You-Know-Who's Disguise Fell Off

This Saturday night's nocturnal excursion only included three little Gryffindor lions.

At least, that's how it appeared on the surface.

But the four bowls of tomato and egg noodles in the kitchen proved otherwise.

While the twins focused on eating their noodles, Hermione stared at the fork floating in the air across from her.

It picked up a clump of steaming noodles, shook them, and rose a little higher, then gradually disappeared as if absorbed by the air.

She sighed with disappointment, "Congratulations."

The wand floating across from her tapped the air, and Vincent began to appear, little by little.

"I heard you can wrap your hands and feet now?"

Hermione glanced at the twins, "I'll learn it as soon as I can."

Healthy competition between friends can not only deepen relationships but also serve as a motivator.

"Any movement from Quirrell?"

"None."

The Marauder's Map showed him in his office.

"Old Batty's brewing potions again." George gazed toward the dungeons. "Could it be some kind of poison that kills on contact?"

Vincent remembered the small changes he'd made to his room on the fourth floor and couldn't help but feel annoyed that he hadn't brought them all back.

The potions Snape was brewing were probably the ones he'd taken away before.

"I've arranged to meet with Cedric tomorrow." Fred put down his bowl. "He said he'll cooperate with you to complete the essay."

Hermione twirled a clump of noodles with her fork. "What about the other years? There are less than three months left until the holidays."

"Starting this month, we're all going to be very busy." George slumped in his chair, looking miserable.

The first Quidditch match of the school year was in early November, and Wood had already declared that he would intensify training to inflict an unforgettable defeat on Slytherin.

"You? Including Vincent?"

Hermione looked at the three of them suspiciously. "You're all preparing for the Quidditch match, aren't you?"

"Yeah." Fred quickly covered his mouth. "I mean, George and I are."

"I'm a Chaser." Vincent said, then buried his head in his noodles again.

Now that he'd been guessed, he didn't plan to hide it.

"You?" Hermione opened her mouth slightly in surprise. "But first-year students are forbidden from bringing Broomsticks."

Vincent swallowed his noodles and looked up. "Professor Dumbledore agreed."

"So you have a Broomstick?"

"Yeah, it's called Rascal Rabbit."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "That name suits you."

"Thank you for the compliment."

No wonder McGonagall's little essay had to be completed before the end of the school year.

"The professor said to keep it a secret."

Hermione wasn't angry.

Fred and George were both on the team, so it wasn't like they were deliberately hiding it from her.

"Wait, Harry went with you that day..."

The three boys exchanged glances.

The clever little witch had already guessed the truth.

She looked a little distressed. "Harry's a Seeker, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"I remember Slytherin's Seeker is Terence Higgs, a seventh-year..."

Her meaning was self-evident.

The small and thin Harry probably couldn't beat his opponent.

"You need to give him extra training."

Vincent, under her earnest gaze, nodded solemnly.

Regardless of whether Quirrell dared to make a move, Harry had to be strengthened for the sake of the House points.

The castle dungeon, the bat cave.

Snape stirred the cauldron in front of him counterclockwise three times, then turned off the heat and divided the potion into five small bottles.

He looked incredibly excited, like Slytherin had just won their seventh championship in a row.

"I told you, you can't escape..."

Muttering to himself, he opened a locked drawer.

He added a drop of red liquid, preserved for nearly half a month, into one of the potions.

It began to turn black, and a pungent odor arose.

Snape leaned in for a sniff, and the smell of garlic hit him right in the face.

When it came to finding people, the Potions Master never failed.

With just a small piece of someone, the Polyjuice Potion could perfectly transform him into You-Know-Who.

"Disgusting smell," he said, putting the bottle down with distaste.

This Polyjuice Potion was strange in both appearance and odor.

If it wasn't for the need to hurry, it wouldn't have turned out like this.

Snape seemed to struggle with himself, then picked up the small bottle again.

Even though the garlic smell was almost a confirmation, could the timid professor really be You-Know-Who?

"Unpleasant..."

The moment his lips touched the bottle, his entire face twisted.

It smelled pungent, and tasted even more revolting.

He pinched his nose and took a small sip, his features subtly contorting.

Greasy, long hair matted and shrunk into his head;

His signature hooked nose gradually grew smaller;

His height and build rapidly expanded.

Snape opened the wardrobe and patiently stood in front of the mirror.

A sliver of light in the pitch-black room illuminated his shiny, bald head.

"Quirinus Quirrell..."

As expected, the mysterious person who had invaded the office twice was none other than the timid Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

Snape, wearing this face, smirked, his gaze seemingly piercing through the ceiling.

The Alder wand and Nonverbal spells all checked out; there was no such thing as being beaten by Batman.

Thinking of Batman, his smile turned even colder.

He knew perfectly well who the students, especially the Gryffindor students, were referring to when they called him the old bat.

"Heh heh heh—"

An extremely gloomy laugh echoed throughout the office.

Snape had his eye on Quirrell, and Quirrell had his eye on the Forbidden Forest.

A gloomy room on the third floor of the castle was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office.

The decorating style here changed every year, simply because anyone who took on the role of this professor could only stay at Hogwarts for one year.

Either they went mad at the end of the school year, or they mysteriously disappeared during the holidays, or they resigned before the start of the next term.

In any case, over the decades, no one had ever managed to last until the second year.

Quirrell lay awake in bed.

Tomorrow was Voldemort's deadline.

No matter what method he used, he had to kill a living unicorn and drink its fresh, hot blood to gain a terrifying curse.

"Quirinus, you need to be discreet—"

"My master, do you suspect someone knows?"

"Your blood—"

Quirrell was puzzled, "Doesn't it take a month to brew Polyjuice Potion?"

"I know Snape's abilities; he modified many potion recipes when he was at school—"

He looked horrified, "Master, do you think he already knows?"

"I look forward to your performance—"

He understood Voldemort's meaning.

Even if he was exposed now, he would only be a thief stealing some potions.

Even with Snape's deep animosity, he wasn't a ruthless character like Batman, who would shoot to kill.

"Master, I will push everything onto him."

All Quirrell had to do was fabricate a lie about encountering Batman at the start of the term, and he could instantly clear himself of all suspicion.