November arrived, and Will learned through Hermione that Ron had ended up hospitalized with a severe cold, an oddly anticlimactic close to the whole Halloween affair.
One night, Will slipped out of the Room of Requirement and headed straight for the Hogwarts kitchens for a late-night snack.
He hadn’t expected to find the Weasley twins already there, each contentedly gnawing on a chicken leg.
They startled at first, then broke into grins of gratitude.
“Oi, Will.
Thanks, mate.”
“You saved our little brother.”
“Harry told us the whole thing.”
“Almost got themselves flattened by a troll, the pair of them.”
The twins bounced off each other’s sentences in a way Will still couldn’t quite untangle who was who.
He settled in beside them anyway and had Anko bring over his usual order.
“What’s this, then?”
“Looks a bit like a Cornish pasty.
Just, smaller?
And boiled?”
“Odd little thing.”
Will gestured toward Anko.
“Had her learn the recipe from a cookbook.
They’re called dim sums.”
In 1991, dim sums hadn’t exactly caught on in Britain yet.
“Want to try one?” He slid the bowl toward them.
The twins traded a glance.
“Why not.”
One bite in, both faces scrunched up.
“Weird texture.
Like a boiled pasty, sort of.”
Clearly an acquired taste.
Will didn’t push it.
Everyone’s palate ran differently, he figured, the same way he could never stomach malt vinegar, a staple in half the dishes here, looking utterly wrong drizzled over a dim sum.
The twins polished off the rest of their plates quickly, chatted with Will a bit longer, then dashed off, clearly plotting some prank or another.
Aside from that small encounter, Will settled back into his usual rhythm: grinding experience by day, eating custom meals in the kitchen, occasionally watching Harry and Malfoy trade barbs across the courtyard, or taking quiet walks with Sylvia along the edge of the freezing Black Lake.
Then one night, stepping out of the Room of Requirement, head still foggy from hours of reading, Will nearly walked straight into someone in the corridor. This chapter was copied from novelping.com without permission.
“Professor Snape?” He noticed the man was limping, favoring one leg noticeably.
“Behrens?” Snape’s frown deepened.
“Wandering the castle at this hour instead of sleeping, again?”
Unusually, no sarcasm followed.
Whatever mood Snape was in tonight, it clearly wasn’t his usual one.
“Lost track of time studying.
Heading back now.” Will kept his tone easy.
What was Snape really going to do, dock points at this hour?
“Professor, what happened to your leg?”
Detention, at worst.
Will genuinely didn’t mind that outcome.
He’d half hoped for another excuse to spend time sorting potion ingredients, free experience, essentially.
“Not your concern, Behrens.
Get back to your dormitory.
Fall asleep in my class tomorrow, and you’ll be napping next to the trolls.”
Snape limped past him without another word, and Will’s eyes followed the injured leg the entire way down the corridor, making no effort to hide his curiosity.
The next day brought a full class period of Snape’s usual sharp remarks, nothing more.
Time moved quickly after that, and soon enough, the first Quidditch match of the season arrived.
Up in the stands, dragged along by Sylvia, Will sat lost in thought about spell structure, entirely uninterested in the game itself.
Ball sports had never held much appeal for him, if he was honest.
He’d brought along a copy of Advanced Potion-Making for First Years instead, planning to head over for extra practice with Snape once the match wrapped up.
Given his complete lack of enthusiasm, or talent, for flying, Slytherin hadn’t rushed him onto the team the way Gryffindor had with Harry.
He didn’t mind the free time one bit.
Sylvia, on the other hand, was fully invested.
The two sat high up in the Slytherin section, wind cutting sharply across the stands.
Will eventually cast a quick warming charm just to stay comfortable.
He couldn’t quite understand this level of enthusiasm for a ball game, though considering British football hooligans existed, maybe this crowd was tame by comparison.
“Gryffindor’s Seeker, that’s Harry Potter!”
Gryffindor had kept it quiet beforehand, apparently treating Harry as something of a secret weapon, which explained the ripple of surprise through the crowd at his appearance.
Will closed his book without much urgency.
“There are exactly two explanations for that.
Either the rest of Gryffindor’s team is made up of trolls, or Harry Potter’s simply that good.”
Sylvia nodded seriously.
“That explains Slytherin’s seven-year winning streak, then.
Gryffindor really is full of trolls.”
Will nearly dropped his book entirely.
How exactly had she landed on that conclusion?
Sylvia’s attention snapped back to the match almost immediately, and even she had to admit, watching Harry maneuver, that the boy had genuine skill.
Then something went wrong.
Harry’s broom began bucking wildly beneath him, twisting out of control, and he struggled visibly just to stay mounted.
Sylvia’s brow furrowed.
“What’s he doing up there?”
The broom jerked violently again, throwing Harry sideways until he hung by one hand, dangling in midair.
The whole stadium noticed almost at once, attention shifting entirely away from the match itself.
Will glanced toward the center of the stands.
Quirrell sat muttering under his breath.
Will felt only mild concern about the situation.
He and Harry barely knew each other beyond passing acknowledgment, and his real interest in Harry’s safety came mostly from knowing how tightly the boy’s fate was tied to Voldemort’s eventual return.
More importantly, Dumbledore was watching from the staff box.
Surely he wouldn’t let this go too far.
Will checked his expression.
Nothing but calm beneath that white beard.
Whatever was happening, Dumbledore clearly already had it handled.
What exactly is Voldemort thinking, going after Harry so openly, this early?
Will wondered.
Did that Horcrux cook half his brain along with his soul?
If anything, the whole Horcrux strategy struck Will as an obvious, long-term trap waiting to collapse on itself.