Chapter 56: Three Snowballs
The Hog's Head Inn, back door.
The moonlight shone brightly tonight, illuminating the snow.
The clouds were scarce, the view was wide, and tomorrow should be a splendid night.
On any other night, Quirrell might have thought this moonlight pleasant, but tonight, as he tried to sneak up on the half-giant to extract information, it was a little unpleasant to behold, making it harder to hide his whereabouts and identity. Snape had almost seen him when leaving the castle.
Swish!...
Leather boots crunched against the soft snow. Quirrell stopped, pulled down his hood, put on the mask, and tiptoed toward the pub's bathroom.
The lobby hadn't been cleaned all year, but the bathroom was surprisingly clean. At least it lacked that pungent, nauseating, blinding stench.
The half-giant stood by the sink, staring at the copper faucet, letting the water run over his hands.
No wonder drunkards, when their minds stop functioning, often do inexplicable things.
His hands were thick and broad, covered with knobby calluses, his muscles and veins bulging, giving him the appearance of a humanoid beast. The strong smell of alcohol only amplified the ferocity of the half-giant's aura. He turned and fixed his gaze, and that fleeting glance left Quirrell breathless, as if a wild beast were watching him.
Quirrell consoled himself with the fact that he was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and had dealt with even fiercer magical creatures.
But the oppressive feeling brought on by his sheer size was still there. Despite Hagrid's usually kind demeanor, the reek of alcohol made him wonder how much sanity remained—whether he might suddenly lash out and attack.
Quirrell hesitated for a moment. Originally, the best person to extract information from had been Kettleburn, and he had been doing so for the past few months—trying to approach him naturally, chatting about trivial magical creatures—until recently, when he casually mentioned the three-headed dog. But the crippled old man had an exceptionally sharp instinct and somehow sensed something was wrong, so he began to distance himself and act defensively.
After careful consideration, Quirrell shifted his target to the gamekeeper. He was in constant contact with the magical creatures of the Forbidden Forest and had revealed knowledge of dangerous beasts in conversation. He wasn't very clever. And most importantly, Quirrell had discovered that the three-headed dog was raised by Hagrid himself.
A drunken Rubeus Hagrid would be the easiest person to let his guard down and reveal information.
As Quirrell thought this, he suddenly saw Hagrid approaching from afar. A chill ran through his heart, and he pretended to be a normal drinker, greeting him:
"The firewhisky is too strong, isn't it?"
"Yes," muttered Hagrid, a little dazed.
The two of them stepped into the alley behind the tavern, breathing in the cool evening breeze.
"I've heard the inspiration for inventing this wine came from dragons."
"That's right! I like the feeling of flames coming out of my nose..." Hagrid suddenly grew interested and muttered to the strange drinker he met outside the bathroom door: "The Australian Opaleye are the most beautiful fire-breathing dragons, covered in pearly scales, and their dragon fire is a gorgeous bright red flame, but I prefer the Norwegian Ridgebacks, with their splendid scales and sharp fangs..."
"Compared to dragons, I prefer hounds," Quirrell began to steer toward the real subject.
"Yes, hounds are cute too. I have one, though I've never raised a dragon, unfortunately. It'd be wonderful if I could raise one. My friend's son is raising dragons in Romania..."
Quirrell tried again: "Let's talk about hounds. Some dogs are cute, loyal, close to humans. Some fierce dogs are bothersome, like..."
"Like my Fang! He's so adorable! If I had a dragon, Fang would surely take care of it well. Then he'd be a dragon-herding dog." Hagrid smacked his lips, savoring the term he had invented, leaning against the wall with a silly grin. "Dragon-herding dog..."
...
Quirrell was a little irritated.
If he didn't know the fool wasn't sharp, he might have suspected Hagrid of mocking him on purpose. Dragons, hounds—what nonsense! He wanted to talk about the three-headed dog!
He suppressed his emotions and forced himself to keep guiding. "I think ordinary hounds definitely aren't suited to herding dragons. At least they're not the right size. Are there larger dogs, almost comparable to dragons?"
The gamekeeper pondered a moment, his drunken mind turning, and answered earnestly: "Ya Ya could be a dragon-herding dog for Hungarian Horntails. Those dragons are smaller, or for other young dragons."
...
Quirrell clenched his fists behind his back, suppressing the urge in his heart.
For the next ten minutes, Quirrell tried various angles to steer the conversation toward the three-headed dog, attempting to obtain information, but Hagrid's attention remained fixed on dragons and dragon-herding dogs.
"No more talk of dragons!"
Quirrell finally lost patience and hissed in a low voice.
But at that moment, the gamekeeper turned to look at him, slowly crouched down, and asked sincerely: "Why can't we talk about dragons? Don't you like them? They're so adorable. What about the Swedish Short-Snout? The Welsh Green? The Ukrainian Ironbelly?"
...
Unable to repress his inner urge any longer, Quirrell drew his wand, pointed it at the drunkard, and cast a Confundus Charm.
Hagrid finally quieted down, slumping stupidly against the wall, glassy-eyed and bewildered.
"Eh..."
Quirrell finally felt relieved.
At last, he didn't need to keep trying to converse with the naïve drunk.
The Dark Lord was simply being too cautious, saying the man might have giant's blood and the spell might be ineffective. He was just a gamekeeper without a wand, barely better than that Squib Filch, and he obeyed after a single Confundus Charm.
"Tell me, what is the weakness of the three-headed dog?"
Hagrid looked at the masked wizard with dull eyes, then burped, his breath reeking of alcohol and stomach acid.
Quirrell's cloak and mask couldn't block the stench. He inhaled deeply and his vision went dark. He almost vomited, choking.
A surge of uncontrollable malice filled him. Never before had he felt such a strong premonition that the Imperius Curse would work. Quirrell raised his wand and shouted in fury:
"Spirit Out of Body!"
The palpable malice transformed into magical power, condensing at his wand's tip. A sinister curse was taking shape.
Two bright white flashes gleamed from the back door of the tavern.
A sharp whistle sliced the air; the wind whipped the snow, the moonlight illuminating it like a rising wave from a narrow alley.
Two snowballs, one after the other, instantly struck the half-giant.
One knocked his wand away, the other smashed into his hooded head, ringing with a crisp, lingering sound.
Hagrid muttered: "The dragon breathes fire."
Compared with the expelled half-giant whose wand had been broken before graduation, the former Tacitus Wright, who had graduated with honors and worked at the Ministry of Magic for several years, had far more experience. The elective subject professor, who had just witnessed the Imperius Curse and instantly conjured a snowball attack, was undoubtedly a first-rate duelist.
He triggered the snowballs the moment the Imperius Curse was spoken, casting silently and without a wand. He was faster than many veteran Aurors at the Ministry.
The powerful impact sent the masked wizard flying, crashing into the thick snow.
Fortunately, Quirrell still clutched his wand. He gripped it tightly, clutching his temples as he struggled to stand. His head throbbed, and he could even hear the whispering screams of the Dark Lord:
"You... you! You'll pay for this!"
Melvin and Wright stared at him.
Two ropes slithered through the snow like venomous snakes striking prey, hissing menacingly.
Wright withdrew to the tavern's back door, worried the foreign wizard might not be familiar with British Dark Arts, and wanted to invite him into hiding.
"Melvin, be careful. This is the Dark Arts version of Quick Imprisonment, a masterpiece of dark wizards from three hundred years ago. These thick cords not only bind and imprison, but if someone gets close, they'll be ensnared too. You could die suspended or strangled like a python..."
Melvin narrowed his eyes to calculate the trajectory of the two ropes and whispered: Obstacles Aplenty.
Over a dozen invisible barriers blocked the two ropes launched by the masked wizard. Even as they broke through one after another, they couldn't continue. They fell into the snow, their magical power severed, and dissipated.
The hooded dark wizard leapt from the snow. The two ropes shattered. He knew he couldn't deal with Professor Lewinter quickly, so he wanted to retreat at once, but his headache prevented him from yielding. He gripped his wand and communed with the Dark Lord, hoping to strike back.
Perhaps one of the snowballs had hit the back of his head, for the Dark Lord unexpectedly agreed.
Quirrell aimed his wand at the figure and heard a faint incantation from the back of his head. Suddenly, a new rope shot forth.
The three strands of brown hemp were twisted, its surface like dense, neat serpent scales, glimmering darkly, slicing the cold air. If you listened closely, it sounded like a venomous snake flicking its tongue.
Quirrell sneered inwardly and spun without hesitation, but his head was still a little dizzy and his body staggered.
Melvin tried again to block it with a barrier, but this time the rope carried a strange magical power. With just a touch, the magically built shield dissolved.
He changed strategy instantly, abandoning illusory magical defenses and intercepting the rope on a physical level instead. He stared intently, eyes wide, pupils shrinking, studying the hemp rope's texture.
"What are you doing!" exclaimed Wright anxiously. This black magic was clearly more dangerous than the previous two. Melvin's mind was being strained. He slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his shirt, ready to save the young professor at the critical moment.
Just as the black hemp rope was about to fall on him, the surrounding space seemed to shift.
Wright heard a faint splash, and his vision blurred for an instant. Looking carefully, nothing seemed different.
Under the bright moonlight, a mist arose from nowhere. Countless crystalline droplets shimmered with a faint glow.
The water particles gradually condensed into droplets, which clung to the hemp rope's surface, quickly transforming into white frost. Layer upon layer, the white frost covered the rope and condensed into ice. The process seemed long, but in reality took only an instant.
The rope froze solid in midair, like a magical ice sculpture. Melvin stretched out his hand and waved, and the sculpture cracked with a crisp sound, shattering instantly; the hemp rope it contained crumbled to dust.
But Melvin didn't stop. These ice crystals, controlled through Transfigurations, formed into an ice ball. With a whistling wind, it shot toward the masked wizard fleeing into the distance.
The figure was hurled backward and fell into the farthest snowdrift, disappearing completely.
Could this be the student who left Ilvermorny? Wright, dazed, sighed: "Dumbledore shouldn't hire you as a Muggle Studies professor, but as a Defense Against the Dark Arts one. With dueling skills like that, you could easily win the duel championship for your age group."
Melvin didn't bother to respond. He moved forward to check on Hagrid, only to find him drunk and asleep. He waved to Wright behind him and said: "I'll take Hagrid back first. As for the Mirror of Shadows, tell old Tom we'll meet at the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow night at 7 o'clock."
"Understood."
...
Melvin left Hogsmeade and walked slowly toward the school. A transparent bubble-like layer floated around his body. Snowflakes fell, but when they were an inch from him, they were gently deflected, as if pushed aside by a soft force.
Carrying a drunken Hagrid, Melvin didn't Apparate but chose to walking his thoughts.
The snow intertwined and rose like a long silver serpent. The half-giant was lifted and floated over the snow. Moonlight fell on him like a cobra's collar.
Looking back on the battle, the first two ropes clearly revealed Quirrell's true level. The Dark magic looked fierce, but his skill and power still needed refinement. Even the malice in his heart seemed insufficiently pure due to his cowardice—in truth, that was all.
The black rope at the end was obviously different. The magic with it was unsettling, malignant, and highly deceptive. It was clearly Voldemort's work.
Magic is the product of a wizard's soul and body. Voldemort is only a phantom without a physical body, like a rootless dead tree, able only to consume Quirrell's life to generate magic.
Already corroded by the breath of death, the situation only worsens now. If Quirrell once intended to resurrect Voldemort, he ought now to have considered preserving his own life.
The Forbidden Forest was thick with trees, the snow deep. The path through the woods was already buried. The cabin had no lights, and they could only follow the tracks the half-giant had left that morning.
"Woof, woof!"
Before they even entered the orchard tended by the gamekeeper, the hound Fang rushed to greet them.
The black-and-gray Neapolitan Mastiff stood out against the snow. He ran excitedly, tail wagging. He failed to wake Hagrid, but instead sniffed, the reek of alcohol washing over him. Immediately, he recoiled in disgust, howling as he remained by Melvin's feet.
Melvin laid Hagrid on the wooden bed inside the house, covered him with a plush blanket made from some unknown beast, and turned to leave.
Fang crawled closer, tugging at his shoes with a paw, gazing at him with bright black eyes and a guttural whimper that sounded a little pitiful. With the other paw, he pointed at the dog's bowl in the corner—empty.
(End Chapter)
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