"Today, we'll be learning an important defensive spell—and a particularly useful technique for casting it. Who can tell me the advantage of nonverbal spells?" asked Professor Grubbly-Plank, standing stiffly at the front of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Snape hesitated, raising his hand—but someone else beat him to it.
"Very well, Miss Evans?" Grubbly-Plank gave Lily a nod.
"They prevent your opponent from knowing what spell you're casting," Lily answered. "That gives you a split-second advantage—surprise can be everything in a duel."
"An excellent answer. Five points to Gryffindor," the professor said, her tone businesslike but approving. "In real combat, even the slightest edge can mean the difference between triumph and defeat. And nonverbal spellwork is a major part of the N.E.W.T. syllabus.
"Now, we'll begin by learning the Shield Charm. Then, you'll work in pairs—one casting a jinx, the other defending with Protego. No incantations aloud."
After the short demonstration, Snape and Abbo partnered up and moved to a quiet corner of the room to begin.
"So," Abbo whispered, lowering his wand for a moment, "where were you this morning?"
"I was out near the edge of the Forbidden Forest," Snape lied smoothly, lifting his left arm. "Took a swipe from a Hippogriff. Didn't really hurt. Honestly, they're quite gentle when you look at them the right way..."
"Pfft—" Abbo stifled a laugh, nearly choking. "You and Hagrid must have loads to talk about."
"Quiet, focus," came Professor Grubbly-Plank's warning voice as she passed nearby, eyes sharp.
They both clammed up and resumed practice.
Abbo turned red in the face, glaring at Snape and brandishing his wand like he actually intended to hex him.
Snape stood still, bored. The wait reminded him of something important.
It was time to make contact with Hagrid. He'd likely need a rooster or two eventually, after all… Basilisks weren't going to slay themselves.
That afternoon's Potions lesson was a breeze for Snape. He didn't even crack his textbook.
With calm precision, he brewed a pale, perfectly blended Draught of Peace.
Frankly, if Slughorn had been offering another vial of Felix Felicis, he'd have brewed all four variations of the Draught of Living Death just for fun.
"Excellent work, as always," Slughorn said, glancing from Snape's cauldron to Lily's with a slightly regretful expression. "Yours was excellent too, Miss Evans—but I'm afraid Severus's was just a touch ahead."
Snape took the tiny bottle of liquid gold and held it up to the candlelight before tucking it into the inner pocket of his robes, a smug satisfaction curling on his lips.
Across the room, James and Sirius looked like they'd just swallowed sour doxy eggs. That alone made the whole lesson worthwhile.
As the dismissal bell rang and the class gathered their things, Slughorn's voice rang out:
"Severus, if you'd stay a moment?"
Snape paused at the threshold.
Slughorn was snapping the golden clasps on his dragonskin briefcase. "Would you care to join me for a small supper Saturday evening? Just a little gathering."
Snape opened his mouth to respond, but Slughorn carried on.
"I've invited Regulus Black, Miss Evans, and even the esteemed Auror Fabian Prewett—perhaps you've read about him and his brother Gideon in The Daily Prophet."
Then his eyes shifted to Abbo, who was waiting by the door.
"And of course, I'd be delighted if Mr. Abbo would join us too. I happened to spot a charming photo of you and your father on his desk this summer.
"And may I say—his acquisition of Quality Quidditch Supplies was brilliant business."
He drew two invitations tied with violet ribbon from his robe and handed them over before striding cheerfully from the dungeon.
"He's invited me before," Abbo said as they climbed the stairs and made their way toward lunch. "I've always managed to wriggle out of it."
"That's not what matters," Snape said, settling at the Slytherin table, an odd look crossing his face. "Quality Quidditch Supplies is yours?"
"You mean the one in Diagon Alley? Yeah."
Abbo helped himself to a generous scoop of salad.
"My dad bought it recently. He's got a good connection with Devlin Whitehorn. The shop's now getting the newest models of the Nimbus line before anyone else."
"You could've said something," Snape muttered, spooning a mountain of meat stew onto his plate. "I practically fought you over who'd pay on the train. From now on, the trolley snacks are your responsibility."
"No problem," Abbo replied lazily. "I've got more Galleons than I can spend. Honestly, when you pulled out that pouch on the train, I was going to ask if it was your week's allowance."
Scrreech—
Snape's fork scraped loudly across his plate, the sound like a banshee's wail.
He glared. "And all this food still hasn't stuffed your mouth shut?"
After lunch, Snape grew contemplative.
He needed to start aligning his actions carefully, to make sure everything fit within a rational narrative. If anyone ever grew suspicious of him—or his real intentions—he'd need to fall back on a believable pattern of behaviour.
Truth be told, he didn't fully trust Dumbledore. The old man was brilliant, yes—but also ruthless when it came to the greater good. He wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice even Harry—or Snape himself—if it fit the grand design.
After all, by Dumbledore's own plan, it was Snape who would inherit the Elder Wand... after murdering its master.
And everyone knew how that story ended.
He shoved aside his plate. "Come on. Let's go look at the Trophy Room."
The two of them climbed the marble staircases, took a few turns, and reached the fourth floor.
Golden light from the high windows gleamed off rows of glass cases. Inside, trophies, medals, shields, and statues glittered—some burnished with age, others polished to mirror-finish brilliance.
"Check this out." Snape pointed to a dusty display in the corner. "Here's a Medal for Special Services to the School."
Abbo leaned in and read the inscription. "T.M. Riddle, 1943. Why did he get it?"
"No idea," Snape said with a shrug. "Let's see what else is here."
They moved on, spotting Riddle's name again—on a tarnished badge for exemplary conduct, and again on the registry of Head Boys.
"Guy was really something," Abbo muttered. "Wish I had that kind of record."
"Then you'd better start working harder." Snape smirked. "Me, I'd settle for being Head Boy next year."
"You're not even a prefect," Abbo said, blinking. "How're you going to swing that?"
"Is there a rule saying you have to be a prefect first?"
Snape turned toward the door. "If I earn a Special Services medal, maybe I could swing the Headmaster into giving me the badge too.
"Anyway, nothing else here today. I'm heading to the library. I want to dig into what happened in 1943. Maybe then I'll know how to win one of those medals myself. You coming?"