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Chapter Seventy-Three: What Are You Doing Here?!!
For a moment, Darren genuinely thought Professor Quirrell was about to kill him.
But then, the next second, Quirrell laughed — softly, almost cheerfully.
"It's worthy of the name Potter," he said smoothly, his stutter suddenly gone. "The children of that family are truly as well-mannered, intelligent, and obedient as their parents. You, boy… you're a genius. Just like them."
His tone was warm — too warm.
Darren blinked, forcing an awkward smile. "T-thank you, Professor Quirrell."
Quirrell's grin widened. He began chatting easily, his words flowing far too smoothly for the nervous, bumbling man Darren usually saw in class. He told stories about the wizarding world — bits of gossip, strange magical creatures, tales of famous duels — and Darren listened with polite curiosity.
It almost felt… normal.
Until—
"Who's there?"
Snape's cold, sharp voice sliced through the corridor like a blade.
Both Darren and Quirrell froze.
"Ah—It's m-me! And, and Darren P-Potter!" Quirrell stammered again, his nervous act back in place immediately.
Snape's wand was already drawn when he turned the corner, his dark eyes narrowing as they landed on the two of them.
"What," he said icily, "are you doing here?"
Quirrell smiled weakly. "Oh, I was just p-passing by, saw young Mr. Darren, and thought I'd chat for a moment…"
Snape's stare could have frozen fire.
As Quirrell spoke, he began to edge backward — one careful step at a time — until he disappeared down the corridor.
Snape waited until the sound of his footsteps was gone before flicking his wand. The office door flew open, and he all but dragged Darren inside.
"Come in," Snape said in a low, dangerous voice. "And what were you doing with him?"
His eyes flashed. If he'd arrived even a minute later… he might have found Darren's body lying cold at his door.
"P-Professor…" Darren stammered, his face pale and frightened.
That tremor in his voice made Snape hesitate. He realized, with a faint pang of guilt, that he'd shouted too harshly.
Harry Potter would have snapped back. But this one — this soft, timid boy — looked genuinely scared.
Snape exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his tone to steady.
"Fine," he said. "Stop looking like a terrified rabbit. Just tell me exactly what happened."
"Yes, Professor…" Darren said quickly.
He explained everything — how Quirrell had approached him, spoken kindly, told him stories about the wizarding world, and seemed perfectly friendly until Snape appeared.
Snape listened silently, his face unreadable.
It wasn't that he didn't believe Darren. It was that the boy saw everyone as good. He could probably walk through Azkaban and still think the prisoners there were just "misunderstood."
"Hmph. You were lucky this time," Snape muttered at last.
If Quirrell hadn't been waiting for something bigger, Darren would be dead already.
"Now," Snape said sharply, "why are you here? In my office, of all places?"
"Professor," Darren said hesitantly, "today is my detention…"
Snape blinked.
For a second, the cold mask cracked, and amusement flickered in his eyes.
Darren bit his tongue to keep from smiling, lowering his head obediently as if waiting for judgment.
"Yes, yes," Snape said dryly. "Your detention. Then sit down, take out your parchment, and either study or finish copying your House rules — unless, of course, you've already memorized them?"
Darren nodded quickly, hiding his grin.
He took out his parchment and quill, pretending to be serious as he began copying the Slytherin House Rules.
Poor Snape. He didn't even realize Darren was treating detention like extra study time.
There weren't that many rules, only about thirty — mostly about maintaining the House's honor, unity, and image, even if one had to fake it.
As he copied them, Darren couldn't help smiling. If Snape ever asked for them later and he had to admit he'd forgotten, that would be a disaster.
He kept writing until the ink began to blur slightly from fatigue. When he finally looked up, he realized it was long past midnight.
Snape was sitting behind his desk, papers in hand, but his gaze wasn't focused.
He wasn't really seeing Darren.
He was seeing Lily.
Darren sighed inwardly. Snape's expression was softer now — distant, wistful, almost painful.
When Snape finally blinked and returned to himself, Darren quickly looked down at his parchment.
"Finished writing?" Snape asked curtly.
"Yes, Professor."
He handed the parchment over, trying not to look too pleased.
Snape took it, glanced at the handwriting, and frowned immediately.
"Darren Potter," he said flatly, "is this what you call handwriting?"
"Uh… yes?" Darren said weakly.
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "The way a wizard writes reflects his discipline. The first time I saw your scrawl, I thought it belonged to some reckless Gryffindor."
Darren winced. "Yes, sir…"
Still, Snape went through the parchment carefully, counting each copied rule. Once satisfied that everything was in order, he tapped his wand on the desk.
A plate of food appeared — Darren's favorite.
"Eat," Snape said gruffly. "Then go back to your dormitory and sleep. I don't need the famous Harry Potter accusing me of starving his precious brother."
Darren smiled sheepishly. "Yes, Professor."
"Come earlier tomorrow," Snape added without looking up, already buried in a stack of essays. "The sooner you arrive, the sooner you leave. And for Merlin's sake — practice your handwriting."
"Yes, sir."
As Darren dug into the food, he couldn't help thinking: for all his bluster, the old bat really was kind underneath.
He just didn't want anyone to see it.
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