The Hog's Head, Back Door
The moonlight was bright tonight, illuminating the snow-covered ground.
Sparse clouds left the sky clear—a promise of good weather tomorrow.
On an ordinary night, Quirrell might've appreciated such moonlight. But tonight, as he tried to discreetly approach the half-giant to extract information, the glow was a nuisance, making it harder to conceal his movements and identity. He'd nearly been spotted by Snape when he slipped out of the castle.
Crunch…
His leather boots sank into the soft snow. Quirrell paused, pulling his hood lower and securing his mask. He lightened his steps, creeping toward the pub's washroom.
The front hall was perpetually filthy, but the restroom was surprisingly clean—no overpowering stench to make your eyes water.
The half-giant stood at the sink, staring blankly at the copper faucet as water rushed over his hands.
Drunkards often did odd things when their minds stopped working—nothing surprising there.
Hagrid's hands were massive, calloused, with bulging muscles and veins that made them look more like the paws of some humanoid beast. The heavy reek of alcohol amplified the wild edge in his demeanor. When he turned and glared, his gaze froze Quirrell's breath for a moment, like being sized up by a predator.
I'm the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Quirrell reassured himself. I've handled fiercer magical creatures than this.
Still, the sheer size of the man was intimidating. Though Hagrid was usually gentle, the boozy haze made Quirrell wonder how much rationality remained—and whether he might suddenly lash out.
Quirrell hesitated. His original plan had been to target Kettleburn. For months, he'd carefully built rapport with the old professor, chatting about trivial magical creatures until recently slipping in questions about three-headed dogs. But Kettleburn's sharp instincts had caught on, and he'd grown distant and wary.
After careful thought, Quirrell shifted his focus to the gamekeeper. Hagrid spent years around the Forbidden Forest's creatures, had let slip his knowledge of dangerous beasts, wasn't the sharpest wand in the shop, and—most crucially—Quirrell had learned Hagrid was the one raising the three-headed dog.
A drunken Rubeus Hagrid would be the easiest to catch off guard and pry information from.
With that in mind, Quirrell's heart skipped as he saw Hagrid lumbering toward him. Pretending to be a casual pub-goer, he offered a friendly greeting: "Firewhisky's a bit strong, eh?"
"Aye," Hagrid mumbled, his words slurring.
The two stepped into the alley behind the pub, letting the cool night air clear their heads.
"Heard the inspiration for that drink came from dragons," Quirrell ventured.
"Spot on! Love that fiery kick in the nose…" Hagrid's eyes lit up, and he launched into a ramble, dragging his new washroom acquaintance along. "Opaleye dragons from Australia—they're the prettiest, with pearly scales. Their flames are a gorgeous, vivid red. Though I'm partial to Norwegian Ridgebacks—cute scales and sharp little fangs…"
"I'm more of a dog person myself," Quirrell said, steering toward his real topic.
"Oh, dogs are great too! I've got one meself. Shame I've never raised a dragon, though. If I could hatch one… my mate's kid works with dragons in Romania…"
Quirrell tried to reel him back. "Let's stick with dogs. Some are loyal, friendly with humans. Others, like certain hounds, can be a bit… troublesome—"
"Like my Fang! He's a right sweetheart! If I had a dragon, Fang'd look after it proper. He'd be a… dragon-herding dog." Hagrid smacked his lips, savoring his invented term, and leaned against the wall, chuckling. "Dragon-herder…"
"…"
Quirrell's annoyance flared.
If he didn't know Hagrid was a bit dim, he'd think the man was toying with him. Dragons? Dogs? He wanted to talk about the three-headed dog!
Suppressing his frustration, he pressed on. "Regular dogs couldn't herd dragons—too small. Are there any dogs big enough to match a dragon's size?"
Hagrid's drunken brain churned for a moment before he answered earnestly, "Fang could herd a Hungarian Horntail—they're smaller dragons. Or maybe a young one."
"…"
Quirrell's hand clenched into a fist behind his back, fighting the urge to snap.
For the next ten minutes, he tried every angle to steer the conversation to the three-headed dog, but Hagrid's mind stayed stubbornly fixed on dragons and his "dragon-herding dog."
"Enough about dragons!" Quirrell finally snapped, his voice a low growl.
Hagrid turned, squatting down with a sincere look. "Why not? Don't like dragons? They're dead cute. Want to hear about Swedish Short-Snouts? Welsh Greens? Ukrainian Ironbellies?"
"…"
Quirrell's patience shattered. He drew his wand and fired a Confundus Charm at the drunkard.
Hagrid went quiet, slumping against the wall, his eyes glassy and expression dazed.
"Whew…"
Quirrell exhaled, relief washing over him.
No more wrestling with this fool's nonsense.
The Dark Lord was too cautious, warning that Hagrid's possible giant blood might resist magic. But this was just a wandless gamekeeper, barely better than that Squib Filch. One Confundus Charm, and he was out like a light.
"Tell me," Quirrell demanded, "what's the weakness of a three-headed dog?"
Hagrid stared blankly at the masked wizard, his mouth opening to let out a belch—a foul mix of alcohol and stomach acid.
Quirrell's cloak and mask couldn't block the stench. He inhaled a whiff, his vision darkening as he nearly gagged, choking on the reek.
A surge of malice rose within him. He'd never felt so certain a spell would work. Raising his wand, he snarled, "*Imperio!*"
Raw malice channeled into magic, gathering at his wand's tip, a dark spell brewing.
Two blinding white streaks shot from the pub's back door.
The whistling force stirred the snow, moonlight glinting off it like waves crashing in the narrow alley.
Two snowballs flew—one after the other—reaching the half-giant in an instant.
The first knocked Quirrell's wand askew; the second slammed into his hooded head, producing a crisp crack followed by a dull thud.
Hagrid mumbled, "Dragon's breath…"
Compared to Hagrid—a half-giant expelled and wand-snapped before graduation—Wright, a former Ministry Silencer with years of experience, was far savvier. The Muggle Studies professor beside him, who'd only conjured snowballs when the Imperius Curse was cast, was a duelist of the highest caliber.
Launching snowballs mid-curse, wandless and wordless, striking the moment the spell was uttered—Wright's attack was as precise as any seasoned Auror's.
The force sent the masked wizard flying, crashing into a thick snowbank.
Quirrell clung to his wand, clutching his throbbing temples as he struggled to his feet. His ears rang with what sounded like the Dark Lord's low wail: "You… you'll pay for this!"
Melvin and Wright turned their gazes toward him.
Two ropes burst from the snow, like coiled vipers striking prey, their momentum terrifying.
Wright ducked back inside the pub's door, worried this foreign wizard might not know British dark magic. He called out, "Melvin, watch out! That's a dark version of Incarcerous—a three-hundred-year-old spell. Those ropes don't just bind; if they get close, they'll strangle you like a python or hang you dead…"
Melvin narrowed his eyes, tracking the ropes' paths. "*Impedimenta,*" he murmured.
A dozen invisible barriers blocked the ropes. Though they pierced through several, their momentum faltered, and they collapsed into the snow, their magic fizzling out.
The hooded wizard scrambled from the snowbank. His ropes broken, he knew he couldn't take Professor Levent in a fight. He turned to flee, but his pounding head fueled his resentment. Gripping his wand, he communed with the Dark Lord, determined to leave a mark.
Perhaps because one snowball had struck his head's base, the Dark Lord—surprisingly—agreed.
Quirrell aimed his wand at Melvin, a garbled incantation echoing from the back of his skull. A new rope shot forth.
The rope snapped taut, arcing through the air toward the pub's back door. Woven from three brown strands, it shimmered with a scaly, black sheen, hissing like a venomous snake as it sliced through the cold air.
Quirrell smirked, turning to stagger away, his head still spinning.
Melvin tried another Impediment Jinx, but this rope carried a strange, sinister magic that melted his barriers on contact.
He shifted tactics, abandoning magical defenses for physical ones. Staring at the rope, his eyes widened, pupils shrinking, catching every thread's texture.
"What are you doing?!" Wright shouted, alarmed. This dark spell was far deadlier than the last. Melvin seemed entranced by it. Wright reached for his wand, ready to intervene.
As the black rope neared, the air seemed to shift.
Wright heard a faint splash, his vision blurring briefly, though nothing looked different.
Under the moonlight, a misty haze appeared—tiny, glistening water droplets sparkling faintly.
The droplets condensed, clinging to the rope, turning to frost. Frost layered into ice, and in a blink, the rope was frozen solid, suspended like a magical ice sculpture. Melvin waved his hand, and the ice shattered with a crisp, tinkling sound, the rope inside crumbling to dust.
But Melvin didn't stop. He transfigured the ice shards into a solid ball, hurling it with a whistling gust at the fleeing wizard.
The figure flew backward, vanishing into a distant snowbank.
This was the dropout from Ilvermorny?
Wright, dazed, remarked, "Dumbledore shouldn't have hired you for Muggle Studies—you should be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. That dueling skill could win you a championship in your age group."
Melvin ignored him, checking on Hagrid, who was merely passed out drunk. He waved to Wright. "I'm taking Hagrid back. About the Visumirror—tell old Tom we'll meet tomorrow at seven in the Leaky Cauldron."
"Got it."
…
Melvin left Hogsmeade, strolling slowly toward Hogwarts. A transparent film shimmered around him, deflecting snowflakes an inch from his body with a gentle nudge.
Carrying a drunken Hagrid, he opted to walk instead of Apparating, using the time to think.
The snow swirled, forming a silvery serpent-like path. Hagrid floated above it, bathed in moonlight that gleamed like a cobra's hood.
Reflecting on the fight, the first two ropes were clearly Quirrell's doing—dark magic, but unrefined, his malice diluted by cowardice. Nothing special.
The final black rope was different, laced with a chilling, malevolent magic. That was Voldemort's work.
Magic stemmed from a wizard's soul and body. Voldemort, a mere wraith without form, was like a rootless tree, leeching Quirrell's life to fuel his power.
Already eroded by death's aura, Quirrell's condition would only worsen. If his goal was once to revive Voldemort, now he'd be fighting to preserve his own life.
The Forbidden Forest's dense trees were buried in snow, the path obscured. Hagrid's cabin was dark, so Melvin followed the gamekeeper's morning footprints.
"Woof! Woof!"
Before reaching the garden Hagrid had carved out, Fang, his black-gray Neapolitan Mastiff, bounded over, tail wagging. Unable to rouse Hagrid, the dog sniffed the alcohol on him, recoiled, and circled Melvin, whimpering.
Melvin settled Hagrid onto the wooden bed, tucking him under a furry blanket—Merlin knew what creature it came from—and turned to leave.
Fang crawled over, pawing at Melvin's shoe, gazing up with glossy black eyes. A low whine came from his throat, sounding pitiful. His other paw pointed to an empty dog bowl in the corner.