Chapter 92: Snape and "Quirrell"
Time passed swiftly, and the new term at Hogwarts was uneventful.
For Harry, it had been a period of good news.
His Quidditch training was progressing smoothly. His teammates unanimously agreed that he possessed exceptional Quidditch talent, and in the recent practice matches, he had successfully caught the Golden Snitch each time.
Additionally, his classroom performance was commendable. Even in Professor Snape's Potions class, Snape seldom found opportunities to deduct points from him.
However, there were occasional instances where he lost a point for absurd reasons, such as "spacing out for a few seconds while stirring a potion."
Lastly, there was one more unexpected development.
Defence Against the Dark Arts—Professor Quirrell had either had a breakthrough or something else had occurred, but his lessons had become much more engaging.
In recent classes, he not only stopped stammering through the textbook but also imparted a wealth of useful knowledge.
Harry had even learned a few harmless jinxes in that class.
Of course, he still felt that Professor Wesson's Defence Against the Dark Arts course was superior.
An important day arrived at the end of February; the Quidditch pitch was packed to the rafters.
Today's Quidditch match was extremely important to Harry.
Not only were the opponents the troublesome Slytherins; even the referee was one of theirs—Professor Snape.
One could say this match was highly unfavorable for Gryffindor.
Moreover, nearly the entire Hogwarts—students and professors alike—had come to watch. Harry even spotted Headmaster Dumbledore in the staff stand.
And his teacher—he saw Professor Wesson seated in the very front row, discussing something with Professor McGonagall.
If he lost this match… it would surely disappoint his teacher and his classmates.
Harry tightened his grip on his broomstick.
His gaze shifted to the staff stand; Professor Wesson was conversing with Professor McGonagall about Quidditch.
He had initially wanted to sit next to Quirrell, but Quirrell had not come to watch the match this time.
That left Wesson feeling slightly regretful.
He had been looking forward to teasing Quirrell.
Professor McGonagall was truly a die-hard Quidditch enthusiast. Although she didn't often show it, when it came to discussing matches, she could analyze everything comprehensively.
From tactics to execution, from players to brooms—she had the air of a professional.
The match finally began!
And Wesson was fully prepared to enjoy a tense, exciting game of Quidditch.
However…
About five minutes later.
"Harry's caught the Golden Snitch!!"
An excited voice rang out from the commentary box.
"…?
It's over already?
Hasn't it only just started?
Are Slytherin really that weak? They couldn't even last five minutes?"
Wesson instinctively looked towards Professor McGonagall.
But Professor McGonagall had already left her seat—she had hurried off to celebrate Gryffindor's victory.
Meanwhile, Harry had already landed with the Golden Snitch clenched in his hand.
A great crowd surged toward him at once, cheering for him.
Even after he left the changing room and put his Nimbus 2000 back in the broom shed, he still felt a little dazed. He had just seen a flash of gold before his eyes—reached out and grabbed—and that was it, they'd won.
Mm, Malfoy must be livid; he'd sneered at Harry before the match.
Tomorrow, he was definitely going to show off his new record in front of Malfoy.
The look on his face would be priceless…
After settling his broom, Harry leaned against the doorframe for a while to watch the sunset.
Then he saw an unexpected figure hurrying down the steps leading away from the castle.
It was Snape!
Judging by the direction he was heading, he seemed to be going to the Forbidden Forest.
Harry was instantly on alert.
What was he going to do?
For some reason, a restless irritation welled up in Harry's chest, pushing him to follow.
He lingered at the doorway for a moment, then went back into the broom shed, mounted his Nimbus 2000, and flew toward the Forbidden Forest.
He was going to see what Professor Snape was up to.
Snape was striding quickly into the Forest.
Just moments ago, he had seen a black figure heading that way.
He was almost certain it was Quirrell.
Dumbledore had told him a while ago to keep a close eye on Quirrell, so Snape had followed without a word.
A few minutes later, Snape arrived at a clearing. The sky had gone completely dark.
"You kept me… waiting… a long time…"
Snape heard a familiar voice from behind a tree, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
It was Quirrell's voice, yet the tone was clearly different.
At last, "Quirrell" stepped into view before Snape.
Snape's wand was in his hand at once.
Though the person before him still looked like the familiar Quirrell, Snape knew that was absolutely not Quirrell.
After the two of them faced off for a few seconds, a voice that made Snape's blood run cold reached his ears: "I thought… you were still loyal to me, Snape."
Snape's pupils contracted sharply; the tip of his wand trembled slightly. There was no need to say who stood before him.
"My Lord…" Snape bowed his head a fraction, his voice even hoarser than usual. "Of course I am loyal to you."
Quirrell—or rather, Lord Voldemort—slowly approached Snape.
Snape's left forearm began to prickle with heat; he knew that sensation all too well—the Dark Mark.
"Raise your head," Voldemort said. "It is time to test your loyalty, Snape."
"I have always been loyal to you, my Lord." Snape lifted his head and met Voldemort's eyes. "Have you been restored?"
Voldemort slowly shook his head and drawled, "This body is pitifully weak… it can scarcely contain my soul…"
A night breeze stirred.
Snape saw the turban that covered half of Quirrell's face lift in the wind, and he clearly glimpsed a mass of fine cracks marring the hidden visage.
It seemed Quirrell's body was wholly unsuitable for Voldemort—likely to collapse at any moment.
Even so, the fact that Voldemort yet lived was right before his eyes.
"What would you have me do, my Lord?" Snape asked cautiously.
Voldemort paced slowly beside Snape, his eyes glimmering faintly red in the moonlight, his voice a rasp: "The Philosopher's Stone."
"Do you require me to retrieve it for you?" Snape said.
But Voldemort merely shook his head. "Tell me how to get past that dog. I shall fetch it myself."
Snape was a little taken aback. How could the Dark Lord be stopped by a dog?
Still, he answered honestly, "The Killing Curse would do it, my Lord."
"Fool!" Voldemort suddenly roared in fury. "Do not use the Killing Curse here! That old man would sense it!"
Snape bowed his head at once.
It seemed Voldemort's temper was highly unstable at the moment.
"Find a way past the dog," Voldemort said at last, his voice grown calm again. "Do not disappoint me."
At the same time, Snape felt the Dark Mark on his arm give another faint burn.
"As you command."
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