Chapter Thirty-five
"So?" Harry said as Snape returned to his quarters the next day. Harry was sitting on the couch, Slyther by his side, staring into space and waiting for Snape to return from Dumbledore's office once again.
"So what?" Snape said, giving Harry a look.
Harry emitted a sigh. "You know! Did Dumbledore find any traces of Quirrel?"
"Oh," Snape said, sitting down in his usual armchair. "Nothing. Absolutely no trace of Quirrel yet. I'm just wondering how he manages to keep out of sight."
"Well, what are we going to do?" Harry exclaimed. He looked up at Snape, galled. "If Dumbledore can't find Quirrel, that means that he's probably still out there. Who knows—he could be killing people as I speak! We have to do something…"
"There's nothing we can do about it," Snape said. "This is up to Dumbledore."
"It's up to me too!" Harry exclaimed, looking infuriated at Snape. "It's up to me too, because I'm the one that Quirrel visits in my dreams! Not you, or Slyther, or the Weasley twins, or Dumbledore, or Draco Malfoy, or Ember. Me!"
Harry let out a sigh and leaned back in the couch, trying to cool himself off. Getting mad at Snape about something that he didn't do wouldn't help anything, Harry reminded himself as he inhaled and slowly exhaled. Though yelling at Snape did make him feel better.
When Harry looked up, he noticed that Snape was looking at him oddly. Feeling uncomfortable under his odd gaze, Harry said, "What?"
"Has he visited you anymore, and you haven't told me about it?"
Harry froze, as he felt a guilty look coming on. He slowly pushed the look away, and instead try to put on a face of shock. As the expression lit Harry's face, Harry hoped that it didn't look forced.
"What? I wouldn't do that, Severus! If I have any bad dreams you usually know about them! I'm really not keeping any dreams from you," Harry reassured the older man. "Promise."
But I am, Harry admitted in his mind. I kept that dream from you, Professor. Only that one dream… but you know that I am keeping one from you. I know you do.
Harry remembered that one dream, and it was fortunately the last dream he had had yet. It was the day that Snape told him that he could visit his classes. He remembered every little aspect of the dream, except he didn't know where he was. He actually was positive that he was nowhere. All of his surroundings were black… Pitch black. Quirrel wasn't anywhere in the dream, it was just Harry, standing in the centre of a pitch black nowhere. Though Quirrel wasn't anywhere to be seen, Harry still heard Quirrel's voice ring through his ears.
It just seemed too unreal.
It was as if Quirrel leaned down to Harry and uttered a quiet threat in his ear, only Quirrel wasn't there. His voice was, but even the voice had caused shivers to go down Harry's spine.
"All right," Snape said, causing Harry to look up. "I believe you."
Then why did he sound so unconvinced? Harry wondered. Maybe I'm a bad liar.
Are you lying to the greasy human? Slyther asked Harry.
Harry looked down at the snake. "No. I'm being perfectly honest. Why, don't you believe me?"
I don't know, Slyther admitted. You do have a habit of lying.
Harry scowled. "I do not. Stop talking."
Hah! What, are you going to snap your fingers and then I'll have laryngitis or something?
"No," Harry said, giving Slyther an annoyed look. "But I won the bet, remember? So you're going to do anything I say for all of today. Remember?"
Now that you mention it…
"Yeah," Harry said with a laugh, but his laugh soon died down as he resumed thinking about Quirrel, and how Dumbledore didn't track him down yet. Hopefully Quirrel didn't come back to teach at Hogwarts next year, but then if he did then that'd be good, because Quirrel would come straight to Dumbledore instead of Dumbledore going to Quirrel.
"Who's going to teach DADA next year?" Harry asked Snape, looking up at the Potions Professor. "Will it still be Annabella Bellulus, like this year?"
"I suppose if she agrees to teach next year," Snape replied carefully. "But if she doesn't, then the headmaster will find somebody else to take the Defence Against The Dark Arts position."
"Is Annabella Bellulus a good DADA Professor?" Harry asked. "Or is she… not good?"
"I wouldn't know," Snape replied. "I don't pay much attention…"
"Severus," Harry started slowly, looking as if he were carefully choosing his words. "Did you want the DADA position?"
"Well—" Snape seemed at a loss for words, but when he looked into Harry's curious expression he sighed. "Yes, I did."
Harry licked his dry lips. "Well, why didn't you get the position? Did you fail a test?"
"I really don't know," responded Snape, then he cleared his throat. "But, that's in the past now."
"Right," Harry agreed quickly, saying nothing more. The whole room was filled with an uncomfortable silence, and for once Harry had nothing to say.
-
Harry, with Snape's permission, was allowed to go outside with Fred and George Weasley again. It wasn't snowing outside anymore, instead the sky was a clear blue.
"Do you want to finish your snowman, Harry?" George asked as he, Fred and Harry stepped on the snowy ground outside. "Or do you want to join in on our snowball fight? You can be on my team."
"I think I'll finish my snowman if it's still alive," Harry told the twins, hoping that his miniature sized snowman hadn't fell down.
"All right," George agreed. "But you mind counting us down?"
"Sure." Harry grinned as George and Fred started to make blocks of snow again, piling them on top of one another as a shield from the other person. Soon, both twins had their shield completely finished, and were almost finished rolling their snowballs.
"Ready, Harry?" Fred called.
"Yup," Harry called back, clearing his throat. "Ready? One… Two… THREE!"
At that instant, snowballs flew back and forth, one hitting George in the face. George threw his head back and purposely fell backward, his head landing gently on the snowy ground, before he burst out laughing and sat upright again.
The twins were so involved in their snowball fight that they didn't realize that Harry had snuck up behind both of them and took one snowball each, just like before. Harry took the biggest snowball he had collected from the twins and set it down on the ground before setting the medium sized one on top. Soon after he collected snow in his mittens he started to roll the head, and when he was finished that he placed it on top of the medium sized snowball.
Harry didn't have sticks, nor carrots or rocks, but he did have his fingers. Slipping his mitt off, he poked two holes in the snowman's head for the eyes, one hole for his nose, and he used the tip of his forefinger to draw a curved line for the mouth. Then on the medium snowball, he poked three holes one under the other for the rocks.
He admired his creative work before rubbing his hands together and breathing on them,then slipping his mittens back on. He didn't have a hat to put on top of the snowman's head, but he didn't care. That was good enough.
He let out a startled, 'Oomph' as a snowball from the twins' fight hit the back of his head. Harry turned his head around to glare at the twins, and found that it was Fred who looked sheepishly at Harry.
"Sorry, Harry," Fred called over. "That was meant for George—my aiming was a bit off for that throw!"
Harry started to laugh. "I'll bet it was off!"
There was that word again—bet. Never ever will I ever bet again, Harry promised himself as he rolled a snowball and threw it at Fred's face.
"Ouch! That hurt!" Fred cried as he wiped his face with his mitten, which was wet too, so that just made his face more wet than it already was.
"Sorry, that was meant for George," Harry called to Fred with a smile. "My aiming was a bit off for that throw."
"Nice one, Harry," George said with a smile and a thumbs up.
"Thanks," Harry said to George with a smile of his own. He needn't yell when he was talking to George, since George was the closest to Harry and could be heard without yelling.
"Hey, George," Fred yelled. When George looked in Fred's direction, Fred pulled his arm backward and then brought it forward again, a snowball which would fly smack-dab in the centre of George's face. Luckily for George, he ducked behind his mountain of snow blocks just in time.
"Ah, rotten luck," Fred said with a shake of his head. "I almost had you too, George. If only you didn't duck."
"I think I should go back before Severus gets mad for me being late. He hates people who're late," Harry suggested. "What time is it, George?"
"I don't know," George replied, hauling himself up from the ground. "But I reckon you're right. Especially about the part where Snape hates people who're late."
-
The rest of the day went by in a blink of an eye. Though Dumbledore still didn't have any traces of Quirrel yet, Harry couldn't help but be optimistic about the situation. Quirrel had to be somewhere, it's not like he could vanish out of the Earth. But, what Harry found strange was that he hadn't been getting any dreams from Quirrel lately. Absolutely none.
So, Harry had a good feeling about tonight as he lay in his bed. He didn't have to worry about getting killed in his dreams, nor did he have to worry about Quirrel reminding him of Snape's so-called untimely demise.
Harry did have trouble going to sleep, since Slyther didn't seem to have an off button. After Harry had reminded Slyther of the bet, though, the snake soon became quiet and didn't make a peep—thankfully.
Harry soon felt himself drifting off into slumber… But not before Quirrel could invade his dreams, that is.
"It's been a long time, Harry Potter," Quirrel drawled as Harry felt his feet land on solid ground, though Harry noticed that his surroundings were pitch black. He was nowhere again.
"Too long," Quirrel finished.
"You don't need to remind me of Severus's death, you know!" Harry shouted at Quirrel angrily, though Quirrel was absolutely nowhere to be seen. "I already know after the other zillion times you've visited me in my dreams."
"I'm not here to remind you of Snape's death," Quirrel snarled. "I'm here for something so much more better: Your pain."
"My pain?" Harry repeated, his brow furrowed. "So, what? You're going to kill me with a knife again? Or are you going to strangle me, or something like that?"
"Oh, no," Quirrel responded. "Your pain. Not physical pain—emotional pain."
"Emotional?" Harry repeated, frowning.
"Exactly," confirmed Quirrel.
"How are you doing this?" Harry asked before Quirrel could continue. "Getting into my dreams?"
"We have a connection Potter, that links us—"
Harry frowned, ignoring Quirrel; he tried to move forward, so he could lunge at the pathetic man since it seemed that he had just reappeared in front of Harryh, but his feet seemed to be glued to the floor. The floor, however, was pitch black, just like his surroundings, so it looked like Harry was standing in the air. Floating.
Soon, the black was replaced by colors, and people, something that was actually real. Then Harry knew where he was. He was at the Dursleys…
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