Strictly speaking, nothing much changed in Flins’s life over the days that followed.
After all, Slytherins were cautious.
Although that night had ended on an unhappy note, out of various considerations, none of them made any substantive hostile moves.
They simply reached a tacit agreement to stop talking to Flins.
No matter the class, an invisible circle seemed to be drawn around Flins’s seat, and the Slytherin students consciously gave him a wide berth.
This unusual behavior naturally fell into the eyes of many.
Not just Gryffindors, but Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students noticed it too.
After all, “Slytherins stand united against outsiders” was an open secret at Hogwarts; putting internal house friction out in the open like this was a first.
Flins didn’t think much of it, though.
Practically speaking, he truly couldn’t find any common ground with a bunch of children much younger than himself, and not a single person in the entire school’s teaching staff was older than him.
Being isolated by a group of small children was hardly a trouble to him.
The only thing that gave him a slight headache was Potions class.
Without Draco keeping an eye on him from the side, Flins’s skill level couldn’t support him in successfully brewing a standard potion.
Therefore, after his potion failed yet again and again, Professor Snape kept him behind for detention.
“Mr.
Flins,”
Snape said, “assuming your brain has not been stuffed with bubotuber pus, I should have stressed multiple times that potions are not made through brute force.
You will stay here after class today and brew it again.”
To be honest, during the Sorting ceremony, Snape had always expected Flins to be sorted into Gryffindor.
Instead, the Sorting Hat had thrown him into Slytherin.
What was even more troublesome was that the old man Dumbledore had specifically instructed, “Severus, look out for that child a bit.”
Fortunately, other than his hopeless inadequacy in Potions, this little troll was unexpectedly brilliant in every other subject.
Even Minerva had broken convention by giving a positive review, calling him “a wizard with great talent, though his learning attitude is far too lazy,” and tried to get Snape to help correct this flaw.
At the time, Snape had thought the matter wouldn’t be difficult.
After all, he had observed during the first week of term that Flins got along quite well with the Slytherin students, and even the Malfoy young master played along with him.
Draco usually looked down his nose at everyone, but he had shown unusual patience toward Flins, even willing to share his own notes.
Snape had figured that since the boy was so smooth in his interpersonal relationships, the issue of his study attitude was probably just a matter of keeping a closer eye on him.
Yet, after a weekend passed, he heard completely different news from the other professors.
Flins was being isolated.
Hearing that, Snape sneered expressionless in his mind.
He knew very well how good this little troll was at adapting on the spot; if he wished, he could develop a decent relationship with anyone.
The current deadlock between him and the Slytherins wasn’t so much the Slytherins isolating him, as it was Flins simply not bothering to care about those so-called “house values” anymore, unwilling to keep up the act.
Snape stood behind the platform, watching Flins lower his eyelids and pour the failed brew from his cauldron into the waste barrel with unhurried movements, showing neither anger nor frustration.
“Slytherins are not people who lack flexibility.”
Snape spoke, casually slashing a sloppy “P” across a Gryffindor Potions essay in front of him.
“Why can’t you even bother to act?”
Throughout the week, several colleagues had already beaten around the bush to mention Flins to him.
Minerva had looked at him with an expression of wanting to say something but stopping herself; Professor Flitwick had muttered a vague warning in the corridor—”that new child in your house…”; even Professor Sprout had sighed unintentionally in the greenhouse.
Snape hadn’t originally intended to meddle in such matters; internal Slytherin socialization had never fallen within his scope of interference.
On second thought, however, this was a student in his own house after all, and Dumbledore had specifically mentioned “looking out for him.”
Having thus convinced himself, he spoke up.
Flins naturally saw that bright red “P” under Snape’s quill and wore a rare, slightly drooping expression, as if looking at something he’d rather not face.
Yet he quickly pushed that emotion down, the corners of his mouth returning to that faint, unreadable smile:
“Because this was bound to happen sooner or later.
As long as I am in Slytherin, avoiding conflict with them is impossible.”
He flicked the residual bofemeer mucus from his hands, his expression showing a rare ripple—though it was caused by the potion ingredients rather than interpersonal drama.
“Slytherins are sensible people; they will accept it.”
“You are too greedy.”
“I originally thought you were nothing like a Slytherin,” Snape said.
“Now it seems…
the reaction of those children was entirely within your expectations.”
Flins lowered his head slightly, his movements carrying a touch of well-timed, almost polite shyness:
“After all, as the Sorting Hat said, the strongest cord inside me connects straight to Slytherin.”
“And what of those foolish lions?”
Snape’s voice suddenly dropped lower, yet those empty black eyes pinned themselves tightly onto Flins’s face, as if waiting for an answer, or perhaps for an outcome.
“What are they to you?”
Flins raised his head.
The flickering light of the hearth danced across his face.
His skin lacked a trace of blood, and the dark shadows under his eyes looked particularly heavy in the dim glow, making those bright yellow eyes resemble candles that would never go out.
In that instant, the polite, well-behaved shell of a “good kid” wore thin, revealing something colder, heavier, and far less human underneath.
“Them?”
Flins said in a flat tone, “Professor, you forget—they are Gryffindors.”
Snape’s hollow black eyes flashed.
He picked up his quill once more and brought a merciless “P” down onto the next essay.
“You may leave.
Today’s detention is over.”
Flins washed the cauldron clean, placed it back on the shelf, wiped his hands at an easy pace, and then offered Snape a slight bow before turning toward the door.
As he reached the threshold, Snape’s voice chased after him from behind, still low and slow:
“Let us hope your Potions grades prove worthy of your ambition.”
Flins did not look back.
He paused for a step at the doorway, turning his face slightly to the side with a smile that was subtle, yet undeniably present:
“I shall try my best not to disappoint you, Professor.”