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HRHL# Chapter 69: The Petrified Cat
🕑 Added 2025-01-14 11:24:00 +0000 UTCHarry didn’t head back to the Gryffindor common room immediately. Instead, he made a detour to the abandoned classroom on the fourth floor to check on Fluffy. Only after confirming the three-headed dog was still there did he return, reassured.
Defense Against the Dark Arts class on Wednesday was as tedious as ever. The only "new" development was Professor Quirrell’s newfound habit of nitpicking Gryffindors.
Perhaps it was payback for the snowball ambush during Christmas or the mishap with the biting cabbage. Either way, the glint of madness in Quirrell's eyes when he looked at Harry was impossible to miss.
“What’s wrong with Quirrell?” Hermione whispered. “The way he’s staring at Harry… honestly, even Snape doesn’t glare like that.”
“Oh, it’s nothing major,” Ron replied with a grin. “Just a tiny misunderstanding between Harry and Quirrell.”
“What kind of misunderstanding?” Hermione pressed, lowering her voice.
“Well,” Ron began, trying to sound casual, “Harry might’ve accidentally thrown a biting cabbage at the back of Quirrell’s head.”
Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded. “You call that a small misunderstanding?”
“What else would you call it?” Ron shrugged, picking up a drumstick from the table. He held it aloft dramatically, muttering, "My precious," in a spot-on Gollum impression before taking a bite.
Hermione groaned. “Honestly, Ron! Between Professor Snape and now Quirrell, this year’s House Cup is doomed.”
“Relax,” Ron said dismissively. “We weren’t winning it anyway. Snape’s made sure of that. He docks points every time we so much as breathe near him.” Turning to Seamus and Neville, he added, “Anyway, tonight’s the night you officially join the Duelist Club.”
Harry had made the arrangements. Since Astronomy class wasn’t until eleven, there was enough time before detention and class to initiate the new members.
“Looking forward to testing your skills, Ron,” Seamus said eagerly.
“Sure thing,” Ron replied. Then, with a sidelong glance at Seamus, he quickly added, “Oh, but don’t forget to bring Harry a few sandwiches. He’s still stuck in detention with Snape.”
“Don’t just bring sandwiches,” Hermione interjected. “Grab some caramel pudding too—it’s excellent today. And maybe some fruit, for balance.”
While Harry’s friends were busy planning his post-detention meal, Harry himself was in Snape’s dimly lit dungeon office, brewing a Thunderbrew potion under the professor’s watchful eye.
For once, Snape wasn’t the one doing the brewing—Harry was.
As he worked, Snape’s perpetual scowl seemed to soften slightly. The corners of his thin lips almost twitched into what might pass for a smile.
This boy… Snape thought to himself, He’s so much like Lily. Her talent for Potions runs in his veins.
Harry, oblivious to Snape’s musings, split his focus between the Thunderbrew and his growing suspicions about Quirrell. He was becoming increasingly certain that the man’s turban concealed something sinister. He’d even tried casting Revelio in class, only to find the turban shielded by a strange protective magic that thwarted his efforts.
“Hungry… so hungry… it’s been so long…”
Harry froze. The words weren’t spoken aloud, but he was sure he’d heard them.
Then, his stomach growled audibly, breaking the eerie silence.
Snape arched an eyebrow. “At your age, it’s common for young trolls to experience growth spurts. Your considerate professor won’t detain you for long—no need for melodramatic protests.”
Harry chose not to explain, instead focusing on carefully ladling the completed Thunderbrew into a container.
“Blood… slaughter… hungry…”
There it was again—a chilling voice, echoing from above.
“Professor, did you hear that?” Harry asked, looking up. “It sounded… icy, talking about blood and slaughter.”
Snape’s dark eyes studied Harry for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, in his usual slow drawl, he said, “Class dismissed.”
“Thank you, Professor.” Harry stood, container in hand, ready to bolt.
“Stop.”
Harry sighed, turning back. Without a word, he handed the Thunderbrew to Snape, who stored it in a cabinet with his usual brisk precision.
“Rip you apart… kill you…”
The voice was louder now, more distinct.
“Professor, are you sure you didn’t hear that?” Harry pressed again.
Snape’s glare hardened. “I believe I’ve already dismissed you, Mr. Potter. There’s no need to invent excuses to linger.”
Left with no choice, Harry exited the dungeon.
Outside, he pressed his ear to the wall, straining to catch the voice again.
“Kill… it’s time…”
The whisper faded into the sound of something slithering. Harry followed the noise up the stairs to the Entrance Hall.
It stopped abruptly.
Harry glanced down and realized he’d stepped into a puddle. Moving his foot aside, he saw the flickering reflection of a flame—and something else.
Looking up, Harry’s breath caught.
Hanging stiffly from a torch bracket was Mrs. Norris, Filch’s beloved cat. Her body was rigid, her eyes wide with terror, and her mouth frozen in a silent snarl.
“Oh no!”
Filch appeared, stumbling toward Mrs. Norris. He reached for her, trembling and helpless. Then his gaze snapped to Harry, and his face twisted with fury.
“You! You killed her!” he bellowed. “I’ll… I’ll kill you!”
Before Harry could explain, Filch lunged at him.
Starving, falsely accused, and seething with frustration, Harry’s temper snapped. He smirked coldly, drawing his wand as the enraged caretaker charged.
