The Hog's Head.
Harry immediately remembered that place.
In his first year, Hagrid had won a dragon egg there from a hooded stranger.
He, Ron, and Hermione had passed by once. The battered wooden sign and the strange smell wafting from inside, a mixture of sheep stink and unidentified filth, had put them off.
He had never thought of setting foot inside.
Go somewhere like that for lamb?
Harry looked at Douglas, who showed no sign of taking the hint, and knew he could no longer beat around the bush.
He gritted his teeth, set the packet of hot pot base on the desk, raised his head to meet Douglas's gaze, and said, word by word:
"I want to try what the Champions had that night."
"Dragon blood tofu."
The office instantly fell silent.
The rustle of wind through the treetops outside the window was clearly audible.
The smile on Douglas's face faded little by little.
All the teasing and warmth drained from his black eyes, leaving only a bottomless calm.
A calm that made the heart tremble.
He did not answer immediately, instead asking a completely unrelated question.
"What do you think of Voldemort?"
Harry froze.
"I mean, you've seen the state he's in, haven't you?"
Douglas's voice was very soft.
Yet Harry felt a chill shoot from the base of his spine straight to the crown of his head.
That image seared his memory once more, like a cursed brand.
Beneath Professor Quirrell's ridiculous purple turban, on the back of his head, that face with no nose, only two narrow slits for nostrils.
Those scarlet, snakelike eyes.
That deathly pale, almost translucent skin.
That was not life.
It was an ugly, twisted existence, clinging to someone else to barely survive.
Harry shuddered involuntarily.
"Don't try to master power