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[HP] 90: Quirrell’s Strange Behavior
🕑 Added 2025-08-09 18:46:48 +0000 UTCHogwarts had a kitchen—a kitchen staffed entirely by house-elves.
If a student were lucky enough to stumble upon its location, they’d be stuffed full of pies and milk tea by the overly hospitable house-elves.
It was said that every Hufflepuff student knew where the kitchen was—but none of them would ever tell.
—No one messes with a Hufflepuff and their food.
Because Louis had a habit of waking up early, he had discovered the kitchen long ago. Having breakfast here meant he didn’t have to wait in the Great Hall.
After finishing his meal—and politely refusing the elves’ attempts to stuff cookies into his pockets—Louis glanced at the kitchen, where preparations for the Halloween Feast were already underway.
Forget smelling it—just looking at it was enough to give you a toothache.
Tonight’s feast was clearly candy-themed. Hopefully the little wizards at Hogwarts had a habit of brushing their teeth before bed… otherwise, the Hospital Wing would be full of patients with aching teeth.
Louis let out a satisfied burp as he left the kitchen, adjusted his top hat, and began pondering whether or not he should retrieve the Pumpkin Clown.
The thought had been prompted by a recent system alert.
Louis’s Pumpkin Clown wasn’t terrifying—at least not by most wizards’ standards. It was just a harmless prank. But there was one group that didn’t feel the same—boys from Slytherin.
Apparently, they hadn’t recovered from the trauma of the "Clown Nightmare Night." Even though the clown now had a pumpkin for a head, it was still enough to make them jump out of their skin.
> [Your Pumpkin Clown caused a minor wizard to panic.]
> [Effectiveness: Outstanding.]
> [You have gained 200 Trick Points. Current total: 45,320 Trick Points.]
Another system notification. Louis fell silent for a moment.
“This won’t do... I can’t be so cruel. The Slytherins were just starting to pull themselves together—this might send them spiraling again.” He muttered, as if trying to convince himself.
Just as he was about to give in and retrieve the Pumpkin Clown—
> [Your Pumpkin Clown caused a minor wizard to experience intense panic.]
> [The trauma may last a lifetime.]
> [You have gained 1,000 Trick Points. Current total: 46,320 Trick Points.]
“...Ah, screw it. Let’s call it courage training. What kind of Slytherin is scared of clowns anyway?”
Nodding solemnly to himself, Louis headed toward the Charms classroom.
Another day, another bountiful harvest.
—
Outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Quirrell had just finished a lesson when he spotted a somewhat familiar student walking through the corridor ahead.
She looked like Padma Patil.
“Miss Patil,” Quirrell called out, quickening his steps—though he was slow enough that by the time he caught up, they were already on the moving staircase.
Padma turned to look at the man widely regarded as the most useless professor in Hogwarts and kept her expression neutral.
“Good evening, Professor Quirrell. Is something the matter?”
“I’d like to ask a favor, Miss Patil. Could you tell Mr. Wilson to come see me in my office? Louis Wilson—you know him, right?”
“I do,” she nodded. “I’ll pass the message along.”
As Padma walked away, a voice echoed in Quirrell’s mind—it was Voldemort.
“You plan to summon him now? Quirinus Quirrell, are you trying to prove your idiocy to me?” Voldemort roared. “Have you forgotten our plan? You need to release the troll tonight—we don’t have time to interrogate students!”
“M-My apologies, Master. I didn’t think it through,” Quirrell stammered fearfully. “I’ll head back and leave him a note instead.”
“Good,” Voldemort growled. “Next time, don’t do anything unnecessary. Understood?”
“Yes, Master.” Quirrell nodded quickly. “By the way… Master, would you really not consider approaching Professor Snape? He’s been watching me closely. If you told him our true intentions, he might help us obtain the Philosopher’s Stone more easily.”
“Silence, Quirrell! Are you trying to teach me how to act?” Voldemort snapped. “Snape has his own matters to deal with. Not only must he not assist you—you must ensure he never uncovers your identity.”
“Y-Yes, Master,” Quirrell whispered, utterly submissive.
He turned to head back, but unfortunately, the moving staircase had shifted—this time pointing directly toward the Headmaster’s Office.
And out of that very office came Severus Snape.
Snape gave Quirrell a small nod as he passed—but just as he was about to continue on, he noticed something odd.
Quirrell’s eyes were flickering, uneasy. Something wasn’t right.
Snape hesitated, then decided to follow him.
This wasn’t sneaking around—he made his presence known as he trailed Quirrell all the way to his office.
“Professor Snape, is there something you need?” Quirrell turned around and asked, trying to sound casual.
“Nothing, just curious why you’re not at the feast yet,” Snape said smoothly, his face unreadable.
“I had an appointment with a student, but I just remembered the feast, so I thought I’d leave a note instead.” Quirrell forced a smile.
He bent down, grabbed a piece of parchment, and scribbled a quick apology. He even showed it to Snape.
The note appeared completely normal.
Snape watched him place it on his desk, then turned to leave—but his expression was more suspicious than ever.
What exactly was Quirrell up to?
“Is there something else, Professor Snape?” Quirrell asked.
Snape, feeling he had followed for nothing, looked more sullen than usual.
He had the distinct feeling that Quirrell was mocking him—pretending to act suspicious just to mess with him.
“Hmph.” Snape let out a cold snort and stalked off.
Once he was gone, Quirrell muttered, “Master, Snape has left.”
“Good,” Voldemort’s voice stirred again. “Is everything ready?”
“Yes, Master. The note’s been left,” Quirrell replied.
Voldemort’s consciousness, peering through layer upon layer of turban, scanned the parchment on the desk. Finding nothing amiss, he nodded in approval.
“Excellent. Let’s proceed with the plan.”
“Yes, Master,” Quirrell said with utmost reverence. He took one last glance at the parchment on his desk and whispered, “My Master.”
---
