He pulled a small vial from his pocket. It contained a transparent liquid—colorless and odorless.
"No, no need, thank you, Professor!" Quirrell shook his head like a rattle drum, cursing Snape eight hundred times in his heart.
Who knew whether that guy had slipped something into the potion? He did not dare gamble with his life.
Snape looked like he wanted to eat him alive. He had been cornered on the second floor yesterday—where had this guy gotten such intense hostility toward him?
Snape shrugged, feigning regret. "What a pity. I specially brewed that potion. If you miss this chance, there won't be another."
Quirrell's eyes widened.
"No, no need. Th-thank you."
"Are you sure?"
"S-sure."
Snape put the vial away, turned, and left.
In the headmaster's office, McGonagall stood before the desk with both hands braced against its surface, while Albus Dumbledore rubbed his bleary eyes.
This term had truly been cursed. Whether it was Snape or McGonagall, both of them loved coming to bother him first thing in the morning. He could not even get a proper night's sleep.
"Minerva, what brings you here so early? What happened?" Dumbledore yawned, his tone thick with exhaustion.
"The things on the fourth floor must be moved." McGonagall's voice was cold.
"Potter and Weasley were lucky this time, but what about next time? We cannot gamble the students' safety on luck. It is not as though they can drink Felix Felicis every day!"
Dumbledore looked at her. "Minerva, hadn't you agreed to my arrangements before? Why such a drastic change all of a sudden?"
McGonagall repeated everything Tom had said in the Great Hall. Every single word.
From "the school's management problems" to "whether the troll was brought in by a professor," from "Potter and Weasley merely happened to run into