Jerael recounted what had happened matter-of-factly without embellishment, adding only at the very end:
“I really don’t know what happened.
I was just about to reach for my wand when several small fireballs appeared in midair.
I thought an upperclassman was helping me from the shadows, so I took advantage of their distraction to run.”
Professor Snape was somewhat surprised.
He didn’t believe the fireballs had nothing to do with Jerael.
“Tell me, is Mr.
Print telling the truth?
Where is he wrong?” Professor Snape turned and barked sharply at Alexander.
Panicking, Alexander forgot all about trying to frame Jerael and answered truthfully:
“Yes—it’s true.
We drew our wands first.
Print panicked and tried to pull out his wand, but as soon as he lifted his robes, the fireballs appeared.
We were busy putting out the flames, so Print ran.”
Knowing what Professor Snape was about to ask, Alexander added dejectedly, “I didn’t feel anyone else nearby.
I don’t know who cast those fireballs.”
Daniel and the others bowed their heads and chimed in, saying they hadn’t seen anyone else either.
Professor Snape clenched his fist tightly.
Dammit.
He knew these little dunderheads spent all day babbling about honor and glory when they were actually nothing more than a bunch of Mandrakes.
When they couldn’t win a fight, they resorted to slander and rumors.
And when their slander failed, they couldn’t even tell if someone else had snatched the advantage right under their noses.
If this were a few years ago, fools like them wouldn’t have died on the battlefield—they would have died in their own homes, thinking they were safe.
No, they weren’t even as good as Mandrakes.
The cry of an immature Mandrake could cause unconsciousness, while a mature one was fatal.
The little dunderheads in front of him couldn’t even touch the hem of Jerael’s robes, let alone harm him.
Not quite mature or composed enough himself, Professor Snape couldn’t help letting out a few taunting scoffs.
“Ten points from Slytherin for each of you for attacking a fellow student.
And you will copy the Slytherin Code ten times.”
“As for Mr.
Print…” Professor Snape scrutinized Jerael up and down as if searching for a weakness, before saying coldly, “Five points from Ravenclaw for failing to greet the professor upon entering.
Respect your teachers.”
With that, Professor Snape, unwilling to lose any more face, kicked Alexander and his cronies out of the office.
The complaint had failed, the spectacle was over, and points had been lost.
Jerael turned back around and resumed processing the horned slugs.
The rest of the time passed peacefully.
Professor Snape and Jerael each attended to their own work without disturbing the other, both enjoying a rare sense of quiet.
As he sliced, Jerael suddenly had an odd illusion: it felt almost like they were a family, one cooking in the kitchen while the other read in the living room, quietly keeping each other company and depending on one another.
*Ugh…
what a weird thought.*
Shaking his head, Jerael cleared his mind.
Soon, the horned slugs were all processed.
Jerael wiped away the mucus scraped around the rim of the jar, sealed the lid, placed a dust cover over the basin holding the slices, and cleaned the tabletop before informing Professor Snape.
Professor Snape walked over, inspected the final product, and gave a subtle nod as a flash of satisfaction crossed his eyes.
“Very good.
You may leave.
Remember, tomorrow at seven o’clock in the evening as well.”
Jerael quickly said, “Professor Snape, I have evening classes on Wednesday and Thursday.
My detention…”
Professor Snape frowned slightly, saying impatiently, “Fine, I understand.
When you have evening classes, you don’t need to come.
Now leave at once!”
Jerael breathed a sigh of relief and hurriedly took his leave, taking care to offer a polite greeting to the professor before exiting so he wouldn’t lose more points.
Back in the Ravenclaw Common Room, Jerael checked the time—8:30 PM.
Not bad at all.
He could still read for a bit or chat with his classmates about their coursework.
Meanwhile, it took Professor Snape a while longer to finish grading essays.
Normally, he would go to the potions lab to indulge in the satisfying pleasure of brewing, but with a cold sneer, he decided to give the Slytherin dunderheads a proper dressing-down instead.
He nabbed a passing Slytherin student and instructed them to tell everyone to gather in the common room.
When the time was right, Professor Snape strode out of his office toward the common room.
*BANG!*
Every student waiting silently inside—including the seventh-years—could not help but shudder.
The older the students were, the better they understood how formidable this fierce half-blood Head of House really was.
Despite his half-blood status, his exquisite talent in Potions earned him a position in the Dark Lord’s inner circle second only to Malfoy and a few other established pure-blood families.
In fact, there had been many times when the Dark Lord grew angry at old pure-blood families simply for insulting Snape.
Furthermore, Snape’s combat ability was terrifyingly powerful, and his mastery of the Dark Arts ran deep.
Once, several Death Eaters could not bear to see a half-blood acting so arrogantly and ambushed him in secret.
Snape ruthlessly severed their hands and feet, leaving them near death.
When the Death Eaters’ families brought the matter to the Dark Lord to demand punishment, Snape casually tossed over a few Restoration Potions as compensation—and was rewarded with the Dark Lord’s delighted praise.
Students in the fifth year and above were old enough to be privy to family arrangements and participate in family affairs.
They knew that if Voldemort hadn’t met his downfall, a good number of them would have followed him right after graduation, becoming prospective members.
Thomas Clark, a seventh-year whose family member happened to be one of those unfortunate Death Eaters with severed limbs, recalled the sheer panic of his family leaders earlier that year when they learned Snape had become the Potions professor.
He remembered them warning him in terrifying earnest never to defy the professor and to make sure he passed his final year quietly.
Thomas bowed his head once again in deep respect toward Professor Snape, who stood at the head of the room surrounded by a sharp, oppressive aura and an icy expression.
So what if he was a traitor?
His strength certainly hadn’t betrayed him to Merlin.
Professor Snape’s death glare slowly swept across everyone present, satisfied to see that all of them had suppressed their restlessness and regained a measure of composure.
“I assumed,” Professor Snape’s silky voice echoed low and slow through the underground space, ensuring no one could escape it, “that you were all well aware of Slytherin’s current predicament.”
“Yet some of you fail to see the reality of your situation.
And as if failing to see it weren’t enough, you couldn’t even prevail in a contest of strength.
The only advantage you possessed was age.”
Thomas and the other upperclassmen felt their hearts sink.
*Dammit, whoever messed up, don’t drag the rest of us down!*
Professor Snape suddenly barked sharply, “Four upperclassmen cornering a single freshman, only for the target to walk away completely unscathed!
And then they had the audacity to come to me with complaints, twisting the truth and making up absurd lies!
Did you think I was that old bee Slughorn?
Did you think a few sweet words could manipulate me?”
“And when you failed, you tried to hide behind Slytherin’s honor!
Is your meager intelligence clogged with horned slug slime?
Does Slytherin’s honor to you mean shouting like brainless gnomes in a ‘civilized duel,’ where whoever hesitates to draw their wand gets blessed by Merlin?”
“Answer me, Alexander Whitmore!”