Beware the Waters where their tales are told.
The days following the incident in Defense Against the Dark Arts passed by with an uncomfortable weight hanging in the air, like an invisible storm cloud that threatened but never quite broke. Harry, for the most part, tried to go about his business as usual, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—not just between him and the students, but between him and the teachers, too.
Quirrell’s strange behavior during their last class didn’t escape Harry’s notice. The way he avoided eye contact, the nervous fidgeting of his hands, the slight tremor in his voice when he’d mentioned Parseltongue—it all felt too much for Harry to ignore. He knew the words dark magic had been muttered under the professor’s breath, but Harry wasn’t sure if that was directed at him or just a general warning. Either way, he didn’t understand why speaking to snakes was such a big deal.
That night, after dinner, Harry found himself wandering the corridors, trying to sort out his thoughts. He had come to love the warmth of the castle, the familiar echoes of footsteps on stone, but tonight, the corridors felt too quiet, too empty.
He knew the teachers were concerned. Professor McGonagall had given him several long, probing glances over the past few days, and Dumbledore had asked him questions that felt pointed, but not in an overtly hostile way. As if they were trying to decipher something about him, something they couldn’t quite put their finger on.
Harry wasn’t sure what to think of it all. He didn’t want to be different, but it seemed inevitable. Everything about his life had been odd, from his upbringing to his magic, but now—now it felt like things were only getting stranger.
As he turned a corner, he spotted a flicker of movement up ahead. It was Quirrell, standing just outside one of the classrooms, his hands wringing in front of him as he muttered to himself in low, frantic tones. Harry’s instincts kicked in. It wasn’t like Quirrell to be so agitated, and the last time Harry had seen him this worked up, it had been because of the Parseltongue incident.
Quirrell’s eyes flicked toward Harry as he approached, and the professor quickly straightened up, forcing a nervous smile.
“Mr. Potter,” he stammered, his voice shaking slightly. “A-are you—uh—lost? Is there something you need?”
Harry hesitated, sensing Quirrell’s unease, but not entirely sure why. He didn’t feel like it was the time to push, but curiosity gnawed at him.
“I was just... thinking,” Harry said carefully. “About what happened in class. With the snake.”
Quirrell’s face paled further at the mention of the creature, and his hands seemed to tighten around the folds of his robes. He glanced down the hallway, almost as if checking to see if anyone else was nearby, then leaned closer, his voice low.
“We... we need to be careful, Potter. You don’t fully understand... the power you have,” Quirrell whispered, his words coming out in a near panic.
Harry frowned. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” he replied, trying to keep his tone neutral. “I’ve always been able to talk to snakes. It’s not like it’s something I’ve hidden.”
Quirrell’s eyes darted around again, and Harry could have sworn he saw a flicker of fear in them. “It’s not that simple,” he muttered, his voice barely audible now. “There are certain... consequences to speaking Parseltongue. Certain connections you might not even know you have.”
Harry’s pulse quickened. Connections? That didn’t sound good, especially when Quirrell looked as though he might collapse under the weight of his own words.
“Connections to who?” Harry asked, his voice trembling just a little with the sudden shift in the atmosphere. “Who am I connected to?”
Quirrell opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he seemed to deflate, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I—I can’t explain it all, Mr. Potter. Not yet. But I implore you—stay away from certain... things. Don’t let anyone—especially your professors—get too close.”
Before Harry could ask any more questions, Quirrell hurriedly stepped back, his face flushed with a mix of fear and frustration. “You should go to your dormitory, Potter. It’s late. You... you don’t want to be caught out here.” He practically turned on his heel and fled down the hallway, leaving Harry standing there, even more confused than before.
Harry stared after him, his mind whirling with questions. What did Quirrell mean? What power did he have? And most pressing of all, What connections were Quirrell talking about?
He wasn’t sure, but something deep inside him told him that whatever it was, he would have to figure it out on his own. Hogwarts was a place of wonder, yes, but it was also full of secrets—secrets he wasn’t sure he was ready to uncover.
Later that night, after he had managed to shake off the unsettling conversation with Quirrell, Harry sat at the edge of his bed in the Slytherin common room. His mind was still swirling. The snake. The Parseltongue. The words dark magic… everything seemed to be pointing in a direction he didn’t understand. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting for him—something big, something important.
But what?
To be continued...