Time passed quickly, and the new semester at Hogwarts had been unusually peaceful.
For Harry, several pieces of good news came during this time.
His Quidditch training was progressing smoothly. His teammates praised his talent for the sport, and during recent practice matches, he had successfully caught the Golden Snitch multiple times.
Academically, he was doing better than expected. Even in Professor Snape's notoriously strict Potions class, he had managed to stay out of trouble—for the most part. Occasionally, he would lose a point for seemingly trivial reasons like "spacing out for a few seconds while stirring his potion."
Still, he was performing well overall.
Perhaps the most surprising change came from the Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Quirrell, for reasons unknown to Harry, had changed drastically. His classes had become far more engaging. He no longer stammered when reading from the textbook, and he had even begun teaching useful spells and theory. Harry had learned several harmless charms in recent lessons.
Of course, he still believed Professor Vison's lessons were far superior, but Quirrell's improvement was undeniable.
Then came an important day in late February.
The Quidditch pitch was packed.
Today's match was a big one for Harry. Not only were they facing Slytherin—their traditional rivals—but the referee was none other than Professor Snape, a known Slytherin supporter.
Clearly, the odds were stacked against Gryffindor.
Nearly every student and professor at Hogwarts had come to watch. Harry even spotted Headmaster Dumbledore seated among the professors. Professor Vison was also there, seated in the front row, engaged in animated conversation with Professor McGonagall.
Harry knew he couldn't afford to lose. He didn't want to disappoint his professors or his teammates. Tightening his grip on the handle of his broomstick, he looked up toward the stands.
Vison seemed deeply engaged in his discussion with McGonagall, likely about tactics or players.
Interestingly, Quirrell was not present at the match. Vison had intended to sit near him, perhaps to tease him, but his absence left Vison with a hint of regret.
McGonagall, though usually composed, revealed her passion for Quidditch. She spoke about tactics, players, and even broom models with the precision of a professional analyst.
Finally, the match began.
Vison looked forward to enjoying what promised to be a thrilling game.
But—
Just five minutes in...
"Harry caught the Golden Snitch!!"
The commentator's voice rang out in shock and excitement.
"What? It's over already?" Vison blinked in disbelief. "Hasn't it just started?"
Were Slytherin truly that weak?
Vison turned toward McGonagall in disbelief, only to find her seat already empty. She had rushed off to celebrate Gryffindor's stunning victory.
Harry had landed, clutching the Golden Snitch triumphantly. A crowd surged toward him, cheering wildly.
Still dazed by his own success, Harry barely remembered the moment he caught the Snitch. One moment, a golden glimmer caught his eye; the next, the match was over.
He imagined how furious Malfoy must be after this quick defeat. Tomorrow, he'd have to gloat about this victory in front of him.
After storing away his Nimbus 2000 in the broom shed, Harry leaned against the doorway, watching the sunset.
That's when he saw something odd.
Professor Snape was walking briskly away from the castle—heading straight for the Forbidden Forest.
Harry's instincts flared. Something didn't feel right.
Why would Snape go to the Forbidden Forest at this hour?
Compelled by unease, Harry decided to follow him.
He hurried back inside, grabbed his broom, and took off silently into the fading light.
Meanwhile, Snape moved swiftly, his black cloak billowing behind him.
He, too, had seen someone heading toward the Forbidden Forest earlier—a black shadow disappearing into the trees.
He was almost certain it had been Quirrell.
Dumbledore had already instructed him to keep a close watch on Quirrell, so Snape followed without hesitation.
Minutes later, he arrived in a dark clearing.
"You made me wait… a long time..." a voice called out from behind a tree.
Snape froze. The voice was unmistakably Quirrell's, but the tone was foreign—low, cold, and commanding.
"Quirrell" stepped into view.
Snape immediately raised his wand, instincts sharp.
The figure before him looked like Quirrell, but Snape knew better.
That presence… that aura…
Then the voice spoke again.
"I thought… you were still loyal to me, Professor Snape."
Snape's pupils shrank, and his wand trembled ever so slightly.
There was no doubt now.
"Master…" Snape rasped, bowing slightly. "Of course, I am loyal to you."
Voldemort—inhabiting Quirrell's body—moved closer, his red eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.
A burning sensation flared in Snape's left arm.
The Dark Mark.
It had returned.
"Raise your head," Voldemort ordered. "It's time to prove your loyalty, Professor Snape."
"I have always been loyal to you, Master," Snape replied, lifting his gaze to meet Voldemort's. "Have… have you returned? Fully?"
Voldemort slowly shook his head. "This body is… fragile. It cannot fully contain my soul."
A gust of wind blew through the trees, lifting the edge of Quirrell's turban.
Snape glimpsed the horror beneath—cracked, warped flesh.
Quirrell's body was breaking under the strain of Voldemort's presence.
And yet, Voldemort was very much alive.
"What would you have me do, Master?" Snape asked carefully.
Voldemort stepped closer, his voice a whisper. "The Philosopher's Stone."
Snape bowed his head slightly. "Do you want me to retrieve it for you?"
Voldemort sneered. "Tell me how to get past the dog. I will take it myself."
Snape blinked in confusion. "The dog…? Oh. Fluffy. A simple Killing Curse should—"
"Fool!" Voldemort snapped, his voice rising with fury. "Don't use the Killing Curse! That old man will sense it instantly!"
Snape immediately lowered his head again.
Voldemort's emotions were clearly unstable.
After a pause, Voldemort said more calmly, "Find another way past the dog. I don't want you to disappoint me."
The burning sensation in Snape's Dark Mark intensified, a silent threat pulsing through his skin.
"Yes, my Lord," Snape murmured.
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