aFireFist
A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 13 - Part 2
Daphne sat up a little straighter in her seat, her grey eyes gleaming with clear satisfaction. She gave a small, composed nod, though the faint curve of her lips showed how much she appreciated the praise.
Hermione's cheeks warmed slightly, but she met Roland's gaze steadily across the room. The corner of her mouth twitched like she was holding back a private smile. "Thank you, Professor," she said clearly, voice steady. "The way those reforms tried to limit the potions while still allowing family arrangements was fascinating. It shows how even back then people knew forcing things could go wrong, but they kept trying anyway."
Roland's smile widened just a fraction. "Precisely, Miss Granger. And that tension between control and consequence is what makes these cases worth studying. Anyone else have thoughts on why these rituals kept failing across generations?"
A few hands went up, but the conversation stayed lively. Daphne spoke up again, voice cool and confident. "Because blood doesn't guarantee compatibility, no matter how many contracts you sign. People forget that desire can't be forced without consequences."
Hermione nodded from her side of the room. "Exactly. The emotional backlash often outweighed any temporary gains. The historical records from the Wizengamot hearings back then are full of families regretting those decisions years later."
Roland listened, occasionally adding a comment or awarding another point, guiding the discussion. The class felt alive, the usual dusty boredom replaced by engaged back-and-forth between the Slytherin and Gryffindor sides.
Harry watched the whole exchange from his seat, jaw tight. The way Roland looked at both girls, the way they responded to him, the small smiles — it all made his scar prickle uncomfortably. Something about it felt off, even if he couldn't put his finger on exactly why. Then the vision hit him again — sudden and unwanted, crashing over him like cold water.
The Hogwarts Express years ago. Lily Evans on her knees in a private compartment, red hair loose and messy around her shoulders, looking up at Roland with flushed cheeks and parted lips. Wet sounds filled the small space, low murmurs of encouragement, her eager expression as she took him deeper, eyes bright with want…
Harry blinked hard and gripped the edge of his desk until his knuckles turned white. The image faded slowly, leaving a sick twist in his stomach and a faint throbbing in his scar. Ron nudged him with an elbow, voice low. "You alright, mate? You look a bit green around the gills."
"Fine," Harry muttered, forcing his expression back to normal as best he could. He loosened his grip on the desk and tried to sit up straighter. "Just thinking about Quirrell. He's been acting even stranger lately."
Ron gave him a skeptical look but didn't push it. "Yeah, the man's proper mental these days. Did you see him in the hall yesterday? Kept stopping and talking to himself like someone was arguing back. Creepy stuff."
The bell rang a few minutes later, releasing the class into the corridor. Students spilled out chatting about the Valentine's chaos still lingering in the halls. Harry, Ron, and Hermione joined the flow, but Harry's eyes immediately scanned ahead. Sure enough, Quirrell was shuffling along just a little way in front of them.
The Defense professor looked worse than usual. His turban sat crooked on his head, the fabric slightly unravelled at one edge as if he'd been tugging at it all day. His skin had taken on an unhealthy greyish pallor, like he hadn't slept in weeks, and dark circles hung heavy under his eyes. One hand kept twitching upward to adjust the turban, fingers scratching nervously at the cloth like something underneath was itching or burning. Every few steps he'd mutter under his breath — short, sharp words that sounded like fragments of spells or curses, too quiet for anyone to make out clearly.
Harry slowed his pace a bit so they wouldn't overtake him. "Look at him," he whispered to the others. "He's doing it again."
Quirrell stopped suddenly near a suit of armor, head tilting as if listening to something only he could hear. His shoulders hunched, and he scratched harder at the turban, nails digging into the fabric. A faint, sickly-sweet smell drifted back toward them — like old rot mixed with something metallic. He glanced around wildly, eyes darting left and right, pupils blown wide with what looked like fear or pain. For a split second his gaze landed on Harry, and something cold flashed across his face before he turned away quickly, muttering louder now.
"...not yet... must wait... the Stone..." The words were barely audible, but Harry caught them.
Ron wrinkled his nose. "Blimey, he smells awful. Like something died under that turban. And did you hear him just now? Talking about the Stone?"
Hermione frowned, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "He's been like this for weeks. Twitchy, pale, always touching that ridiculous turban. It can't be normal. Maybe he's ill, or... something worse."
They kept following at a safe distance as Quirrell continued down the corridor. He bumped into a passing student without apologizing, then stopped again near a window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass for a moment as if trying to steady himself. His free hand clenched into a fist at his side, knuckles white. Another low mutter escaped him — "Master... soon..." — before he pushed off the wall and hurried on, limping slightly.
Harry's scar gave a faint throb. "He's definitely up to something. We need to keep watching him."
Later that evening, after dinner, the three of them made their way down to Hagrid's hut. The grounds were quiet now, the Valentine's decorations mostly cleared away except for a few stray hearts still drifting near the castle walls. The air had turned colder as the sun set, and their breath fogged in front of them as they walked.
Hagrid was sitting outside on a massive tree stump near his front door, staring glumly at the empty patch of ground where Norbert's makeshift incubator crate had once stood. His enormous shoulders were slumped, and one massive hand kept tugging absently at his thick, tangled beard. The half-giant looked smaller somehow, weighed down by the loss.
"Evenin'," Hagrid rumbled as they approached, his voice thick with emotion. He didn't look up right away, eyes still fixed on that empty spot. "Miss 'im somethin' awful, I do. Little Norbert. All them tiny flames shootin' out when he got excited, and the way he'd nip at yer fingers like they was the best toy in the world. Just a baby, really. Didn't mean no harm."
Ron flexed his still-bandaged hand with a visible wince, the pus finally dried but the skin still red and tender. "He nipped pretty hard, Hagrid. Felt like he was trying to take my whole hand off. Ridgebacks must have strong jaws even when they're tiny."
"Aye, they're feisty little buggers, that's for sure," Hagrid agreed with a heavy sigh. "But he were a beauty, weren't he? Them brownish-black scales catchin' the light, those bright little eyes lookin' up at me when I fed him. Built that incubator meself, y'know. Used one of me old cauldrons and kept it warm with blankets and a bit of magic. Watched him hatch right here. Never thought I'd see a dragon come into the world like that."
Hermione sat down carefully on a smaller log nearby, pulling her cloak tighter around herself. "We know you cared about him, Hagrid. But it really was getting too dangerous to keep him here. He was growing so fast, and the smoke from his flames was starting to draw attention. Charlie's friends will take good care of him in Romania. They know how to handle young Ridgebacks."
Hagrid nodded slowly, tugging at his beard again. "I know, I know. Charlie wrote back sayin' Norbert settled in quick once he got there. Loves the open air and the other dragons. Still... hard to let go. Reminds me of when I first got Fang as a pup. Thought he'd never grow big, and now look at him." He gestured toward the boarhound who was currently snoring loudly inside the hut.
Harry sat on the other side of the stump, trying to focus on the conversation but finding his mind drifting back to Quirrell. "Hagrid, have you noticed anything strange about Professor Quirrell lately? He's been acting really off — muttering to himself, looking ill, always fiddling with that turban."
Hagrid scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Quirrell? Poor bloke's always been a bit nervous, hasn't he? Vampires and such in his lessons. But yeah, now that yeh mention it, he has been lookin' peaky. Saw him near the Forest edge the other day, talkin' to himself and scratchin' at his head like mad. Didn't think much of it at the time. Teachers get stressed too, I reckon."
Ron leaned forward. "Stressed is one thing. He smells funny lately — like something's rotting. And he keeps saying weird stuff under his breath. We're worried he might be up to something with the Stone."
Hagrid's bushy eyebrows shot up. "The Stone? Now don't go borrowin' trouble, you three. Dumbledore's got that all sorted. Best leave it to the professors."
They stayed for a good while longer, listening as Hagrid reminisced about Norbert's short time at Hogwarts — the way the dragon would chase rats around the hut, the little puffs of flame that singed his beard, the way he'd squeak when Hagrid sang him lullabies. Ron shared a few reluctant laughs about the biting incidents, and Hermione offered practical advice on dragon care from the books she'd read. Harry contributed where he could, but his thoughts kept circling back to Quirrell's grey face and twitching hands.
By the time they headed back up to the castle, the sky was fully dark and the air had grown biting cold. The Valentine's decorations were mostly gone now, leaving the corridors feeling normal again.
After curfew the castle felt even quieter than usual. Most students were tucked away in their common rooms, probably still chatting excitedly about valentines or complaining about the leftover glitter that kept turning up in their robes and hair. The floating hearts had mostly been cleared away, but a few stubborn ones still drifted lazily near the ceilings, their soft glow casting faint pink shadows along the stone walls. The corridors felt cooler, the air still, with only the occasional distant echo of a portrait muttering in its sleep or the faint creak of ancient wood settling for the night.
Hermione moved quickly but quietly through the dimly lit halls, her shoes making soft, careful sounds on the stone floor. From the outside, her uniform looked completely normal — neat tie knotted perfectly, crisp white blouse buttoned up, skirt falling just right. No one glancing at her would suspect anything unusual. Underneath though, she had chosen a simple white bra and knickers, the soft cotton ones she knew made Roland's eyes linger a little longer whenever he undressed her. They felt good against her skin tonight, already a little warm from the anticipation building inside her.
Her heart beat hard and steady against her ribs, a constant thump that matched the low, warm ache starting to grow between her legs the moment she had slipped out of the Gryffindor common room. She could still feel the faint soreness from the other night — that pleasant, deep reminder every time she took a step or shifted her thighs. It made her press her lips together as she walked, a small private smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
He's going to have both of us tonight, she thought, the idea sending a fresh rush of heat straight through her core. Her knickers were already starting to feel damp against her skin. She wanted to prove herself. Wanted him to see exactly how much better she could be when it really mattered. Her mind kept replaying flashes from the last time — the way he had tugged the leash, bent her over his desk, the thick stretch of him filling her completely while he praised her for being such a good girl. The memory made her breath catch slightly. She picked up her pace a little, eager and focused on the night ahead.
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