Rock glanced around. So far, so good—Quirrell shouldn't have passed this way yet.
Click.
With a soft snap of his pocket watch, Rock checked the time. Just before ten.
Taking a deep breath, he gave Theo a quick heads-up and slipped into the shadows of a nearby corner. It was the perfect vantage point: he could keep an eye on the Weasley twins without anyone noticing him.
Settling in, Rock watched Fred and George at work.
You had to hand it to them; the twins had energy to burn. Their snowman was a solid six feet tall, with two tree-branch arms spread wide in a cocky, swaggering pose. The best part, though, was the head. They had enchanted two pebbles to act as eyes, and right now, they were rolling around in their sockets, looking every which way.
"Is it done?"
George was panting, a massive snowball teetering precariously over his head.
"Wait—I think it needs a finishing touch." Fred pulled out his wand and gave the snowman a light tap.
Pop. A bright red nose appeared on the snow face.
"Perfection!" Fred stepped back to admire his handiwork. "It really captures the Weasley Wizard Wheezes aesthetic."
"Does it? Let me see!" George finally balanced the giant snowball and dusted the ice off his gloves. "Alright—"
He cut himself off mid-sentence.
The door to the greenhouse creaked open, and Professor Quirrell emerged.
Why is he at the greenhouse this early?
Rock, having anticipated this, leaned forward instinctively before shaking his head and pulling back to maintain a safe distance.
Even from here, Quirrell looked like a nervous wreck. He was taking short, hurried steps, his head ducked low and shoulders hunched tight. His whole posture seemed to scream: Please, nobody look at me.
Rock narrowed his eyes at the object in Quirrell's hands—a potted plant.
Quirrell needs herbs... No, Voldemort needs herbs. What are they planning?
"Check it out," Fred muttered, his voice dropping. George, knowing his twin better than anyone, immediately recognized the tone of someone who had just spotted something fun.
"The back of the head," George replied without missing a beat. Their wavelength was perfectly synced.
"Doesn't his turban look... puffier than usual?" Fred murmured.
"It's definitely bigger than before. Maybe his head gets cold?" George snickered.
"Or maybe he's hiding another face back there?" Fred smirked. "Honestly, this guy is even more useless than last year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
"Ew, don't be gross."
"Bet you a silver Sickle," George scooped up a handful of snow and started packing it tight, "I can hit the bullseye."
"Which bullseye are we talking about?" Fred looked confused for a split second before grinning. "The turban?"
"Obviously. That little bulge right there... the curve looks arrogant. Like it's saying, 'I'm better than you all.'" George weighed the snowball in his hand, testing the heft.
Quirrell, clutching his flowerpot, hadn't noticed the ambush. He just wanted to get back to his office as fast as possible. Since last night, his body had felt wrong—terribly wrong.
George narrowed his eyes, the snowball primed and ready.
In the shadows, Rock carefully raised his wand, waiting for the perfect split second.
"Now!" George whispered sharply, winding up and launching the snowball straight at the back of Quirrell's head.
"The Lingering Whisper."
Rock seized the moment, chanting the incantation under his breath. An invisible shimmer of light flashed from the tip of his wand.
There was no flash, no bang. The spell hit the back of Quirrell's turban at the exact instant George's snowball made contact.
It was like a draft of freezing wind piercing right through the fabric.
Splat.
The snowball shattered against the lower rim of the turban, sending icy powder cascading down the back of Quirrell's neck.
Quirrell's body seized up violently.
He started to reach for the back of his head, but then—as if remembering something terrifying—his fingers curled into claws, freezing mid-air. He didn't dare touch it.
Pure, unadulterated terror flooded him, leaving him trembling uncontrollably in the snow.
George was already winding up for a second shot when Fred slapped his arm down. "Hey, wait! Hold on."
There was urgency in Fred's voice. George looked at Quirrell, confused.
At that moment, Quirrell spun around, suddenly remembering the pot of herbs he had failed to protect from the impact.
The turn revealed his face to the twins. It was whiter than the snow on the ground—not just pale, but a dead, sickly gray. He looked like a man on his deathbed.
But sharp-eyed Fred had noticed something else. Right before the snowball hit, that bulge in the turban... it seemed to move.
The courtyard, previously full of laughter and snowball fights, went dead silent. Other students stopped and turned to stare.
Fred realized he needed to break the tension. "Whoops! Sorry, Professor! We were just getting really into the game. Hand slipped."
His tone was breezy, as if he were merely commenting on the nice weather.
Quirrell scrambled to pick up the fallen pot. He looked up at Fred and George, and after a long, agonizing pause, he forced out a strange, suppressed voice. "It's... It's f-fine."
Before the words even settled, he clutched the plant to his chest and turned, practically sprinting toward the castle.
His small, shuffling steps were gone, replaced by a frantic speed. In seconds, he vanished into the castle entrance.
Fred stared at the empty doorway. "Did you see that?"
"See what?" George asked, puzzled.
"The turban. When it got hit... I swear I saw it move," Fred said, his voice unusually serious.
George paused, then nudged Fred in the ribs. "Hey, if you're trying to weasel out of paying me that Sickle, it's not gonna work. You missed your shot."
Fred rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine, I'll pay you later. But seriously, doesn't that seem weird? He just got hit with a snowball, not a Bludger. Why did he look like he was about to die?"
"He's always weird. The garlic smell, the stuttering, looking at everyone like they're a ghost," George said, crouching down to pack another arsenal of snowballs.
"Maybe..." Fred hesitated, feeling like a crucial thought was just out of reach.
"Hurry up. I feel like I'm gonna win two Sickles off you today!" George tossed a snowball in the air. His aim was hot today, and he wasn't letting Fred off the hook.
"Alright, let's up the stakes. Two Sickles." Fred shook off the weird feeling and grinned.
"Deal!"
They high-fived, the laughter returning to their faces.
Meanwhile, in the corner, Rock quietly walked over to the spot where Quirrell had dropped the pot. He brushed aside the snow and picked up a fallen leaf.
"Mandrake..."