Halloween Eve and Feeling Better

The air in the Hospital Wing, thick with the scents of disinfectant and calming draughts, nearly suffocated Skofot.

After lying there for two days, listening to the groans of other patients and Madam Pomfrey's busy footsteps, he felt like a damaged object that had been carefully repaired and was waiting to be collected.

The wound on his wrist had healed under the effects of magic, leaving only a vicious pink scar. His bones had been perfectly set as well, but a deep-seated restlessness—of being watched and restrained—began to grow within him.

On Halloween Eve, he was finally allowed to leave.

The moment he stepped into the Great Hall, the clamorous voices and the candle flames dancing inside the jack-o'-lanterns made him narrow his eyes slightly.

He sat quietly at the end of the Slytherin table. The golden plate before him was piled high with food, but he had little appetite, merely rubbing the rim of his goblet absently with his fingertips.

Just then, Professor Quirrell stumbled into the hall, his face even more terrified than usual, and shrieked in a stammer:

"Tr—troll! In the dungeons! Th-thought you ought to know..."

Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the floor with theatrical flair, letting out loud snores.

The Great Hall instantly erupted into chaos.

Dumbledore had no choice but to use magic to make his voice ring throughout the hall, ordering the Prefects to immediately lead the students back to their respective common rooms.

The crowd stirred, surging like a frightened flock of sheep.

Skofot, however, remained where he was.

His gaze passed over the chaotic sea of heads and locked firmly onto Quirrell, sprawled on the floor and ignored by everyone.

A mad, daring plan instantly took shape.

A troll? Chaos?

This was the perfect chance to fish in troubled waters.

He needed a little... intimidation, to ensure no one disturbed what he was about to do.

Scavenger.

The chill and oppressive aura that card brought were perfect for the occasion.

With a shift of thought, the card switch was complete.

His entire presence suddenly turned sharp and dangerous, as though invisible frost were spreading outward from him.

Several Slytherin students preparing to leave with the Prefect shivered instinctively, shot him uncertain looks, and quickened their pace.

Skofot strode toward Quirrell.

He bent down, grabbed the back collar of Professor Quirrell's robes without ceremony, and forcefully dragged him up from the cold floor.

Quirrell's body was limp, his head hanging down, but Skofot could feel the instant stiffness and faint tremor in that body.

He was pretending to be unconscious.

Skofot sneered inwardly and began dragging him in the opposite direction from the evacuating crowd.

"Leoqi!" The Slytherin Prefect noticed what he was doing and called out with a frown. "Where are you going? Stay with the group!"

Skofot stopped and slowly turned his head.

Under the influence of the Scavenger Card, his gaze was terrifyingly calm, though the corner of his mouth curled into a tiny, utterly cold arc. His voice was so gentle it was almost eerie.

"Prefect, Professor Quirrell has fainted. I'm taking him to the Hospital Wing. Is there a problem?"

The Prefect's back turned cold beneath that "gentle" gaze, as though a venomous snake had dragged its tongue across his skin.

He opened his mouth, intending to say, "Leave him to the professors," or, "That's too dangerous,"

but when he met those unfathomable eyes, every word caught in his throat.

He had no doubt that if he objected, something extremely unpleasant might happen the very next second.

"N-no... no problem," the Prefect said stiffly, instinctively stepping back half a pace to avoid his gaze.

Skofot nodded. Ignoring him, he continued dragging the unconscious-pretending Quirrell toward the dungeons instead of the Hospital Wing.

Quirrell's heart pounded like a drum.

Dragged along by this terrifying student, his body scraped over the rough floor, and the back of his head occasionally struck the steps. The pain was nearly enough to make him unable to keep pretending.

He wanted to wake up, wanted to scream, but his master roared furiously in his mind, ordering him not to reveal himself under any circumstances!

This student... what was this student trying to do?! Why was the aura around him even more terrifying than his master's?

Skofot dragged Quirrell all the way back to his single dormitory at the end of the corridor.

He shut the door behind them and locked it, completely cutting off the noise outside.

No lights were lit in the room. There was only a dim, indistinct glimmer seeping in from beneath the Black Lake outside the window.

Like tossing away a bag of rubbish, he threw Quirrell onto the cold floor.

Quirrell let out a muffled groan. Finally unable to keep pretending, he curled up in terror and stammered, "Y-you... wh-what do you want? Le-Leoqi?"

Skofot did not answer.

His gaze fell upon the purple turban always wrapped tightly around Quirrell's head, giving off a faint scent of garlic and something rotten.

It was in there.

He reached out, his fingertips moving straight toward the turban, intending to tear it off and see clearly.

Just as his fingertips were about to touch the turban—

"Ah!" Professor Quirrell let out an inhuman shriek, as though he had been branded with a hot iron, and sprang violently up from the floor.

With a lightning-fast speed utterly at odds with his usual timid demeanor, he seized Skofot's outstretched wrist in a death grip!

That hand was astonishingly strong, its nails nearly digging into Skofot's flesh.

Professor Quirrell's face was filled with extreme terror and a twisted ferocity, as though he were being controlled. Panting heavily, he stammered incoherently, "No—don't touch—!"

Skofot's wrist hurt, but there was neither surprise nor anger on his face. Instead, he wore an almost innocent expression, as though he were merely stating a simple fact.

Looking at Professor Quirrell's fear-distorted face, he spoke clearly and calmly, his voice especially distinct in the dim room:

"Don't be nervous, Professor Quirrell. I only wanted to... wash Lord Voldemort's turban. After all, it's Halloween. Time to do some cleaning, wouldn't you say, Quirrell?"

Those words were like the most vicious curse, like an icy spike driven precisely into the heart.

Professor Quirrell's breathing stopped at once. Every trace of color drained from his face, and his eyes bulged with utter horror as he stared fixedly at Skofot.

The hand gripping Skofot's wrist began to tremble violently, as if it held not a wrist, but a venomous snake hissing and flicking its tongue.

He knew!

He had actually spoken that name aloud!

He knew of his master's existence!

He had even... used such a blasphemous word as "wash"!

Professor Quirrell's mind went blank. The overwhelming terror nearly made him collapse on the spot.

And deep within his chaotic consciousness, another voice—far more furious and cold—roared madly, filled with murderous rage at the insult and a trace of... incredulous alarm.

Feeling the force on his wrist, nearly enough to crush the bone, as well as Professor Quirrell's mind on the verge of collapse, Skofot remained coldly calm.

See? Tear away that ridiculous disguise, and all that lay beneath was fear and chaos.

He tilted his head slightly as he looked at Professor Quirrell. In those eyes that seemed able to see through everything in the darkness, there flashed a faint pleasure belonging to a predator.