Snape knew exactly why James Potter had tried to crash the Slug Club soirée—it didn't take a Legilimens to guess. He'd likely heard from somewhere that Snape was attending… and that Lily would be there too.
"That boy…" Slughorn muttered, shaking his head with a weary sigh. "Well, no harm done. It's late, anyway. Off to bed, all of you. We'll be in trouble ourselves if we keep going much longer."
The little golden clock on his desk had already ticked past ten.
One by one, the students filed out. Slughorn rose from his chair and walked Fabian Prewett down the stairs.
Back in the dormitory, it was just Snape and Abbo once again. Mulciber hadn't returned yet; lately, he'd taken to disappearing late into the evening.
Abbo, already in his pyjamas, gave Snape an exaggerated thumbs-up.
"What did I just witness? A Slytherin lecturing a Gryffindor on blood prejudice! You sounded like you actually meant it. Terrifying."
"Don't slander me," Snape replied, flattening his pillow with a scowl. "I'm Hogwarts' loudest advocate for Muggle-borns, obviously."
Abbo laughed, climbing into bed. "I still can't believe Potter tried to get into that party. Slughorn's invited him before."
"Didn't seem worth it tonight," Snape muttered, stretching out under the covers and watching the watery light ripple across the dorm's submerged windows.
"Abbo," he said after a moment, "that Muggle-born girl who died thirty-some years ago… who do you think she was?"
"How should I know?" Abbo yawned.
"Well then, who would know what happened back then?"
"After this long? Maybe some of the older professors. Or—you could always ask the Headmaster yourself."
There was a pause, and then Abbo suddenly sat up in bed, a glimmer of alertness in his eyes.
"Wait. The ghosts!" he said. "Sure, people have changed—but the ghosts never left Hogwarts."
But then he flopped back down. "Still, I don't know why you're obsessed with Little Tom. You're not going to earn a medal from the past."
"You never know," Snape said, pulling his bedcurtains shut. "Besides, isn't digging into old secrets kind of thrilling?"
"We've got Care of Magical Creatures in the morning. Sleep."
The next day, Professor Silvanus Kettleburn waited outside a crooked little shed at the edge of the paddock, a small group of students in tow.
"Over here, all of you!"
Kettleburn was seated in a strange wooden contraption—somewhere between a wizard's throne and a Muggle wheelchair. It moved by way of four stubby legs that shuffled in sync, clicking over the grass.
Back in third year, Kettleburn had complained that if Dumbledore hadn't enchanted that chair himself, he'd have retired long ago.
Near the shed, Hagrid was already waiting, a low mound of earth at his feet.
As they drew closer, Snape noticed a shallow pit nearby and a massive iron shovel—larger than a cauldron lid—leaning against a barrel.
The mound, clearly, had been dug up by Hagrid.
"Thank yeh, Hagrid," said Kettleburn, gesturing with his one remaining hand. "Could yeh tip that bucket o' Floo Powder into the pit for me?"
With ease, Hagrid lifted the barrel and poured.
Whoosh!
A burst of brilliant green fire erupted, rising to nearly his full height.
As the flames licked the air, steady and wild, Kettleburn turned to the group.
"Now, who can tell me what magical creature we're about to observe?"
Lily raised her hand.
"Miss Evans?" Kettleburn smiled.
"Aashwinder," she said. "They're born from magical fires that burn too long without supervision."
"Spot on. Five points to Gryffindor," Kettleburn nodded. "Ashwinders are thin, pale-grey serpents with glowing red eyes. They slither from the embers of magical blazes and slink off into shadowed corners of homes to lay their eggs."
He grew serious.
"Never, under any circumstances, cast an Engorgement Charm on one."
"What happens if you do?" Snape asked.
"They'll swell until they're thicker than your thigh," Kettleburn warned, eyes wide. "And then—boom. The serpent and its fiery eggs will explode. Anything nearby? Ablaze."
He punctuated the story with a flamboyant gesture.
By then, the green flames had died down.
From the ash emerged several slithering forms—long, ghost-pale serpents with ruby eyes. They shimmered like smoke, winding toward the shed, leaving curling trails of soot.
"Ashwinders only live an hour. In that time, they'll find a dark, hidden place to lay their eggs—then crumble to ash."
Kettleburn's walking-chair toddled toward the shed. "Come on then, in we go."
Inside, he pointed toward where the trails vanished into the hay.
"Abbo, would you move that stack of straw, please?"
Beneath the straw, nestled in charred dust, lay three red-hot eggs, glowing like coals.
"If left unattended, these would ignite an entire home within minutes."
He drew his wand from his robes.
"Glacius."
A cold gust burst from his wand tip. The red eggs shimmered, then cracked, cooling rapidly into frosted blue-white orbs.
"Right—out, all of you," Kettleburn barked, sealing the frozen eggs into a container as he waved the students away.
They'd barely made it back outside when—
BOOM!
The shed burst into flames behind them, crackling skyward.
"Aguamenti!" Kettleburn sprayed the blaze until every last ember hissed out.
"Lesson learned!" he said, panting. "If you ever spot an Ashwinder in your home—find the eggs and freeze them. Or pack your bags and run."
He conjured a gentle levitation charm, floating the frozen eggs for the class to observe.
"Frozen Ashwinder eggs are highly valuable. Used in the brewing of Confusing Concoctions—and swallowed whole, they cure magical fevers."
When the lesson ended, Snape volunteered to stay behind and help Hagrid clean up the scene.
"Hagrid," he said, smoothing out the disturbed dirt, "don't you think Ashwinders are sort of… beautiful?"
The look Hagrid gave him was a mix of horror and concern, as though Snape had just confessed to cuddling Acromantulas.
What the hell's with that look? Snape thought, slightly irritated.
He tried to cover with casual conversation. "My mum said you were gamekeeper even back when she was in school. When did you start here?"
"Oh, that'd be 1940," Hagrid grunted. "Aye, I remember your mother."
"So early?" Snape's tone sharpened. "Then, if you don't mind… I had a question."
Hagrid didn't protest.
"I saw a Special Award for Services to the School in the Trophy Room—Tom Riddle's name was on it. Do you know how he earned it?"