Chapter Text
Chapter 24: Restricted For Thee, But Not For Me!
Hufflepuff Common Room, Hogwarts, Christmas Morning (Afternoon), 25th December 1991
The Hufflepuff common room was, Harry had known since his very first day (thanks to Prefect Gabriel Truman’s welcoming tour), a rather inviting and comfortable space. The network of guest rooms available for students from other houses who found themselves locked out or simply seeking refuge were the clearest indicator of Hufflepuff’s open nature, of course. He’d even seen a couple of older Ravenclaws using one gratefully on his first night after apparently misanswering their door’s riddle too many times. And who, Harry mused, gazing around the nearly empty, festively decorated room, would possibly deny the warm spirit of Christmas hospitality today? He himself still felt dreadfully bad, but he was absolutely not about to show it outwardly, nor give anyone, especially his boisterous Gryffindor companions, even the slightest idea of his inner turmoil.
“Merlin’s actual beard!” Ron Weasley exclaimed loudly the moment he set foot inside the circular entrance tunnel. He stomped his feet, most likely feeling the gentle, ambient heat radiating from the magically warmed stone floor permeate through the soles of his shoes. “It’s so… unbelievably cosy in here! And warm!”
“Alright, this may be better than our draughty tower,” Benjamin agreed, reaching out to touch one of the many soft, living ferns that trailed gracefully down the curved stone walls, giving the room an almost subterranean grotto feel. Dudley, meanwhile, had spotted a particularly long, flowering vine near the fireplace and promptly sniffed it with intense curiosity, rubbing his nose violently afterward as if he’d inhaled pollen. “Smells like Mum’s potpourri, but… alive.”
“Just imagine if a small spark ever got loose in this place, though,” Seamus giggled. But in all honesty, this place is really nice. Perhaps even a bit better than our own common room, daresay.”
Harry felt a strange sense of pride. This was his house, his sanctuary. Though, he admitted to himself, this brief visit did make him wonder how exactly the famous Gryffindor common room truly looked and felt in comparison. Perhaps, he thought, he would finally get to learn that for himself soon enough.
His thoughts were cut short when Benjamin laughed loudly next to the Christmas tree.
“Oi, Harry! Why are our names on this present here under your tree?” Benjamin called out, pointing towards a brightly wrapped package. “Did you do this then? Some kind of inter-house Christmas prank?”
Harry shook his head as he approached. “I didn’t…”
But there it undeniably was. A single, fairly large, bright red packaging, nestled amongst the few other Hufflepuff presents. And written upon the tag in elegant, looping green ink were the words: “To Harry and Benjamin Potter.”
How, Harry thought, his mind racing, could this possibly be? The parcel hadn’t been there when he’d left the common room for breakfast earlier.
The anonymous sender must somehow have known that Benjamin, a Gryffindor, would actually be here today, visiting the Hufflepuff common room specifically. Or, perhaps more logically, was Harry simply meant to take the present up to Benjamin later, perhaps in the Great Hall or the Gryffindor tower? The latter seemed far more plausible, but the delivery method was still decidedly odd.
“Well? Shall I open it then?” Benjamin asked, his hands already hovering eagerly over the brightly coloured wrapping paper.
“Yeah, go ahead, brother. It’s addressed to both of us, after all.”
Harry watched as Benjamin eagerly tore into the mysterious gift. The sound of ripping paper echoed in the cosy Hufflepuff common room, drawing the attention to their small group.
As the shimmering fabric spilled out onto the floor, Harry felt a strange tingle run down his spine. There was something... different about this cloak. It seemed almost to shimmer and shift in the firelight, the fabric flowing like liquid, almost as if it were somehow alive, like a captured silver eel writhing out of water.
“Wow. Is that… a fancy shawl then?” Seamus asked uncertainly, peering at it. “Or a very thin carpet?”
“Maybe a new bed cover?” Dudley added.
"Blimey," Ron said. "That's not just any old carpet or bed cover, you lot. That… that’s an Invisibility Cloak!"
Harry's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. "An Invisibility Cloak? Are you absolutely sure, Ron?"
"Positive!" Ron insisted. "My dad's told me all about them. They're incredibly rare, Harry! And unbelievably valuable. Most of the common ones, the ones made with Disillusionment Charms or Bedazzling Hexes woven in, they start to wear off after just a few years, become patchy. But a really good one… a true one… they say they can last forever, make you perfectly, completely invisible." He trailed off then, shaking his head slowly in clear disbelief.
Benjamin carefully picked up the extraordinary cloak, letting the strange, fluid material run smoothly through his fingers. "It feels… it feels like woven water," he said, equally astonished. "But… how did it get here? Under the Hufflepuff tree? And why on earth is it addressed to both of us?"
Harry deemed Benjamin correct, and frowned, turning the discarded wrapping paper over and over in his own hands, searching for any clue. "No sender's name," he confirmed eventually. "No note. Just our names. That’s a bit odd, I’d say… for such an amazing gift."
Seamus let out a long, low whistle. "Odd? Mate, it's bloody brilliant, that’s what it is! Just think of all the amazing mischief you two could get up to with that thing!"
Who would possibly send them such an incredibly valuable, clearly magical gift, and then choose to do so anonymously? And why specifically to both him and Benjamin? It didn't make any logical sense.
"Well, go on then, one of you!" Ron urged, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Try it on properly! George and Fred would probably sell their actual souls… maybe even Ginny for a cloak like that!"
Benjamin grinned broadly at that, his earlier apprehension about the anonymous gift clearly forgotten in the face of such an exciting magical object. He quickly swung the shimmering cloak around his shoulders. Instantly, his entire body vanished completely from sight, leaving only his seemingly disembodied, floating head visible above the silvery fabric.
"Wicked!" Benjamin gasped.
"That's... that's truly incredible," Harry admitted, not even realising his own mouth was now hanging slightly agape in sheer astonishment.
"Your turn now, Harry," Benjamin said, his head bobbing as he slipped the cloak easily off his shoulders, holding the silvery fabric out towards his brother.
Harry hesitated for a moment before taking the silvery fabric. As he draped it over himself, he felt a strange sensation wash over him, as if he were suddenly disconnected from the world around him.
"Bloody hell," Ron breathed again, his eyes even wider now, if that were possible. "You've… you've disappeared completely, Harry! Gone!"
Harry looked down at where his body should have been, seeing nothing but the common room floor. It was a queer feeling, exhilarating and unsettling all at once. Magic, Harry was forced to concede anew, knew how to still surprise after so many months.
As he removed the cloak, Harry's mind struggled to make sense of it all. This gift could be incredibly useful, but it also raised so many questions. Who had sent it? Why now? And what did they expect Harry and Benjamin to do with it?
"This is absolutely brilliant!" Benjamin declared again, his eyes shining with pure, unadulterated adventure. "Just think of all the amazing exploring we could do with this thing, Harry! All the castle secrets we could finally uncover!"
Harry nodded slowly, trying his very best to match his brother's infectious, boundless enthusiasm. But a small, cautious, insistent voice in the very back of his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Aunt Petunia after one of Uncle Vernon's riskier business ventures, whispered of warnings and danger. In Harry's limited experience thus far, truly unexpected, incredibly valuable gifts often, unfortunately, came with equally unexpected, often unwelcome, significant consequences attached. The image of that bloody hexagonal Obol, still hidden away in his locked desk drawer, flashed unbidden for a heartbeat in his mind.
"Yeah, it's… it's truly amazing, Ben. But, maybe… maybe we should be really careful with it, you know? Try not to be too reckless? At least until we can somehow figure out exactly where it came from, and who sent it to us."
Benjamin immediately waved off Harry’s sensible concern with an impatient, dismissive gesture. "Oh, come on, Harry! Don’t be such a spoilsport! Where's your sense of Gryffindor adventure, eh? This is, without a single doubt, the absolute best Christmas gift ever!"
As the others crowded around, chattering excitedly about the cloak's possibilities, Harry found himself hanging back slightly. He couldn't shake the feeling that this mysterious gift was going to change everything, and he wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing.
The Great Hall, Hogwarts, Christmas Afternoon, 25th December 1991
Seamus, and especially Ron, seated beside him, seemed to possess an almost infinite, utterly boundless supply of creative ideas for the cloak’s immediate application – most of which stretched from relatively harmless schoolboy mischief right through to complete and utter pranks that would likely make even Fred and George Weasley pause for thought. Listening to their increasingly outlandish suggestions, Harry thenceforth had firmly realised that he could, without a doubt, always lean heavily on Seamus and Ron if he ever truly needed some serious, large-scale mischief to unexpectedly befall a certain unnamed, annoying individual (cough Malfoy cough) who might perhaps not yet be named.
His green eyes scanned the Ravenclaw table once more, hoping to catch a glimpse of Cho's raven hair or hear her melodious laugh. But she remained conspicuously absent, and Harry couldn't shake the nagging worry that gnawed at him. Was she, too, haunted by the events of the previous night? The image of her casting that fatal curse flashed unbidden through his mind, and he shuddered involuntarily.
Whilst Seamus, Dudley, Benjamin, and Ron were talking about Quidditch, a topic Harry dearly loved too, Harry’s mind wandered to other topics, especially one that he had not thought of for a while– a long while.
The Flamels. Wild Magic. The Philosopher’s Stone.
How were the ancient Flamels actually doing? he wondered suddenly. Were they still residing here within the castle, somewhere up on that mysterious seventh floor, as they had been before Hallowe’en? Or had the recent attack, the clear threat to the Stone, perhaps prompted them to make a discreet detour elsewhere for safety? The Philosopher’s Stone itself… that particular, dangerous thread, Harry now knew with absolute certainty, he could no longer even attempt to pull himself, not without potentially imperiling everyone. It was not really his place to interfere with something so powerful, so well guarded. And if a determined thief (presumably still Professor Quirrell, perhaps now aided by Voldemort himself) was truly, actively after it, then he, Harry, a mere eleven-year-old first-year student, would likely only prove to be a foolish, dangerous obstacle in the path of those far more qualified to protect it, like Professor Dumbledore.
Wild Magic, however… that felt different. That particular thread, the one Nicolas Flamel had so cryptically, so tantalizingly dangled before him and Neville, still felt eminently pullable. It could potentially reveal more useful information, more hidden knowledge. Though that specific thread, he also knew with frustrating certainty, was currently locked securely away behind the intimidating gates of the Restricted Section in the Hogwarts library – a section seemingly impossible for any first-year to get into without being immediately seen.
…
…Seen. Without being seen! Harry, jolting upright from his previously lousy, contemplative posture at the table, almost banged his already sore knee hard against the underside of the heavy oak trestle, rubbing it fiercely thereafter as the idea exploded like a firework in his brain.
Seamus had asked if he was alright, and Harry had affirmed that question. He was alright, for a solution to his problem had been delivered to him gift wrapped for Christmas! Literally! His invisibility cloak could bring him to the Restricted section. And, as luck would have it, he and Benjamin had decided that each could have the cloak every other week to play it fair, starting with Harry. Tonight he would force himself inside.
Could he ask them to come along? They would fit under the invisibility cloak, after all. But what purpose would they serve? They’d just be there merely for show, along for the dangerous ride.
He was going alone, Harry decided.
Again, Uncle Vernon’s exasperated words tolled loudly, unhelpfully in Harry’s mind. “You just keep pulling and pulling and pulling, boy, until you have unravelled the entire blessed poncho!” he had grumbled so loudly, so many times, long, long ago… on multiple, memorable occasions. A remarkably fair, surprisingly accurate summarisation of Harry’s inherent behaviour, he had to admit. And an even fairer, more pertinent warning now. Aunt Petunia, Harry recalled, had always favoured simply, sharply saying that unchecked curiosity invariably killed the unfortunate cat. But Harry had never actually been properly killed yet, had he? And if, by some remote chance, he were to meet some untimely end in the Restricted Section tonight, then surely, he would still have at least eight remaining lives left to him, just like a cat. That seemed like a reasonable enough buffer.
With dinner winding down, Harry made his excuses and slipped away from the table. He made one last futile attempt to locate Cho, even venturing out into the snow-covered courtyard, but to no avail.
Hogwarts Library, Restricted Section, Christmas Night, 25th December 1991
Later that day, or rather, much, much later that night, back in the deserted Hufflepuff common room, Harry waited with excruciating, mounting impatience for his few remaining housemates who had also stayed for Christmas to finally extinguish their own common room lights and settle properly in for the night. As the absolute last stragglers finally made their weary way off towards their respective dormitories, Harry retrieved the Invisibility Cloak carefully from its current hiding place beneath his mattress, its silvery fabric cool and fluid against his skin.
With a deep breath, Harry swung the cloak around his shoulders and pulled the hood over his head. His body vanished from view, leaving only a pair of determined green eyes floating in mid-air before they, too, vanished. Carefully, he made his way out of the common room and into the darkened corridors of Hogwarts.
The castle at night truly was a different world entirely. Shadows flickered on the walls, cast by flickering torchlight. Fortunately, this time he was not playing ‘hot and cold’ with a bloody Obol. He knew precisely where he was going.
As he approached the library, Harry's heart may as well have been the smiting hammer on the anvil. He knew that what he was about to do was against school rules, perhaps even dangerous. But the allure of knowledge, the chance to unravel the mysteries that had plagued him for months, was too strong to resist.
With trembling, slightly sweaty hands, he carefully drew his wand from his pocket, whispered the now familiar Unlocking Charm Cho had taught him just weeks before (thanking her profusely, silently, right there and then for her invaluable tuition), and gently, cautiously pushed open one of the enormous library doors. It creaked softly, ominously on its ancient hinges, and he froze instantly, heart leaping into his throat, absolutely certain that Mrs. Norris, or worse, Filch, would come silently padding, or loudly running, around the corner at any given moment. But no one came. The corridor outside remained utterly silent, utterly deserted. Harry slipped quickly, invisibly inside.
The light bulb on his wand did little to illuminate the seemingly perpetual gloom, though at least he could read the plaques and book spines from up close.
The most strange titles sprung at him.
“Despicable Deities and Their Surprisingly Lavish Potions, by Lucia Lucelle, circa year 51 AD,” was a particularly intriguing one that caught Harry’s eye almost immediately. But when he carefully, reverently pulled the heavy, dust-covered volume down and opened it, the dense text within seemed to be written entirely in some kind of bizarre, spidery script completely unknown, utterly indecipherable to him. Disappointed, he reshelved it.
Other, more legible titles he scanned included several ominous-looking volumes about advanced toxicology and seldom-seen poisonous herbs, a rather depressingly in-depth, illustrated book about the various stages and gruesome physical manifestations of Lycanthropy, and another surprisingly slim, yet disturbingly detailed volume regarding the complex culinary intricacies of successfully cooking with highly volatile dragon and chimaera ingredients (apparently without immediately dying in the process).
When he finally, after much searching, secluded shelf that held several ancient-looking books specifically on ancient Celtic history and magical practices, and even a few that explicitly mentioned the intriguing words ‘Druid’ and ‘Druidism’ in their titles, he suddenly heard a loud, distinct, rhythmic noise coming from further down. Thump… thump… THUMP… He instantly dimmed his wandlight and quickly, silently, hid himself deeper amongst the stygian bookshelves, pulling the Invisibility Cloak tighter around him.
The thumping got progressively louder, closer. They were heavy footsteps, and incredibly loud, enormous footsteps, in fact. And they were heading directly his way.
A moment later, a tall, incredibly broad, familiar man appeared at the end of the aisle, holding a large, flickering oil lantern aloft in one of his calloused, dinner-plate-sized hands. Harry had barely spoken with the man personally, most recently on the Hogwarts Express platform. But even if he hadn’t, he knew instantly, with absolute certainty, that this was Rubeus Hagrid, the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. What on earth was Hagrid doing in the Restricted Section of the library in the middle of Christmas night?
Hagrid sighed deep, blowing off dust from a row of books. “Right then,” Hagrid said aloud to himself. “Let’s see then, eh? Dragons. Where would they keep the dragon books…?”
Dragons?
Hagrid began to peruse shelf after shelf, then bookcase after enormous bookcase, occasionally having to squeeze his considerable bulk carefully down some of the narrower aisles, which seemed almost visibly to falter and groan under his sheer, immense size. He continued his search for several long minutes, until finally, he found what he was looking for, and let out a sudden, booming laugh of pure triumph so loud that Harry felt certain Filch must surely have heard it all the way down in his miserable little office in the dungeons.
“Ah! There it is! Knew it’d be ‘ere somewhere!” Hagrid practically bellowed, then immediately shushed himself guiltily, glancing around the deserted library nervously.
He carefully pulled down a large, ancient-looking, dragon-hide-bound book, carried it over to a nearby reading table with a loud, resonating thud, and then, to Harry’s utter, complete amazement, produced a literal, enormous, mottled green dragon egg from somewhere deep within the voluminous pockets of his thick moleskin coat.
He is comparing the egg to diagrams in the book, Harry realised after a moment, looking at Hagrid’s fingers tracing the book.
“Ah, a Norwegian Ridgeback, is it?” Hagrid eventually said, looking down fondly at the large egg resting on the table. “Well now, d’ya hear that then, Norbert? Yer a proper Norwegian Ridgeback, yeh are!” He squinted at the text again. “Says ‘ere yeh need ter be kept at a constant temperature o’ at least two hundred degrees Celsius… Blimey! An’ rest on a bed o’ soft feathers from either a Black Canary or a… a Blackthistle Ripper…. Right then. Definitely need this book!”
Hagrid then quickly, surprisingly deftly for such a large man, stashed both the precious dragon egg and the heavy, ancient book back under his enormous coat and then lumbered off without any apparent care in the world back into the deep shadows of the Restricted Section, his flickering lantern light gradually receding, leaving Harry alone once more in the near-total darkness.
So, Harry thought, a slow grin spreading across his face, is it really that easy then? Just… take what you need?
Harry’s worries had been placated, almost non-existent now. He stashed the most pertinent books in his bag and walked out of the Restricted Section.
Then, as he rounded another shadow-shrouded bend, he stumbled upon an unexpected sight. Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell. The former, Snape, had the latter, Quirrell, pinned firmly, almost aggressively, up against the cold stone wall
"Quirinus, we find ourselves, yet again it seems, engaged in another one of our… private little chats. Do enlighten me this time. Why, precisely, are you now apparently talking animatedly to yourself in deserted library corridors in the dead of night?"
Quirrell, back pressed to the stone wall as if he could meld into it, stammered, "I-I-I w-wasn't—"
"Ah, yes," Snape interrupted. "The infamous stutter. Such a charming, utterly convincing affectation, Quirinus. Though, you and I both know perfectly well, don't we, that it's absolutely nothing more than a pathetic, transparent farce. So, do dispense with it now, there's a good chap."
"Y-y-you don't underst—"
"Oh, I assure you, Quirinus, I understand far, far more than you could possibly ever give me credit for. For instance, why would a supposedly grown wizard, a Hogwarts professor no less, find his own purple turban so utterly enthralling that he'd frequently converse with it in hushed tones when he believes himself to be unobserved? Are your academic duties really so profoundly dreary, Quirinus? Is your social circle truly so pathetically barren, that you must now actively seek stimulating companionship in ridiculous items of headgear?"
"It's n-not like that. I was j-just—"
"Contemplating another botched attempt at glory? Your little escapade during the Quidditch match didn't escape my notice. Do you take me for a fool?"
"I-I had n-no involvement i-in—"
Snape leaned in even closer then, his dark eyes boring into Quirrell's, effectively narrowing the already negligible distance between them until Quirrell could surely feel the icy prickle of Snape’s cold breath against his own skin. "Your constant, tiresome denials, Quirinus, are as utterly transparent as the very ghosts that so aimlessly roam these ancient castle halls. You feign this pathetic helplessness only to deceive the remarkably gullible, like our esteemed Headmaster perhaps. But you and I? We see straight through each other, don’t we, Quirinus? We always have."
Harry took a step back when Quirrell spoke, utterly different now. "And what precisely is it that you see then, Severus? A fool? A mere weakling?"
"What I see is a man profoundly foolish enough to genuinely believe he can somehow lay with dangerous wolves and not eventually, inevitably, get savagely bitten. You are quite mad, Quirinus. Utterly, dangerously insane. The only pertinent question remaining now is: who, precisely, is currently pulling your particular strings? What – or far more likely, who – so suddenly emboldens you to actively attempt to harm the Potter boy? Who fills your empty head with this reckless, suicidal ambition to try and seize the Philosopher's Stone? We both know perfectly well, don’t we, Quirinus, that there is only one individual it could possibly be."
Quirrell's eyes darted. His next words came haltingly. "I… I honestly don't know what you're talking about, Severus. You persist in seeing dark shadows where none actually exist."
"And you," Snape whispered, retreating a step but not letting his gaze waver, "you see refuge in shadows because you fear the light. Be careful, Quirinus. You're meddling in matters you scarcely understand, and the cost of such ignorance can be...dire."
The flickering torchlight seemed to pause, as if holding its breath at the palpable tension between Snape and Quirrell. Snape's wand tip pressed into the fabric of Quirrell's turban, the intensity in his eyes reaching a near-feverish pitch.
"Perhaps we should reduce this distracting turban of yours to ashes. It may loosen your tongue for more truthful conversations. Perhaps it will show us why Benjamin Potter has headaches when your back is turned. Perhaps it will reveal–"
It was as if a spell had been broken. Quirrell's face transformed, the quivering mask of fear giving way to a visage of calculated coldness. With a fluid motion, he slipped from Snape's grasp, his own wand raised in a deft countermove.
"A fool you are, Severus Snape," Quirrell hissed, his voice now clear, steady, filled with venom that made Harry take another step back. "You, who so willingly, so blindly serves that weak, sentimental old fool Dumbledore, trotting pathetically at his heels like some over-eager, obedient house-dog. Have you never once considered a higher calling for your considerable talents, Severus? To actually stand beside the returning Dark Lord as a powerful bishop, perhaps? Or even a respected rook? Rather than continuing to skulk so shamefully in these dark shadows, forever nothing more than Dumbledore’s expendable, unimportant pawn?"
"Quirinus," Snape's voice was like a thin, razor-sharp blade of pure ice now, "you would do exceptionally well to consider your next few words most carefully indeed. You are, I assure you, currently crossing entirely the wrong wizard."
This was definitely not the sarcastic, bullying Snape he knew from the Potions classroom; this was someone far older, far colder, far more menacing.
Quirrell scoffed, his wand still aimed at Snape. "Are you attempting to warn me, Severus? You? You, who so infamously betrayed the Dark Lord himself? Who so skilfully, so duplicitously, play both sides against the middle in a war that ultimately tolerates absolutely no ambiguity, no divided loyalties? You are nothing more than a pathetic, contemptible double agent, Severus. A traitor who crossed the Dark Lord himself. You deserve nothing less than the slowest, most agonizingly cruel of deaths for your past treacheries."
"Betrayal is a term that inherently assumes some form of initial, genuine loyalty. Your profound ignorance in these matters continues to confound me. I am no traitor. My true allegiances have always been, and indeed will always remain, to something far greater, far more significant, than you, or even, ultimately, the Dark Lord himself, could ever possibly comprehend. You may dress your ambitions in lofty rhetoric, but let's not pretend you're guided by principles. You're motivated by fear. Fear of your inadequacies, fear of your own irrelevance. Just like… everyone else that wore the mask."
Quirrell's visible eye darted nervously then, his wand hand quivering just slightly now. Snape immediately smirked. "Ah, yes. There it is. A little twitch. A momentary, tell-tale lapse in your newfound, borrowed strength. I do wonder, Quirinus… what does your hidden master truly think of such pathetic weakness in his chosen vessel?"
A sharp laugh. "Is that truly the best you've got? Empty psychological taunts? Oh, how the once mighty Potions Master seems to have stooped so very low indeed! Do you know what I find rather more interesting right now, Severus? The undeniable, inconvenient fact that you’re the one apparently standing up so fiercely for the worthless Potter boys and the Flamels tonight, all the while it was you yourself who actually sent his interfering Mudblood mother and arrogant pure-blood father to their doom all those years ago! Selling them out so callously to the Dark Lord, via that convenient little prophecy you overheard!"
Harry unknowingly took another sharp, involuntary step back under the cloak, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle a gasp. Then another step. What… what did Quirrell just say? Snape… betrayed his parents? Told Voldemort about a prophecy?
Snape clicked his tongue. "You seem confident for a man who has so much to lose."
"Ah, but you misunderstand me completely," Quirrell retorted smoothly, his confidence seemingly restored. "I, in fact, have absolutely everything to gain. The Dark Lord, unlike some, recognizes true, unwavering loyalty, a concept entirely foreign to your own twisted, self-serving nature, I am quite sure. And he has already promised me a significant place, a position of power, right at his mighty right hand when he inevitably, gloriously returns. If only you knew, Severus," Quirrell added with a smug, knowing smile, "just how incredibly near he truly is, even now, at this very moment."
“And if only you knew, Quirinus, the truly boundless, often terrifying depths that the art of Legilimency offers to those few who actually dare to properly learn and master it.”
For the first time, Harry saw fear on Quirrell's face. In that same moment he started to utter a spell, and Snape twirled his wand whilst lunging backward. But before any could unleash whatever curse they'd readied, a shaft of light cut into the darkness, Filch appeared around the corner, lantern held aloft.
"Professor Snape! There you are, sir!" Filch called out wheezily, hurrying towards them. "I've got it! Got the evidence! Students definitely skulking around in the Restricted Section of the library tonight, just like you suspected!"
Lingering just at the very fringes of the revealing lantern light, hidden desperately beneath his cloak, was Harry. Frozen solid. A single step away from being revealed. Ms Norris' eyes narrowed as she cast her gaze suspiciously toward their concealed location.
Snape shifted his gaze from Quirrell to Filch, his face a stoic mask. "This is far from over.”
For just a moment, Harry saw Quirrell's face twist into a grotesque smirk, a vile caricature of satisfaction, before reverting back to its stuttering facade. "Oh-o-of course, Professor S-S-Snape," Quirrell stammered, skittering away into the murky labyrinth of Hogwarts' halls.
Turning his attention back to Filch, Snape wore a scowl that could wither flowers at twenty paces. "Evidence, you say? Show me."
Filch thrust a piece of parchment toward Snape, his eyes shining with vindictive delight. "Found this book, it did. On the floor with fingerprints on it."
One of Hagrid’s gargantuan fingers, Harry recognised.
Snape skimmed over the book, his face inscrutable. "Curious. Students brazen enough to leave behind their intentions, yet clever enough to elude you."
Filch bristled at the insult. "Oh, I'd have caught 'em, I would. Had a near miss, I did. Ms Norris here sensed 'em. Didn't you, my sweet?"
Snape looked down at the cat, whose eyes were still locked on where Harry hid under the protective shroud of the Invisibility Cloak. For a moment, it seemed as though Ms Norris knew exactly where he was. "Very well, Filch. Double your patrols tonight. And keep an eye on the Restricted Section. I suspect we may catch our interlopers yet."
With a final glance at the place Ms Norris seemed intent upon, Snape swept away, his robes billowing behind him like dark wings. Filch followed, mumbling to himself about chains and dungeons.
When their footsteps finally receded completely into the distant silence, Harry dared, at long last, to breathe properly again, his lungs aching. Legilimency. A prophecy. And a dragon egg. Would he dare to go back to the library again tonight to try and research them? Definitely not, he decided instantly, his nerve finally failing him. All he wanted right now was the safety of his Hufflepuff bed. Harry turned and fled straight back towards his common room.