird Sisters t-shirt four sizes too big, and cargo jeans with enough pockets to qualify as an armory—bounced on her heels. Her energy was chaotic. Possibly dangerous.
Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott matched in coordinated Muggle cardigans (courtesy of Auntie Amelia), and each held a clipboard. Clipboards. Hannah had a color-coded quill tucked behind her ear like a tiny academic warrior.
Neville Longbottom, bless his heart, looked like his Gran had dressed him via a Howler: forest green jumper, pressed slacks, and a hat that may or may not have been taxidermied.
Blaise Zabini wore a sleek black cashmere turtleneck and loafers. He looked like he'd been pulled from a fashion magazine titled Wizarding Elite: Baby Edition.
Terry Boot and Morag MacDougal were the unholy alliance of chaos. Mismatched socks, wizarding band t-shirts, and grins like they'd just pulled off a prank no one would ever trace back to them.
They sprawled across the corridor floor like a sitcom ensemble prepping for the worst group project ever.
"Alright," Hermione clapped her hands together. "Two hours until curfew. Three assignments. One collective existential crisis. Let's go."
"Let's start with Transfiguration," Daphne said, sitting down cross-legged and cracking open Fundamental Principles of Elemental Transfiguration. "Eight inches on the ethical implications of elemental change."
Tracey groaned dramatically. "Why do we need to know ethics? If I turn a pumpkin into a puppy, does the pumpkin care?"
"It might if you change it back mid-bark," Morag offered. "Then you've got a traumatised gourd."
Harry leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head. "Let me guess. Next she'll ask us to write a eulogy for a soup spoon that used to be a hamster."
"I'd write a better eulogy than the hamster deserved," Blaise said flatly. "That thing bit me."
"He sensed your villain origin story," Tonks added cheerfully, flipping her quill like a drumstick.
Hermione waved her notes. "Focus! Ethics are about boundaries. Like, can you transfigure a rock into a rabbit and claim it as a pet?"
"Can you eat it after?" Harry asked, eyebrow raised.
Neville went pale. "Why would you do that?"
"Because maybe the rabbit was secretly a Death Eater," Harry said solemnly.
Susan gasped. "It was Carrow all along!"
Hannah snorted. "Plot twist: Fluffy was actually a spy."
Terry grinned. "Now that's a bedtime story: 'The Hare Who Betrayed Hogwarts'."
Tracey pointed at Hermione. "Use that as the thesis. Ethics: Because sometimes your rabbit is evil."
Hermione scribbled furiously.
Tonks leaned in. "How do you cite emotional betrayal in MLA format?"
Daphne smirked. "Ask Madam Pince."
Right on cue, the library door creaked ominously. Madam Pince appeared, framed in shadow, eyes like lasers.
"No loitering. No laughter. No unchartered merriment within ten feet of the stacks."
Harry raised a hand. "Does metaphorical trauma count as unchartered merriment?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Watch yourself, Potter."
"Can I watch from a safe distance?"
She vanished back into the library like a vampire denied blood.
"So," Terry said after a beat, "Charms? Lumos theory?"
"'Light is more than just light,'" Harry intoned, hand to heart. "It's hope. It's intention. It's the magical equivalent of a nightlight when you're emotionally unstable."
Hermione blinked. "That was… actually quite good."
"I call it 'existential flashlight'," Harry said smugly.
Tonks tried the charm. "Lumos!"
Her wand sparked—then turned into a disco light. She blinked. "Okay. Maybe too much intention."
"What were you intending?" Daphne asked.
"To make homework less soul-crushing. I succeeded."
Morag drew a diagram. "Intent must match emotional output. So: scared = no light. Confident = stable light. Overconfident = Tonks."
"Put that in the essay," Blaise said. "Tonks is a cautionary tale."
"Oi," Tonks said. "I'm a legendary tale. There's a difference."
Then came Herbology.
"Puffapods," Susan read, "are sensitive. Soft soil. No shouting. Basically, plants with performance anxiety."
"They exploded on me," Tracey muttered.
"You called it a pink fungus that smelled like despair," Morag said.
"They do! It's like sadness had a baby with bubblegum."
"They like gentleness," Hermione said. "And positive reinforcement."
"Like Neville!" Tonks beamed.
Neville looked startled. "I'm not a Puffapod."
Harry gave him a once-over. "You kind of are. Soft, low-key explosive, responds well to affection."
Neville blinked. "That... might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Don't get used to it," Tracey said.
They all got to writing. Inkpots clinked. Scrolls unfurled. Quills scratched parchment in messy harmony. They bickered, laughed, wrote things like "light equals hope," and threatened to eat magically-animated animals.
And despite themselves, it worked. They were loud. They were weird.
But somehow, against all odds, they were becoming a proper little squad.
Harry leaned back, arms behind his head, and muttered under his breath.
"Accio found family."
Somewhere nearby, a Puffapod bloomed.
—
The First-Year Study Club ()—or, as Terry had started calling it, The Nerd Herd—stumbled into the Great Hall like war survivors dragging their parchment-wounded bodies home. Scrolls were exploding from bags. Ink stains marked them like battle scars. Tracey had somehow transfigured her quill into a puffapod with attitude—it blinked at passing Ravenclaws like it was judging their GPA.
They slid into their usual seats like collapsed Jenga blocks—Harry between Daphne (radiating aesthetic judgment) and Neville (clutching a herbology book like a comfort blanket), Hermione across from them with a highlighter wand and a look that promised death to misused commas. Tonks had somehow already acquired a plate of treacle tart and was halfway through it, licking her spoon like it owed her rent.
Directly opposite them, Ronald "Table Manners Are a Government Conspiracy" Weasley was mid-feast. And by mid-feast, we mean full Red Wedding on the dinner spread.
CHOMP.
SNARF.
SLLLUURRP.
A drumstick disappeared into Ron's mouth like it owed him money, gravy splattered like battlefield gore, and a tiny first-year from Hufflepuff flinched so hard he dropped his fork.
"Oh sweet Circe," Daphne murmured, blinking slowly like her soul was buffering. "Is he dual-wielding turkey legs like it's a Video Game?"
"More like a Final Boss in Feast of Legends," Tracey muttered, resting her chin on her hand, unimpressed. "I'm half expecting a health bar to appear over his head."
Neville, ever the cautious Gryffindor, leaned slightly away. "Is… is he breathing between bites? Or are we looking at spontaneous oxygen independence?"
"No," Blaise said flatly, deadpan and stylish as ever. "He's evolved. He's post-breath. Next stage of wizarding evolution: Pure caloric intake."
Ron paused just long enough to shovel a Yorkshire pudding into his mouth like it was being timed by a referee and then spoke through it, muffled and horrifying.
"Mmmmbuuh—mggrrffn—muggmm."
"What?" Hermione asked, her face caught between concern and clinical interest, like she was debating whether to cast Episkey or perform an exorcism.
Ron swallowed with effort, then grinned, chunks of potato and shame in his teeth. "I said—'Mum makes these at home, but Hogwarts puts butterbeer in the batter!'"
Hermione slowly blinked. "Was that… meant to justify the food slaughter?"
Lavender gave a tight smile, clearly questioning her life choices. "Ron, maybe… slow down a bit?"
Ron blinked, genuine confusion on his freckled face. "Why? It's dinner. You're supposed to go all in."
Seamus, sitting beside him with a devilish grin and an errant pea stuck in his fringe, leaned toward Harry. "Mate's not even warmed up yet. Wait for pudding. That's when he ascends."
Dean, eyes distant and haunted, nodded solemnly. "We've tried reasoning with him. Once. He said—and I quote—'I eat like a war orphan in a dragon apocalypse.'"
"And that," Seamus added with a dramatic flourish, "was before lunch."
Ron, as if to prove a point, took a massive bite of chicken, then flicked the bone into the air with perfect aim. It arced and pinged into an empty goblet three seats down.
Tonks clapped like she was in a Quidditch final. "Ten points to House Chaos!"
Susan looked like she wanted to vanish. "We're going to need magical trauma therapy."
Hannah leaned into her shoulder. "At least he's not licking the plates this time."
Everyone froze.
Ron, still chewing, looked up like a Niffler caught in a vault. "Oi. That was once!"
Tonks raised a brow. "Was it though?"
"…Twice," Ron admitted with zero shame.
Dean visibly pushed his plate an inch away. "I've seen things. Things that will haunt me in the night."
Morag, watching with a blend of scientific curiosity and mild horror, said, "Is this just a Weasley thing? Because I've met his twin brothers. They eat like dragons, but with manners."
Daphne, eyes narrowed like she was trying to solve a puzzle with vibes alone, replied, "I don't know. But if he drinks straight from the gravy boat again, I will set his eyebrows on fire."
Ron paused, squinting like he wasn't sure if that was a joke or a challenge.
"Try me," Daphne added sweetly, wand already twitching.
Neville coughed. "Er… so. Dessert?"
Right on cue, the pudding popped onto the table with a magical shimmer.
And that's when things got biblical.
Chocolate éclairs? Vanished.
Treacle tart? Evaporated.
Spotted dick? Disrespected and devoured.
Ron stacked three servings of trifle like a cursed game of dessert Jenga and proceeded to eat it in spiraling layers, all while discussing Chudley Cannons strategy at a volume that suggested no one had ever told him what "indoor voice" meant.
Hermione turned to Harry, whispering, "We need a magical restraint charm. Or maybe a tranquilizer dart."
Harry didn't look away from Ron's eating frenzy. "I'm this close to stunning him and saying it was an accident. One Accio pudding in my direction and it's on sight."
"Should've brought your sword," Blaise offered casually.
"Who needs a sword when you've got sass and trauma?" Harry replied, lifting his fork like a dagger and making direct eye contact with Ron. "I swear on Merlin's greasy beard, Ronald—if you ask for my pudding, I will transfigure your tongue into a flobberworm."
Ron grinned, gravy glistening. "Mate, relax, I'm full."
"Oh, thank the Founders," Susan breathed, visibly relieved.
Lavender still looked vaguely ill. "It's like watching a starving werewolf eat his own pack."
Parvati gave a prim nod. "He's a menace."
Seamus grinned proudly. "A menace—but our menace."
Ron gave a gravy-slicked thumbs up like a pubescent viking. "Victory tastes like pudding."
Morag, blinking at Parvati across the table, tilted her head. "You and Padma are twins, right?"
Parvati beamed. "Yep!"
"Fascinating," Morag mused. "Padma's the quiet, terrifyingly brilliant one. You're more like—if glitter and gossip had a baby."
Parvati looked flattered. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't," Morag said sweetly. "We should bring Padma in on our next study session. Might balance out the chaos."
Hermione perked up immediately. "Yes! Finally, someone who understands footnote formatting!"
Harry smirked. "Oh joy. That'll definitely lower the blood sugar in the room."
As the last of the pudding was inhaled, Ron leaned back like a contented bear post-hibernation. His tie was stained with what looked like treacle, gravy, and possibly regret.
Tonks poked him with her fork. "Oi. You alive?"
Ron burped. "Barely."
Neville whispered to Harry, "Should we take him to the Hospital Wing?"
"No," Harry said, picking at the remains of his own dessert. "Let him sleep it off. Preferably in a magically soundproofed room with a warning label."
Blaise leaned back, sipping pumpkin juice like it was vintage wine. "And that, ladies and gents, was dinner with Ronald Bilius Weasley. May your stomachs survive and your sanity remain intact."
Ron lifted his goblet. "To food. To friendship. To not dying from overeating!"
"Yet," Tracey muttered.
And somewhere, at the staff table, Professor Snape shuddered—for absolutely no reason.
—
The fire crackled merrily in the common room, sending flickers of gold dancing across the deep red carpet and squashy armchairs. Most students were either in their rooms, snuggled in their beds with half-done essays, or passed out mid-bite after an unfortunate run-in with the House Elves' idea of "luxury pudding." Ron, post-food-coma, was snoring like an ogre in a beanbag, a drool trail slowly sinking into a copy of Hogwarts: A History (Hermione, who was not in the common room, would mourn that loss in the morning).
At a table not far from Ron, Harry sat, legs sprawled across the seat, parchment unrolled and a quill hovering dangerously close to the tip of his nose. Neville sat opposite him, fiddling nervously with Trevor, who seemed to think Neville's fingers were a new type of leaf.
"Do you think they'll take us seriously?" Neville asked, his voice a little uncertain as he squeezed Trevor, the toad croaking in protest. "I mean, we are talking about Fred and George here."
Harry didn't look up as he tapped the quill against his chin in a theatrically thoughtful manner. His eyes glinted mischievously as he replied, "I'm the son of Prongs, and the godson of Padfoot. You're the godson of Prongs. If anything, they should be trembling in their boots."
Neville stared at him, wide-eyed. "Trembling? You're serious, aren't you?"
"Totally." Harry's smirk spread wider, leaning back in his chair as he gave a mock-exasperated sigh. "They'll be so overwhelmed with respect, they won't even know how to handle it."
Neville gave him a dubious look, then fiddled with Trevor again. "Should we, um… include a threat, maybe? Like, one of those classic Weasley-esque threats with exploding fireworks or something?"
Harry gave him an exaggeratedly confused look. "Neville, my dear Watson, you're missing the point. A threat is so common. We're aiming for something more... sophisticated." He leaned forward dramatically. "A promise. A very Marauder-y promise. Mysterious, cunning... like a whisper on the wind."
Neville blinked at him, unsure if he was joking. "I'm not sure you're capable of mysterious."
"Then you clearly haven't seen me channel my inner Sirius. Watch and learn, my good man."
With a flourish, Harry dipped his quill into the ink and began scribbling with dramatic flair. His penmanship was ridiculously neat, considering he was making it up as he went along.
To Messrs. Fred and George Weasley,
Purveyors of Fine Chaos, Unofficial Kings of Gryffindor, and Prank Artisans Extraordinaire,
A cordial summons from:
HJP – Heir of the Marauders, Son of Prongs, Godson of Padfoot,
&
NFL – Godson of Prongs, Heir of Quiet Explosions, Currently Too Polite for Revenge (but not for long)
We request a private audience.
There is a matter of certain intellectual property—specifically, a map with very clever feet—that has been… shall we say… "borrowed" from its original legacy.
It is time the Heirs of the Marauders reclaimed what is rightfully theirs.
Meet us tomorrow evening. Astronomy Tower. Ten o'clock. Bring the Map. Come alone—or together. Just no Lee Jordan. He talks.
P.S. Failure to comply will result in an immediate and thorough infestation of your socks with enchanted Hufflepuff glitter mites. You will sparkle for eternity.
Yours in mischief,
The Next Generation
Neville blinked twice. "Did we just… threaten Fred and George with magical glitter?"
Harry grinned. "We didn't threaten them, Neville. We extended an opportunity for peace and sparkles." He gave a dramatic pause. "Who wouldn't want to sparkle for all eternity?"
Neville looked at him like he'd just grown an extra head. "You're terrifying when you channel Sirius."
"Thanks," Harry said brightly, leaning back in his chair like he was the king of mischief himself. "I do try."
As Hedwig, Harry's trusty owl, hooted in agreement, Harry tied the letter to her leg. "This is going to be epic."
Neville was still trying to wrap his head around the glitter threat. "What if they don't show up?"
Harry's eyes glinted with the kind of confidence that only comes from being an unholy combination of reckless and brilliant. "Then we prank them into next week until they beg us to take it back." His smirk deepened, and he could practically hear Fred and George panicking already.
Neville, finally catching on, chuckled. "Honestly, I think it'll be a miracle if they don't show up."
Somewhere in Gryffindor Tower – Same Night
Fred and George were lounging in their "private lab," aka a magically hidden crawlspace behind the seventh-year boys' dorm, working on a Nose-Biting Teacup they were sure would be their next best seller. Fred was attempting to get the teacup to bite more dramatically (without tearing off fingers), while George fiddled with a set of enchanted cards.
When Hedwig flapped through the open window, Fred barely noticed her until she dropped the letter onto his lap with the kind of gravitas reserved for birthday presents and tragic prophecies.
Fred glanced at the letter in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me."
George, who had been distracted by a series of exploding cards, snapped his head up. "What is it?"
Fred held up the letter. "It's from them. The next generation of mayhem."
George stared at it like it was the Holy Grail. "It's really happening, isn't it?"
They opened the letter together, their identical expressions becoming more bewildered with each sentence. As they read, their smiles slowly spread across their faces like they were about to burst into applause.
"…Son of Prongs?" Fred said, eyes widening.
"…Godsons of Padfoot and Prongs?" George echoed, mouth hanging open.
They looked at each other, eyes sparkling with a mix of awe and sheer excitement.
"Well, I'll be a Hippogriff's aunt. It's happening." Fred exhaled, shaking his head.
George grinned like a kid who'd just been told he could have all the candy in the world. "Do you think they know how to activate it?"
Fred leaned in closer, rubbing his hands together with glee. "They might not. But I think it's time we show them how."
They both nodded in unison, like a pair of mad scientists plotting their next big explosion.
Fred stood up abruptly, causing George to look up in confusion. "Get the Map. It's time to pass on the legacy."
"Legacy, eh?" George said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "I like the sound of that."
They exchanged one final, knowing glance. They didn't need to say it out loud; the map, the pranks, the legacy of the Marauders—it was about to get a lot more interesting.
Back in the Gryffindor common room, Neville was sipping his cocoa, watching Harry as if he were a firecracker ready to go off. "You really think Fred and George will just hand it over?"
Harry leaned back in his chair, the firelight dancing across his face. "Oh, they'll hand it over. After we make them earn it."
Neville grinned, eyes lighting up with excitement. "Can't wait to see this."
And with that, the two boys sat back and waited. Tomorrow was going to be legendary.
—
Meanwhile, in the Shadows of Hogwarts…
The corridors of Hogwarts were quiet in the way only the dead of night could be, their eerie silence broken only by the faint echo of Quirrell's shuffling footsteps. The turbaned Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher moved like a shadow, head bowed in a way that suggested both subservience and something worse: fear.
He reached the back exit of the castle, a dark and neglected passageway that led out toward the Forbidden Forest. The faintest flicker of moonlight barely illuminated the crooked stones underfoot as Quirrell paused, wiping his sweaty palms on his robes. He felt it. That unsettling, almost suffocating pressure on the back of his head, like something was lurking there, ready to burst out.
Voldemort.
The Dark Lord, whose voice would have made a thousand Death Eaters tremble in terror, now whispered constantly in Quirrell's mind. But tonight, it wasn't a whisper. No. Tonight, Voldemort was furious.
"Do you realize how much time we've wasted?"
Quirrell flinched, his eyes darting to the side as if he could somehow escape the burning fury. He murmured under his breath, trying to steady his shaking hands.
"Y-y-yes, M-Master. I-I... I'm sure we'll—"
"No! You fool!"
Voldemort's voice was sharp, harsh, like nails scraping down a blackboard. Quirrell's legs trembled, his breath coming in stuttered gasps. He had long ago learned to suppress his own will, to bury it under the crushing weight of the Dark Lord's influence, but tonight was different. Tonight, Voldemort's fury was a raging storm, and Quirrell was caught in its eye.
"We almost had it, Quirrell! The Stone! It should have been right here in Hogwarts, and now it's—gone! Vanished! And you—"
The Professor swayed as if the words themselves were striking him. He clutched the edge of the wall, desperate for stability. But there was none. Voldemort was burning with frustration, and Quirrell felt every ounce of that fury.
"I-I don't know where it went, Master! I-I swear, it—it wasn't me!" His voice cracked, the desperation clear in every word. "It must have been—"
"Must have been? You dare make excuses? You pathetic excuse for a wizard! I—"
There was a long pause, a breathless silence, before Voldemort's voice, though still cold and venomous, turned venomously quiet, as though every word was slowly suffocating under a mountain of rage.
"You are lucky, Quirrell, that I cannot physically punish you."
Quirrell whimpered, a tremor running through his body. He wished Voldemort would just let him cast spells. The Cruciatus Curse had a way of focusing one's mind. But that was the problem, wasn't it? Voldemort couldn't cast the spells himself. Not in this cursed, half-life of his. He needed Quirrell. And Quirrell hated it.
"But no matter. We will find it. I will find it. The Stone is the key to my resurrection, and I will not be thwarted by this fool's school or any meddling child!"
Quirrell blinked, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Meddling child? Was Voldemort referring to—?
"Potter. Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking, Quirrell. Do you think I've forgotten? The boy. The son of Lily Potter. The one who thinks he can thwart me. The audacity."
At that, Quirrell's lips twisted, caught between fear and... something darker. The thought of Potter, the boy whose very existence defied Voldemort's plans, caused a flicker of frustration in his chest. The boy who lived. But it wasn't just Potter that Voldemort had in mind.
"The Philosopher's Stone," Voldemort continued, his voice seeping with contempt, "must have been right here. In this castle. And now we are forced to wander this pathetic school in search of a single trace of it. Foolish!"
Quirrell winced, his body buckling under the sheer weight of Voldemort's hatred. He could feel the invisible pressure building, the searing anger simmering inside him, suffocating him with every word. If Voldemort had a body, Quirrell was sure it would be shaking with rage. As it was, he felt like a punching bag in a storm.
"Please, Master, I-I'll find it. I'll—"
"You'd better."
The hiss was sharp enough to make Quirrell jump, his hand slipping and nearly crashing into the stone as he scrambled for control.
Voldemort was silent for a long moment, then his tone softened, but it was no less terrifying.
"But we have a more immediate problem."
Quirrell paused mid-step, his heart skipping in his chest. The Forest lay just ahead—dark, intimidating, full of unknown creatures. Dangerous creatures. Unicorns. Quirrell swallowed.
"Unicorns, Master? You want—?"
"I want blood, Quirrell. You'll find me what I need in that cursed forest. A unicorn. I am so close... So close to being restored. I need that blood."
Quirrell's mouth went dry. The unicorns were sacred creatures—pure, untouchable. A single drop of their blood would grant immortality to the one who drank it, or so the rumors went.
"I-I'll find one, M-Master," Quirrell muttered, voice small, trembling as he glanced toward the dark treeline. "I-I'll bring it to you."
"See that you do. Or I'll make you wish I had killed you with my own hands instead of letting you live like this."
The threat was so cold, so casual, that it sent a jolt of terror through Quirrell's veins. He wanted to argue. To ask if it was worth it, but he knew better. Voldemort wasn't the kind of man you crossed.
He took a deep breath, straightened his turban, and moved forward, stepping into the shadows of the Forbidden Forest. His every step was guided by a cold certainty, a knowledge that failure was not an option. Not for him. Not for the Dark Lord.
As he disappeared into the darkness, Voldemort's voice echoed one last time in his head, laced with malice and impatience:
"Hurry, fool. Or I'll make your death far more painful than anything you've endured yet."
And with that, the man who had once been a mere professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts vanished into the abyss of the forest, while behind him, the night itself seemed to hold its breath.
—
Severus Snape stalked the halls like a stormcloud with an advanced degree in sarcasm and a vendetta against joy.
The dungeons had grown dull tonight. A few cauldrons exploded, a Hufflepuff passed out from the smell of pickled basilisk glands, and someone charmed his chair to sing Celestina Warbeck's Greatest Hits when he sat down. Again.
But no, none of that compared to the real insult.
His robes.
Someone—Potter—had transfigured his robes into an exact replica of the infamous 90s Bat-suit.
Complete with latex sheen.
And Bat. Nipples.
It had taken every ounce of his considerable Occlumency not to hex the entire first-year Gryffindor dormitory into amphibians.
"Potter," Snape muttered darkly, voice like silk dipped in venom. "Potter… Potter… Potter."
He said it twenty-three times now. Yes, he was counting. It helped soothe the rising tide of murderous intent. And yet, it changed nothing. The memory of walking into the staff room in that ensemble was seared into his mind. The way Minerva snorted, the way Flitwick applauded as if he'd performed a particularly clever charm, the way Madam Hooch asked, deadpan, "Finally ready to fight crime, Severus?"
He had nearly committed several small murders.
And then there was the Lemon Sherbet Dumbledore had left on his desk with a cheerful note that read: Chin up. It accentuates the cowl.
The old man was not funny.
So here Snape was, stalking the halls, his cloak billowing like a sentient creature fueled by pettiness and caffeine withdrawal. He didn't have a plan. Just a strong desire to find someone doing something slightly against the rules, so he could deduct points and feel alive again.
Then—he paused.
Up ahead.
Movement.
A familiar figure, hunched and twitchy, scurried through the corridor like a guilty dust bunny.
"…Quirrell," Snape muttered, narrowing his eyes like a hawk that had just spotted a mouse wearing a 'kick me' sign.
The Defense professor looked like he was trying to sneak past the shadows, which was an impressive feat, considering he always walked like a man who'd just accidentally sat on a porcupine and never quite recovered.
Snape pressed himself into the shadows, gliding forward with silent menace. Years of surviving the Dark Lord's mood swings had trained him to move like a whisper in the wind.
Quirrell's turban bobbed like a nervous cupcake.
Where is he going at this hour?
Snape followed.
Down staircases. Past dusty suits of armor. Into the lower halls. Then—Quirrell pushed open a side door and slipped outside. The one that led to the Forbidden Forest.
Snape stopped. Blinked.
"…Brilliant," he said flatly. "Because nothing says 'perfectly innocent professor' like sneaking into a murder forest at midnight."
He slipped out after him, cloak catching the wind like dramatic punctuation.
From the treeline, he watched. The moon cast just enough light to reveal Quirrell's pale, clammy face. The man paused, looking about as nervous as a cat at a dog convention, and then—
He spoke.
To no one.
"I-I… I know, M-Master, I—I'm sorry… b-but I n-need more t-time," Quirrell stammered, wringing his hands. "Y-you d-don't know how hard it is to f-f-follow children into the F-Forest! T-they're loud! A-and sticky!"
Snape blinked once. Twice.
Then he heard… it.
A whisper. A hiss. Barely audible.
But he recognized it like a cursed lullaby.
Parseltongue.
Snape's entire body stiffened.
That voice. That sound.
He knew it.
"…No," Snape whispered to himself. "That's not possible."
Quirrell nodded feverishly. "Y-yes, M-Master. I-I'll find one tonight. A unicorn. I—I'll make it bleed. I-I'll drink the blood, just like y-you s-said."
Snape's stomach turned.
Unicorn blood?
Then Quirrell jerked forward, as if something invisible had yanked him.
Like a leash.
Or a puppet string.
Snape backed away slowly. Carefully. No twigs snapped beneath his boots. He was nothing but breath and shadows.
Inside his mind, the puzzle pieces clicked into place with a sickening certainty.
He's not alone. He's possessed.
He turned, face carved from stone, and headed back toward the castle at a pace just below a run.
He had to get to Dumbledore. Now. Before Quirrell returned with blood on his hands and You-Know-Who whispering sweet nothings from the back of his skull.
But even as he marched, fury simmered under his composed exterior. Fury at the danger. Fury at the Dark Arts slithering back into their school. Fury at—
"Potter," Snape growled, because somehow, somehow, the brat was probably involved.
He's always involved.
And Merlin help him, once this crisis was dealt with…
He was going to murder Potter.
Very slowly.
And this time?
With extra Bat-nipples.
---
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