one of them must be doing something wrong. 'This is Harry Potter we're talking about. He can do the impossible. We can't.'

'Yes we can,' said George. 'And we have to be more impossible than him.'

'But -' said Fred.

'It's what Godric Gryffindor would do,' said George.

That settled it, and the twins snapped back into... whatever it was that was normal for them.

'All right, then -'

'- let's think about it.'

Chapter 26: Noticing Confusion

Yakka foob mog. Grug pubbawup zink wattoom gazork. Chumble spuzz J. K. Rowling.

Professor Quirrell's office hours consisted of 11:40 to 11:55 AM on Thursday. That was for all of his students in all years. It cost a Quirrell point just to knock on the door, and if he didn't think your reason was worth his time, you would lose another fifty.

Harry knocked on the door.

There was a pause. Then a biting voice said, 'I suppose you may as well come in, Mr. Potter.'

And before Harry could touch the doorknob, the door slammed open, hitting the wall with a sharp crack that sounded like something might have broken in the wood, or the stone, or both.

Professor Quirrell was leaning back in his chair and reading a suspiciously old-looking book, bound in night-blue leather with silver runes on the spine. His eyes had not moved from the pages. 'I am not in a good mood, Mr. Potter. And when I am not a good mood, I am not a pleasant person to be around. For your own sake, conduct your business quickly and depart.'

A cold chill seeped from the room, as though it contained something that cast darkness the way lamps cast light, and which hadn't been fully shaded.

Harry was a bit taken aback. Not in a good mood didn't quite seem to cover it. What could be bothering Professor Quirrell this much...?

Well, you didn't just walk out on friends when they were feeling down. Harry cautiously advanced into the room. 'Is there anything I can do to help -'

'No,' said Professor Quirrell, still not looking up from the book.

'I mean, if you've been dealing with idiots and want someone sane to talk to...'

There was a surprisingly long pause.

Professor Quirrell slammed the book shut and it vanished with a small whispering sound. He looked up, then, and Harry flinched.

'I suppose an intelligent conversation would be pleasant for me at this point,' said Professor Quirrell in the same biting tone that had invited Harry to enter. 'You are not likely to find it so, be warned.'

Harry drew a deep breath. 'I promise I won't mind if you snap at me. What happened?'

The cold in the room seemed to deepen. 'A sixth-year Gryffindor cast a curse at one of my more promising students, a sixth-year Slytherin.'

Harry swallowed. 'What... sort of curse?'

And the fury on Professor Quirrell's face was no longer contained. 'Why bother to ask an unimportant question like that, Mr. Potter? Our friend the sixth-year Gryffindor did not think it was important!'

'Are you serious?' Harry said before he could stop himself.

'No, I'm in a terrible mood today for no particular reason. Yes I'm serious, you fool! He didn't know. He actually didn't know. I didn't believe it until the Aurors confirmed it under Veritaserum. He is in his sixth year at Hogwarts and he cast a high-level Dark curse without knowing what it did.'

'You don't mean,' Harry said, 'that he was mistaken about what it did, that he somehow read the wrong spell description -'

'All he knew was that it was meant to be directed at an enemy. He knew that was all he knew.'

And that had been enough to cast the spell. 'I do not understand how anything with that small a brain could walk upright.'

'Indeed, Mr. Potter,' said Professor Quirrell.

There was a pause. Professor Quirrell leaned forward and picked up the silver inkwell from his desk, turning it around in his hands, staring at it as though wondering how he could go about torturing an inkwell to death.

'Was the sixth-year Slytherin seriously hurt?' said Harry.

'Yes.'

'Was the sixth-year Gryffindor raised by Muggles?'

'Yes.'

'Is Dumbledore refusing to expel him because the poor boy didn't know?'

Professor Quirrell's hands whitened on the inkwell. 'Do you have a point, Mr. Potter, or are you just stating the obvious?'

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