Confrontation of Snape and Quirrell

More than a dozen tiny birds, each encased in a shimmering orb of light, flitted toward Snape with a chorus of high-pitched chirps.

To any ordinary wizard, the sight might have been dazzling — perhaps even threatening. But to Severus Snape, it was nothing more than a child's parlour trick.

His upper lip curled in disdain. With a flick of his fingers, the glowing birds winked out of existence, snuffed like candles in a storm.

"No wonder Malfoy came whining to me, insisting his father should have you sacked…" Snape's voice was silk laced with venom. "Is this really the extent of your ability, Professor Quirrell? The esteemed instructor of Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

Quirrell's breath hitched. His wide eyes darted frantically for an escape route as he stumbled backward, the fear on his face almost comical. His frantic retreat became his undoing — his foot caught in the hem of his robe, and he tumbled to the ground in a graceless heap.

Snape's mouth twitched, but before he could utter another cutting remark, something changed in Quirrell's gaze. The fear was still there, but beneath it — focus.

Silent casting.

Snape's instincts screamed a warning even before he felt it. Heat roared behind him.

The extinguished light birds reignited all at once, merging into something far more volatile. Flames coiled and twisted, feeding off each other like serpents until they became a single, searing inferno — shaped like a great, burning phoenix.

It streaked toward the wooden door at the end of the corridor, its fiery tail slicing through the air like a comet.

"Stop!" Snape barked.

His wand moved instantly, magic snapping into place to counter the attack. But Quirrell was ready — before the fire could be fully extinguished, he wove another spell into it, forcing the flames forward with renewed intensity.

A sickening crack split the air as the inferno slammed into the door.

The wood blackened, groaned, and then exploded inward in a burst of splinters and smoke.

A monstrous, bone-chilling growl rumbled from the darkness beyond.

Then, with a deafening roar, three enormous heads lunged into the corridor.

The massive hellhound — Hagrid's beast, the guardian of the trapdoor — burst through the doorway, all three sets of fangs snapping wildly.

Snape moved, but not fast enough.

One of the slavering jaws clamped down on his calf, teeth sinking deep. A vicious growl reverberated through the hallway, rattling the very stones beneath their feet.

A strangled snarl of pain escaped Snape's lips. He twisted sharply, his wand hand steady even as agony lanced up his leg.

Quirrell, still sprawled on the floor, was staring, eyes blown wide in horror. "A — a hellhound! There's — there's one of those here?!"

His shock lasted only a second before he grasped the significance of what he had just seen. His expression shifted, calculations flashing behind his eyes.

"This is what they're hiding…" he whispered.

Snape barely heard him. His focus was entirely on the beast in front of him.

With a sharp thrust of his wand, he snarled, "Flipendo!"

A massive force erupted from his spell, slamming into the hellhound like a battering ram.

The beast let out a pained yelp as it was sent hurtling backward. It crashed into the stone wall with a thunderous boom, shaking the corridor itself.

Snape staggered, biting back a grimace as hot blood trickled down his leg. He forced himself upright, his grip on his wand tightening.

The hellhound, dazed from the impact, let out a low, warning growl. Its enormous paws scraped against the stone floor, but it hesitated, its three heads flicking between Snape and the wreckage of the door.

It recognized something in Snape's gaze — something colder, deadlier than its own instincts.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, Snape summoned thick iron bars, reforging the ruined door and sealing the beast inside once more.

Then, slowly, he turned his head.

Quirrell was already running.

Snape's dark eyes narrowed. A fresh wave of pain seared through his leg, but he ignored it.

His wand lifted. "Sectumsempra!"

Quirrell barely had time to react before the air itself seemed to sharpen, a deadly force slicing toward him.

Pure, primal terror overtook him. His mind screamed that if he didn't act now, he wouldn't live to regret it.

His wand lashed out. "Protego! Protego! Protego Maxima!"

Barrier after barrier of defensive magic materialized in front of him, shimmering like layers of translucent steel.

But it wasn't enough.

Snape's curse struck the first shield — shattering it like glass.

The second, following the same fate as the first.

The third, held up for a bit, but was broken through nonetheless

Quirrell had just enough time to see the deadly spell reach him before it slammed into his chest.

The force of it tore him off his feet.

His body hurtled through the air like a rag doll, twisting and flailing helplessly. The wall rushed toward him at an unforgiving speed.

Then — impact.

The stone shattered around him with an earsplitting boom. A cloud of dust and rubble exploded outward as the sheer force of the blow sent shockwaves through the corridor.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then —

A choking cough.

Quirrell wheezed, his entire body convulsing as he spat out a mouthful of blood.

Pain. Agonizing, all-consuming pain wracked his limbs, his ribs, his skull. He felt like he'd been trampled by a herd of rampaging Graphorns.

"Quirinus Quirrell."

Snape's voice was like ice.

Through the dust and haze, the Potions Master emerged, his limp unmistakable, but his presence no less terrifying.

He advanced with slow, deliberate steps, his wand still raised. Emerald light flickered along its tip, faintly illuminating his own wound — the deep gash in his calf, dripping crimson onto the stone floor.

Despite the injury, there was no hesitation in his stance.

Only cold calculation.

Quirrell's breath came in shallow gasps. His fingers twitched around his wand, though he knew it was futile.

Snape loomed over him, the shadows clinging to his figure like living things.

"Professor Snape…!" Quirrell wheezed, forcing a weak, panicked smile.

"This… this is a misunderstanding!"

His voice wavered. He coughed again, the taste of iron thick in his mouth.

Snape said nothing.

Quirrell raised a trembling hand, his wand shaking. "My spell — it backfired! You saw it, didn't you? It was an accident! The door — the flames — I-I lost control of my magic!"

Snape's wand did not lower.

His expression remained unreadable.

Quirrell swallowed hard. His heart pounded against his ribs, hammering out a single, dreadful truth.

He was seconds away from death.

And Snape — Snape was still deciding whether or not to grant it.

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Quirrell lay sprawled against the broken stone, his breathing labored, eyes darting wildly in search of an escape. Yet Snape stood still, frozen in the crossroads of decision.

Because Quirrell was not his true target.

The man pulling the strings — the shadow that loomed over all of them — was Voldemort.

The Sword of Damocles, always hanging above his head.

Every action, every word Snape spoke in this moment could one day reach Voldemort's ears. And when that day came, would the Dark Lord see him as an enemy… or a potential ally?

Even if he ignored Voldemort's return, there were other dangers to consider.

This was not the war-torn Hogwarts of the past, where lives were snuffed out like candle flames in a storm. This was an era of peace, a time where bloodshed within these walls would bring immediate scrutiny from the Ministry of Magic.

And Snape? He was already walking a fine line.

A known Death Eater, still breathing freely because of Dumbledore's protection. If he killed Quirrell — if his actions tonight turned lethal — then no amount of assurances from the old man would save him from suspicion.

More than that… if Dumbledore intervened on his behalf, it would only cement the truth that they were working together. And if Snape were ever to return to Voldemort's side, such a connection would make his position infinitely more precarious.

His fingers tightened around his wand.

Lily. Hogwarts. Harry Potter. Voldemort. Death Eaters…

Memories swirled like ghosts at the edge of his mind. A face — so close, so achingly familiar — smiled at him in the haze of recollection.

Snape inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself back to the present. His grip on his wand did not loosen, but his voice was quieter now, a thin blade instead of a battle axe.

"Quirinus Quirrell," he murmured, each syllable dripping with accusation. "What are you doing? Who are you working for?"

Quirrell's hands shot up, his head shaking in frantic denial. He let out a nervous, stilted laugh.

"I-I am a professor! What else would I be doing?" He wet his lips. "Of course, I work for… P-Principal Dumbledore!"

Snape's eyes narrowed, watching every shift in Quirrell's face.

Before he could press further, a sudden explosion of shouts erupted from the corridor below — sharp, panicked voices rising over a tremor that rattled the very stones beneath them.

Snape reacted instantly. His wand slashed through the air, a shimmering magical barrier flaring to life around him.

"What did you do now?" he growled, his wand snapping toward Quirrell's head.

"I-I don't know!" Quirrell sputtered, both hands raised in surrender. His eyes flicked anxiously toward the source of the commotion.

For a brief moment, silence hung between them. Then —

"Woohoo!"

The unmistakable voice of a Weasley rang out, brimming with delight.

"Vizet, the fireworks you helped us improve are incredible!"

Another voice chimed in, equally enthusiastic:

"Best Halloween surprise ever! Absolutely brilliant!"

"Can you two be serious for once?! The situation is critical! Fred — watch out!"

A louder, more commanding voice took over, followed by the sound of magic crackling through the air.

"Accio Fred!"

Quirrell flinched. His head snapped toward the staircase, eyes stretched wide in sudden, mounting horror.

Snape, however, did not move.

His wand remained trained on Quirrell, though his own expression had darkened.

"What's going on?" Quirrell demanded, his voice shrill with panic. He struggled to his feet, his movements jerky and frantic. "Is Vizet — is Vizet being targeted by the troll?!"

Now.

Snape saw the moment of distraction for what it was.

With a single, decisive flick of his wand, thick ropes burst from thin air, lashing around Quirrell's body and binding him from neck to ankle.

Quirrell let out a strangled cry, nearly toppling over in his restraints. He turned pleading eyes toward Snape.

"Snape — Snape, please!" He struggled against the enchanted bindings. "Let me go!"

Snape's gaze did not waver.

"Oh?" His voice was dry, laced with icy amusement. "You seem… rather concerned."

Another cry from below:

"Vizet, run! It's coming for you! RUN!"

Quirrell's desperation became palpable. He leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper.

"If that boy fights the troll…" His breath hitched. "If he pushes his magic too far, his Obscurus will break free."

Snape stilled.

Quirrell's fingers clenched into trembling fists. "We have to stop him — now!"

For the first time that evening, Snape hesitated.

Then, with a slow exhale, he muttered an incantation under his breath.

The ropes dissolved.

Quirrell stumbled forward, gasping in relief. "Thank you — thank you!"

Without another word, he bolted down the corridor, not even sparing a glance for the wand Snape had taken from him.

Snape watched him go, expression unreadable.

Something about Quirrell's reaction gnawed at him, an unease he could not yet place.

Then — clenching his jaw, swallowing the pain from his leg — he turned and followed.