Snape replayed Theodore's offhand compliment and felt an unfamiliar ease loosen his shoulders.
So the Gryffindor boy was a Muggle-world "man of letters"? Well—an artist's eye explained the taste. What "taste" had James Potter ever had, aside from squandering it all on Lily? Everything else about that jock was rubbish.
His gaze softened when it returned to Theodore Ashbourne. He answered the question straight.
"Colour-Change Potion, yes. It's the natural way to do hair, but it's not first-year work—the principles overlap with Polyjuice." A beat. "Still, you have the knack. Tuesday evenings, my office. Whether you learn it is on you."
Theodore's eyes lit. Time with a true Potions Master meant his Seven-Apertures Heart and Control Fire As One could actually stretch their legs. Some brews would be power multipliers this early—Felix Felicis, for instance, to sweeten the odds when fusing talents. And Snape wasn't just a brewer; his Dark Arts and charmwork cuts were razor clean. Sectumsempra in particular… with the right talent-boost, the edge might sing.
But the real prize flashed on his System pane:
[Your bond with Grandmaster Taiyi has reached Acquaintance.]
[You gained the talent — Duelcraft, Innate.]
Done.
Harsh or not, skirts or not, it had opened the door. With someone like Snape, the first step was the cliff; after, the path widened. Show a deeper gift for potions, float the possibility of a revival elixir—if there were even a sliver that touched Lily, "Acquaintance" could become "Life-and-Death". In the Flooded Age, raising flesh and soul was a craft, not a miracle; Flesh-Knit Golden Pellets, soul-calling rites—there'd be something Snape would bite.
The bell rang. Gryffindors spilled from the dungeon bright-faced and chattering; Slytherin first-years looked like frostbitten aubergines. Between Harry's and Theodore's points—plus Slytherin deductions—the gap had grown by thirty-plus.
So much for "catch-up time".
They'd barely cleared the classroom when the corridor ahead turned into a wall of green ties and stormy faces. High-years. Marcus Flint—brutish jaw, Slytherin Quidditch captain—glowered like he'd like to use a Bludger on people. Beside him, Prefect Gemma Farley breathed slowly, as if counting to ten to keep from hexing someone.
Flint sprayed indignation the way he sprayed rain in practice. "What in Merlin's sagging—was that? Potions is our House edge! You lot were supposed to claw points back, and you let Gryffindor run up thirty?"
Gemma's voice was ice over steel. "Malfoy. Before you arrived, Slytherin took the House Cup seven straight years. Are you volunteering to be the footnote—the prefect year that broke the run? What did you do so even Professor Snape couldn't carry you? Worst intake in a decade."
Faces went blotchy. Little pearls of rage glittered in first-year eyes.
"How's that on us?" someone burst. "Professor Snape—he was… different. Like Gryffindor's Head. He gave them points!"
While Slytherin gnawed its tail, Gryffindor greeted its "returning war heroes". The Weasley twins performed an interpretive celebration.
"By Merlin's bloomers—you scored in Bat-Man's class?"
"Tell us everything. Confundus on the bat? Love potion? Did someone nobly sacrifice themselves—"
Every first-year look tilted towards Harry. A heartbeat later, Harry was up, tossed and caught amid roars.
"Harry Potter, our saviour!"
"House Cup incoming!"
"Long live the skirt!"
Slytherin high-years had heard enough. Flint barked, "What did you do to Professor Snape?"
Gemma clipped, "I'll be reporting this. No way those points stand. Confunding staff is grounds for forfeiture."
That lit Gryffindor's tinder. Oliver Wood—captain—snorted. "Unfair? Spare me. Name a dirtier Quidditch bench than Slytherin's."
The twins raised matching salute fingers. "Seven Cups? Try seven years of elbowing the rulebook."
"Want our points gone? Hand those Cups back first."
The corridor detonated into a shouting match. At the flash-point, Flint yanked his wand and slammed Wood with a jinx that sent him skidding. Wandlight geysered—hexes caromed from stone to portrait to torch.
First-years were swept up at once. Hermione threw her arms wide like a mother hen corralling chicks. "Behind me—now!" She snapped two clean counters, dropped a pair of Slytherin seconds, then drove forward again. With Theodore's drilling and the Diagon Alley baptism behind her, she fought far above her year.
"Filthy—" Marcus Flint's gaze found her, ugly with malice as he levelled his wand. The slur he loved in canon curled on his tongue.
"—little mud—"
Draco went white. Some memory of train-car justice—and Theodore Ashbourne's very calm promises—flashed behind his eyes. He hurled himself at Flint with an undignified yelp.
"No—don't say that to her!"
"Are you mad—Flint, you'll get us killed!"
◇ BONUS & SUPPORT ◇
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 10 reviews — drop a comment!
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 100 Power Stones.
◇ Read 50 chapters ahead on P@treon → patreon.com/StrawHatStudios