The battle quickly ended with Leonard's decisive victory.
Leonard clapped his hands and stood beside the buried Weasley twins, who had been forced to become Yeti. He leisurely brushed the snowflakes off his clothes.
Buried George and Fred showed no sign of anger. Nestled in the snowdrift, they pointed at each other and roared with laughter.
Their laughter was contagious, drawing many others into the playful fun of burying one another.
Amidst this merriment, a figure out of place approached from the direction of the Forbidden Forest.
Quirrell trudged through the snow, sinking deep with each step, his inner sorrow completely out of sync with the surrounding joy. Why must his life be so bitter? Quirrell wondered as he crossed the courtyard.
During the Christmas break, he had gone to Knockturn Alley to purchase a dragon egg. It was a crucial component in his plan to steal the Philosopher's Stone. Even though it cost him his entire fortune, Quirrell didn't dare complain. He couldn't—Voldemort was literally lodged in the back of his skull. Any hint of dissatisfaction would earn him not comfort or reimbursement, but a soul-crushing punishment so horrific it made him wish for death.
Yet every time the torture ended, that pitiful instinct for survival crawled back up, forcing him to keep living this miserable life.
At least Hogwarts provided free room and board. Otherwise, Quirrell feared he might collapse and die somewhere in the midst of Voldemort's grand "revival plan."
When had he become like this? He'd originally approached Voldemort with the intent of exploiting him, planning to wring every drop of dark magic knowledge from the Dark Lord.
He had made the first move, so why was he the one completely under Voldemort's thumb now?
A cold gust blew past, and Quirrell sneezed, pulling his winter robes tighter. His body grew weaker day by day. Voldemort was like a leech embedded in him, draining his life to sustain himself, utterly uncaring whether Quirrell lived or died.
If he didn't find a unicorn soon to prolong his life, he could forget about the Philosopher's Stone. He doubted he would survive until the end of spring.
Watching the snow drifting down, Quirrell sighed. His life felt just as fleeting as the snowflakes.
"Hey, isn't that Quirrell?" Fred crawled out of a snowdrift, sneezed, and pointed at Quirrell staring at the sky. "What's he doing?"
"Probably reflecting on life," Leonard said with a casual glance.
"I'd say he's mourning his awful teaching skills. This year's Defense Against the Dark Arts is the most boring and useless class I've ever taken," Fred said angrily. "It's completely killed any inspiration George and I had."
Everyone knew Quirrell's lessons were just him reading directly from the textbook. Some students didn't mind, even found it easy. Others absolutely despised this salary thief.
"The guy really is despicable," George agreed with a nod. "And weird, too. Smells strange, always wrapped up in that turban... he definitely looks like bad news."
George had barely finished complaining when he noticed Fred crouching down to roll a snowball.
"Fred? What are you doing?" he asked.
"Giving this deadbeat teacher a little punishment," Fred said with a mischievous grin. "I want to see what he does if his turban gets wet."
Before George could say anything, Fred hurled the snowball.
What a spectacularly bold move. Leonard glanced at the excited Fred and couldn't help but admire silently.
Meanwhile, Quirrell, still lamenting his miserable situation, suddenly heard a whistling noise behind his head.
Unlike Leonard, he had no sharp reflexes. He hadn't realized something was coming straight at him and turned out of curiosity.
A snowball smacked him right in the face. The icy sting nearly made the frail Quirrell pass out.
What in the world? Who was playing such a vicious prank on him?
Angry, Quirrell brushed the snow off his face and looked toward the direction it came from—and his face instantly darkened.
More than a dozen snowballs were flying toward him like a barrage of bullets.
At this rate they'd knock him unconscious!
Panicking, Quirrell sprinted away, but the snowballs seemed to have eyes, relentlessly chasing the back of his head.
He glanced over his shoulder and turned pale. Voldemort's face was on the back of his head. Who dared to throw snowballs at Voldemort's face?
Even scarier was what would happen if he allowed those snowballs to hit Voldemort. Would Voldemort erupt in rage and kill him on the spot? Or hunt down the fool who dared attack him?
Quirrell ran desperately, hoping to reach another professor, but he had overestimated his stamina. The snowballs quickly caught up and slammed into the back of his head one after another, each impact making his soul tremble.
He felt no actual pain—snowballs hitting Voldemort's face did nothing to him—but he doubted he could withstand Voldemort's fury afterward.
He even tried blocking them with his own face, but those cursed snowballs ignored him completely. Even if he charged forward, they would curve around him just to smash into the back of his head.
Whoever was casting them was doing it intentionally.
Eventually, Quirrell gave up. Buried in snow, he struggled for a long time before finally getting back on his feet, looking utterly humiliated.
The surrounding students burst into wild laughter. They had never seen a professor look so pathetic, nor ever dared mock one. All the professors were formidable, after all.
But Quirrell was an exception. His incompetence was plain as day, so the students didn't hold back, laughing loudly and ridiculing him.
Quirrell's face changed colors like spilled paint—red, white, black—and in the end, he didn't even try to confront whoever had thrown the snowball. He simply slunk away in disgrace.
"Tsk, I thought he'd come after me," Fred said regretfully, wand in hand, watching Quirrell's retreating figure.
"Yeah, useless," George agreed, also holding his wand. Those dozen snowballs had been their doing.
Leonard looked at the two bold idiots and couldn't help shaking his head.
These two really had guts. They'd actually managed something unprecedented—and likely never to be repeated: plastering Voldemort's face with snowballs and walking away unharmed.
It was an accomplishment worthy of being recorded in A History of Magic.
...
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