On the first weekend of October, Zhang Wen did the boldest thing he had done since arriving at Hogwarts.
He went to the dungeons.
Snape’s office was located on the first level below ground, in the same general area as the Slytherin common room.
The corridors here were cold and damp, the walls lined with jars of unidentified biological specimens soaking in green liquid.
The atmosphere was roughly equivalent to a morgue.
Zhang Wen felt that Snape choosing this place for his office was entirely intentional—it was designed specifically to make visitors feel uncomfortable.
He knocked on the door.
“Enter.” Snape’s voice drifted from inside, cold and precise, like a freshly sharpened scalpel.
Zhang Wen pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Snape was sitting behind his desk with a stack of essays spread out before him.
His black eyes looked up to glance at Zhang Wen, offering no hint of a welcome.
“Professor Zhang,” he said.
“A rare guest indeed.”
“Professor Snape.” Zhang Wen sat down across from him.
“I’ve come to discuss something with you.”
“The last time you wanted to ‘discuss’ something, you brought up Quirrell,” Snape said in a slow, deliberate tone.
“I am curious what things you aren’t supposed to know will come out of your mouth this time.”
Zhang Wen was well-prepared.
He had already come up with a strategy for the slip of the tongue he’d made at the staff table.
The best tactic wasn’t avoidance, but a proactive strike—approaching Snape with a legitimate purpose to shift his focus from “Zhang Wen knows too much” to specific affairs.
“While grading the second-year assignments, I discovered an issue.” Zhang Wen placed four essays on Snape’s desk.
“Crabbe, Goyle, and two other second-year Slytherins.
The handwriting on all four essays is identical.”
Snape picked up the papers and glanced at them.
His expression shifted rapidly—first came scrutiny, then confirmation, and finally a look that Zhang Wen couldn’t quite decipher.
“A Copying Quill,” Snape said, setting the papers down.
“You know who did this.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a statement.
“I have my suspicions,” Zhang Wen said.
“But they are your students.
I didn’t want to overstep my bounds in handling it.”
Snape stared at him.
The gaze lasted for about five seconds.
In those five seconds, Zhang Wen felt as if every one of his micro-expressions was being dismantled and analyzed.
“You didn’t come to the dungeons for the sake of these essays,” Snape said.
Zhang Wen didn’t deny it.
“The essays are a real issue,” he said.
“But I do have another matter I wish to discuss.”
“Speak.”
“A Dueling Club.”
Snape’s eyebrow twitched—a minuscule movement, but for him, it was practically a dramatic facial expression.
“What do you mean?”
“I want to establish an extracurricular dueling training program at the school,” Zhang Wen said.
“To allow students to practice practical combat in a safe environment.
Not as a replacement for formal classes, but as a supplement.”
“Such things are not easily managed.” Snape’s tone carried a clear edge of mockery.
“I trust you can imagine the consequences of a failure.”
Zhang Wen knew.
In the original story, the Dueling Club hosted by Lockhart had been a disaster—he had Harry and Malfoy duel, Malfoy summoned a snake, Harry spoke to it in Parseltongue, and the whole school suspected him of being the Heir of Slytherin.
But that was hosted by Lockhart.
Lockhart was a fraud who lacked any actual teaching ability.
“I’m no hack,” Zhang Wen said.
“That much, I suppose I can agree with,” Snape said.
It was likely the highest level of praise he was capable of giving.
“I need a partner to co-host it,” Zhang Wen said.
“A joint venture between the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and the Potions master would carry enough weight.
It would also help balance the friction between Gryffindor and Slytherin.”
Snape’s fingers tapped twice against the desk.
Snape was a complex man.
He hated most students, lacked passion for teaching, and was ostensibly a former follower of Voldemort, yet he was actually Dumbledore’s most loyal spy.
But one thing was certain—he was an exceptionally talented wizard, a master of Defense Against the Dark Arts (a position he had applied for for years without success), and he possessed a deep, unspoken concern for the students’ safety.
If Zhang Wen could get him involved in the Dueling Club, he would have a powerful ally by the students’ side.
In the event that the Basilisk incident broke out early, having one more capable professor on the scene was better than nothing.
“What do you want me to do?” Snape asked.
“Once every two weeks, Saturday afternoons, in the Great Hall.
You would be responsible for guiding the Slytherins, and I would handle the other three houses.
Attendance would be voluntary, not mandatory.”
“The rules?”
“Only spells taught in class are permitted.
Dark magic is forbidden.
Spells that cause permanent harm are forbidden.
Every duel will be supervised by a professor.”
Snape remained silent for over ten seconds.
“The reason a Dueling Club might fail isn’t because there is anything wrong with dueling itself,” he finally said.
“It is because the moderators are incompetent.
If the moderators have sufficient control over the floor—”
“Which is why I came to you.”
Snape looked at him, and the corner of his mouth twitched into an infinitesimal curve.
It wasn’t quite a smile.
But for Snape, it was likely a sign of approval.
“I will consider it,” he said.
“You will have my answer on Monday.”
“Thank you.” Zhang Wen stood up.
“I will handle the matter of the essays,” Snape added.
“The Nott boy—he is not your concern.”
Zhang Wen paused.
Snape knew it was Nott.
Of course he knew.
Snape was the Head of Slytherin House; he knew his students inside and out.
He likely knew long ago that Nott was using a Copying Quill to ghostwrite for others and simply hadn’t intervened for some reason.
“I am merely turning the essays over to you,” Zhang Wen said.
“How you handle it is your business.”
Snape didn’t respond.
Zhang Wen walked out of the office and let out a long breath in the dungeon corridor.
Talking to Snape was truly exhausting.
Every sentence felt like a game of chess; every word could be used by him to deduce your intentions.
But at least the seeds of the Dueling Club had been planted.
Back in his office, Artoria was reading the massive tome on the history of Hogwarts.
She was already two-thirds of the way through.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Snape said he’d consider it.” Zhang Wen sat down and took a sip of cold tea.
“But he didn’t reject it outright, which means he’s interested.”
“A Dueling Club.” Artoria set the book down.
“What is your goal?”
“Three things.” Zhang Wen held up three fingers.
“First, to provide the students with a safe environment for practical training.
Classroom time is limited, and many students want to practice more but have no opportunity.”
“Second?”
“To pull Snape into my defensive framework.
If the Basilisk incident erupts, I need as many professors on my side as possible.
Dumbledore has already tacitly approved my actions, McGonagall supports my teaching reforms, and Flitwick helped me with the mirror.
Snape is the only one who is both powerful and suspicious of me.
Rather than having him watch me from the sidelines, it’s better to have him standing beside me.”
“Turning a potential watcher into a collaborator.”
“Exactly.” Get faster updates on g.com.
“And the third?”
Zhang Wen paused.
“In the original story, at Lockhart’s Dueling Club, Malfoy summoned a snake and Harry spoke to it in Parseltongue.
That incident made the whole school suspect Harry was the one behind the Chamber of Secrets.
I cannot let that happen.”
“So by starting the Dueling Club early and hosting it yourself, you can control the rules of the engagement—forbidding summoned creatures.”
“No snake means no Parseltongue incident.
Harry won’t be isolated by the entire school.”
Artoria looked at him.
“You are dismantling the crisis chain of the original story step by step.”
“As much as I can,” Zhang Wen said.
“Some things are unavoidable—the Chamber will be opened, and the Basilisk will come out.
But the consequences of the events can be mitigated.
The psychological trauma Harry suffered from the Parseltongue incident was no less than the threat of the Basilisk itself.
If I can help him avoid that public humiliation—”
“Then he can maintain a stable mindset to face the true crisis,” Artoria finished for him.
“Precisely.”
Artoria was silent for a few seconds.
“You said Snape knows about the Nott matter.”
“He knows, and he doesn’t intend for me to intervene.”
“Why?”
Zhang Wen thought for a moment.
“The Nott family is an old Death Eater line.
Theodore’s situation within Slytherin might be more complicated than it appears.
If he’s ghostwriting essays for Crabbe and Goyle, it’s either for money or to build some kind of social alliance among his peers.
Or perhaps he’s being coerced.”
“As Head of House, Snape needs to maintain a delicate balance within Slytherin,” Artoria said.
“If he punishes Nott rashly, he might break that balance.”
“Correct.” Zhang Wen nodded.
“Slytherin isn’t as simple as Gryffindor.
Gryffindor’s problems are basically ‘who’s arguing with whom’ and ‘who’s caused trouble again.’ Slytherin’s problems are family politics, blood hierarchy, and exchanges of interest—it’s essentially a miniature version of pure-blood society.”
“It sounds like a royal court.”
“In essence, it is,” Zhang Wen said.
“That’s why Snape’s way of handling Slytherin is completely different from McGonagall’s way of handling Gryffindor.
McGonagall relies on rules and fairness; Snape relies on deterrence and information control.”
“Two different management styles.”
“Both are effective.” Zhang Wen thought for a moment and then added, “But Snape’s way makes the students fear him; it doesn’t make them trust him.
In the long run—”
“Trust lasts longer than fear,” Artoria said calmly.
Zhang Wen looked at her.
Coming from the former King of Britain, those words carried extraordinary weight.
Artoria likely had a visceral, painful understanding of the difference between trust and fear.
The fall of Camelot was, to some extent, because the knights’ trust in their King had developed cracks.
“Which one did you use back in Camelot?” Zhang Wen asked.
Artoria was silent for a while.
“I used both,” she said.
“But I used neither well enough.”
This was the first time Zhang Wen had heard her evaluate her own reign in such a way.
It wasn’t humility.
It was reflection.
He didn’t press further.
Some topics weren’t meant for deep digging.
Sunday afternoon.
Zhang Wen took Artoria to inspect the rooster storage room on the fourth floor.
The three roosters were in good condition.
The house-elf responsible for feeding them was named Dobbin—not Dobby, but Dobbin, a different elf altogether—who delivered food and water punctually every day, fulfilling his duties with the utmost diligence.