Turban Heat and Lies

The air in the dungeon dormitory was stagnant, broken only by Quirrell's heavy breathing, wheezing like a battered bellows.

A fine, persistent ache throbbed through Skofot's wrist, yet a forlorn expression appeared on his face as he gently tried to pull free the hand Quirrell was gripping so tightly.

"If you don't want me touching it, then I won't." His voice dropped, carrying a trace of grievance. "Anyway, this is a single dormitory. It's fine."

Having said that, he actually turned and walked toward the narrow single bed, sitting down slowly with his legs dangling over the edge, swinging lightly.

In the dim light, his head hung low, making him look like a child sulking after being rejected.

Quirrell remained frozen where he stood, his fingers trembling slightly in the shape of a grasp.

The voice in his head let out a shrill hiss, like red-hot wire scraping against his skull.

He's acting.

The voice judged coldly. He knows I exist, yet he deliberately used that frivolous tone.

Washing?

How dare he... But Dumbledore... could this be the old bumblebee's test?

Quirrell's Adam's apple bobbed, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

He licked his cracked lips and forced out a smile uglier than a sob.

"M-Mr. Leoqi..." His voice trembled as he cautiously shuffled half a step forward.

"You just now... mentioned that... that Lord... W-where did you hear of him?"

Skofot looked up, his eyes bright in the darkness. "Hear of what?"

He tilted his head, his expression innocent. "Do you mean Lord Voldemort?"

The name was spoken clearly once more. Quirrell jerked violently, nearly dropping to his knees.

He's provoking me! The voice in his head roared with fury. Kill him! Right now—

Master, calm down!

Quirrell screamed inwardly. If he really is Dumbledore's man, then attacking him would mean falling into their trap!

Skofot watched the twisted, struggling expression on Quirrell's face and understood perfectly.

Old Voldy wanted to kill him, but he was also afraid of blowing his cover.

His eyes curved as he smiled, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather.

"Professor Quirrell seems rather frightened? Don't worry, it's very safe here. After all..."

Meaningfully, he glanced at the turban. "Carrying something so important, you really should be careful."

The clothes on Quirrell's back were already soaked through with cold sweat.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

"I-I don't understand what you're talking about..." He struggled to maintain his expression.

"You're only a first-year student. How could you know about such... such dangerous things?"

"Dangerous?" Skofot swung his legs, his tone innocent.

"I don't think Lord Voldemort is all that dangerous right now. After all, he can only hide on the back of someone else's head. He can't even wash his hair. That must be awfully suffocating."

!!!

A piercing shriek exploded in Quirrell's mind, the voice's rage nearly bursting through the top of his skull.

His tongue felt tied in knots, and he could not force out a single word.

Skofot admired Quirrell's deathly pale face, silently judging how strong that round of provocation had been.

He couldn't push too hard. It would not be fun if he scared the man insane.

He eased off at the right moment, his tone softening.

"If you have nothing else to do, Professor, you should head back. The troll might still be wandering outside. I'm tired."

He made as if to lie down, but deliberately left a dangling thread. "Besides... there'll be plenty of chances to talk later."

Quirrell looked as though he had been granted a pardon. He practically scrambled toward the door, his hands shaking so badly that he nearly failed to unlock it.

Only when the door slammed shut behind him did he slump weakly against the cold stone wall, gasping for breath.

Investigate!

The voice in his mind was as cold as a venomous snake. Use every means available to find out where that boy came from.

Before confirming his relationship with Dumbledore... do not touch him.

Y-Yes, Master.

Quirrell answered with a shudder.

Inside the room, Skofot lay flat on the narrow bed, listening to the panicked footsteps fading away beyond the door, and smiled softly.

He raised the wrist Quirrell had seized earlier. By the dim watery light outside the window, clear purple finger marks could be seen on his skin.

It hurt a little, though.

But the fire had been lit.

In the shadows of the dungeon corridor, Snape stood like a frozen statue.

He listened as the Prefect stammered out his report, saying that Leoqi, that little monster, had dragged the unconscious Quirrell toward the Hospital Wing.

The Hospital Wing?

A cold curve tugged at Snape's lips.

He had just come from there. Madam Pomfrey had been preparing calming draughts for several students frightened by the troll, and she had not seen so much as a trace of that fool Quirrell.

A lie. Another crude lie.

Without betraying anything, he sensed the Tracking Charm he had planted on Skofot long ago—

—it was still there, steadily pointing toward the depths of the Slytherin dormitories, toward Leoqi's private room.

He moved soundlessly, his black robes brushing the damp stone walls without making the slightest noise.

The closer he came to that dormitory, the heavier the doubts in his heart grew. Quirrell and Leoqi?

How had those two become entangled?

One was weak and incompetent to a suspicious degree; the other was dangerous and bizarre beyond all reason.

Then he saw him.

Right before the familiar wooden door at the end of the corridor, Quirrell stumbled out, his limbs weak, his face utterly bloodless, his lips still trembling uncontrollably.

He shut the door behind him with such frantic haste that it bordered on panic, as if something inside were chasing him.

He did not even notice Snape concealed in the darkness. He only tugged at his rumpled robes and staggered away at a hurried pace, looking for all the world as though he had just escaped some place of unimaginable terror.

Snape's gaze remained fixed on the corner where Quirrell had vanished, then slowly shifted back to the tightly closed door.

Leoqi's dormitory.

The Tracking Charm told him without the slightest doubt that Skofot was inside.

And Quirrell had just emerged from it, looking as though he had seen a ghost.

An absurd yet spine-chilling possibility surfaced in his mind.

Quirrell's recent abnormal behavior; the faint, more nauseating dark aura concealed beneath that ever-present stench of garlic...

And Leoqi's danger, far beyond his age, along with his bizarre words and actions.

Could there be some connection between the two that he had yet to notice?

A coincidence?

Had Leoqi done something to Quirrell unilaterally?

Or perhaps... whatever lay hidden beneath Quirrell's cowardly exterior and the anomaly surrounding Leoqi had come from the same source all along?

Did Dumbledore know?

Had that old man, who always kept everything under control, anticipated that such a dangerous variable had slipped into his school—perhaps more than one?

Snape's knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists.

He stared at the door as if he could see through the wood and uncover every secret the boy inside possessed.

Storm in and question him directly?

No. That would be foolish.

Leoqi would never tell the truth. He would only brush him off with that innocent or deranged act of his.

He needed more solid evidence. He needed to find out exactly what had happened between Quirrell and Leoqi.

He needed to know whether this was merely an accidental intersection between two troublesome individuals, or whether... a larger, darker conspiracy was quietly being woven right beneath his eyes.

He retreated into the shadows as silently as he had come, his decision already made.

The surveillance on Leoqi had to be raised to the highest level. At the same time, Quirinus Quirrell—the colleague he had never deemed worth his attention—also needed to be reassessed, thoroughly and completely.

Beneath Hogwarts's seemingly calm waters, the undercurrents were far more turbulent than he had imagined.

And he, Severus Snape, would never allow anyone—whether some first-year student playing at mystery or a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor suspected of harboring sinister intentions—to destroy what he had to protect.

He turned and left, his black robes billowing with icy resolve.

The hunt had never stopped. Only now, the prey and the target seemed to have become far more indistinct—and dangerous.