Quirrell's whereabouts remained a mystery.
Perhaps he was lurking in the shadows of Albania's forests.
It would be perfect if he ran into the elite wizard squad dispatched by Fudge.
But Hodge couldn't shake a heavy feeling in his chest, as if something bad was about to happen. For a moment, he lost all desire to speak. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville—those who knew or had seen Quirrell's true face—fell silent as well.
The train rolled through town after town until it finally pulled into King's Cross Station.
The corridor echoed with chaotic noise as students, lugging their trunks and bags, shuffled past the small window of their compartment. Hodge and the others grabbed their luggage and disembarked. The platform was bustling, and their group was among the last to get off. In the distance, a long queue stretched toward the ticket barrier.
"If I hear anything about Sirius," Harry said, bidding Hodge farewell, "I'll write to you. Or maybe I'll sneak a phone call—if I get the chance." They'd exchanged numbers on the train, a concept that seemed like pure magic to Ron, Neville, and Terry, who came from wizarding families. The idea of talking through a string of numbers was utterly fascinating to them.
By "if I get the chance," Harry meant slipping away to use the Dursleys' living room telephone when they weren't paying attention—an impossible feat when the Dursleys were awake.
"You'd better let me know too," Hermione said, a bit shyly. "My parents are taking me to France for the holidays, but if we come back early…"
"And me," Ron muttered. "I've got a feeling this summer's going to be boring enough to drive me mad—though I'm not sure I'll go anywhere. The only car we had is stuck in the Forbidden Forest forever. Er, Hodge? You sure you didn't see a pair of headlights while you were wandering in there? …Never mind, forget I asked."
Harry nodded to each of them, promising to write. He was desperate to escape the Dursleys, even if just for a week—or a few days. But with no word from Sirius, there wasn't much he could do… Suddenly, he froze. His gaze cut through the thinning crowd, landing on the ticket barrier.
A figure dressed like a hippie caught his full attention. Deerstalker hat, purple jacket, jeans, and a jangling silver necklace. The man pushed his hat up, revealing a radiant grin.
It was Sirius!
Harry nearly forgot how to breathe. His lungs felt wrapped in overwhelming joy. He took a few unconscious steps forward, staring at Sirius's face. Unlike the gaunt, hollow look from the trial, Sirius now appeared clean and sharp, his cheeks fuller. He looked younger, closer to the vibrant figure in the photo Harry kept from his parents' wedding.
"When did you—" Harry's eyes welled up.
"A month ago!" Sirius shouted from a distance, brimming with excitement. "Wanted to surprise you!" He strode forward, then abruptly froze, his eyes wide with terror. "Run—Harry, run! Get away—now!"
"What?" Harry stood rooted to the spot. Then, a searing pain shot through his scar, blurring his vision. He vaguely saw Sirius waving frantically. The next moment, a sharp pain pierced his neck, and warm liquid trickled down his chest, soaking into his clothes.
Blood. His blood. Something had attacked him. In his peripheral vision, he glimpsed a long, green, serpentine shape—at least ten feet long. It struck him, then fell to the ground, coiling into a bow-like shape. A forked tongue flicked from its head. The stench was foul. It was a giant snake.
"Leave," Harry rasped, clutching his neck while fumbling for his wand. He hissed the command in Parseltongue, trying to control the snake. It hesitated. "Leave," he repeated hoarsely, the world spinning as his consciousness sank. He knew the snake's fangs were venomous. Then came Sirius's furious roar, Ron and Hermione's screams behind him, and a flash of red light grazing the snake's scales—Sirius's spell.
"Leave!" Harry shouted with the last of his strength, then collapsed. In his daze, he saw a figure—so familiar, someone they'd just been discussing on the train. Quirrell!
No, Voldemort. Harry would bet anything that another soul was hiding inside Quirrell's body. He tried to focus, but a figure stepped in front of him, shrouded in familiar black mist that obscured Quirrell's face entirely.
It all happened in a flash. The other people on the platform hadn't even registered what was going on.
"Hodge Blackthorn," Voldemort said softly through Quirrell's cold eyes.
"Voldemort," Hodge replied, equally calm, though his heart was anything but. He was happy to stall—for reinforcements, for information. He couldn't gauge Voldemort's current state. Was Quirrell's consciousness suppressed? Quirrell's soul was already damaged, perhaps entirely gone.
"So, you've taken Quirrell's body… and resurrected?" Hodge asked.
"Resurrected," Voldemort said, spreading his hands. He casually twirled a yew wand. "Look at me now. Would anyone recognize the glory I once held? But I'll tell you this—it won't be long. Soon, I'll return in perfect form."
"Perfect form?"
That phrase stuck with Hodge. He wanted to argue it was impossible. According to the original story, Voldemort's "perfect resurrection" required his father's bone, a servant's flesh, and the blood of his enemy—Harry Potter's blood. That blood carried the protection Lily left on Harry, which would then flow in Voldemort's reborn body.
But now Harry's life hung in the balance… Wait… Harry… That snake?
A chill ran through Hodge. At some point, the giant snake had slithered to Voldemort's side, its forked tongue flickering, its slit pupils glaring. It slowly raised its head. Voldemort idly stroked the snake, his eyes still fixed on the black mist rising from Hodge, now taking the shape of a dragon.
"Tch," Voldemort sneered. "That boy speaks Parseltongue?"
Who? Oh, Voldemort meant Harry. Hodge's mind raced. "You two do have a lot in common."
Voldemort's eyes flashed red. "I'll admit," he said softly, "we share some similarities." He tilted his head toward Harry. "I'd love to kill him myself—no need for Nagini to do it for me."
Hodge carefully analyzed Voldemort's tone. He was almost certain now, but the realization wasn't what he'd hoped for. Voldemort's resurrection required Harry's blood, yet he seemed utterly indifferent to Harry's life or death. That could only mean one thing: Voldemort had already obtained Harry's blood—through that snake!
He had to keep it here. If he could just trap that snake…
But self-preservation was all he could manage.
At that moment, a powerful spell shot toward Voldemort.
————
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