Chapter 556: Scabbers?
"But sir," Hermione said, her voice strained as if she were fighting to keep it
under control, "we aren't supposed to start werewolves yet. We're due to start
Hinkypunks—"
"Miss Granger," Snape interrupted, his voice dropping to a register that was
terrifyingly calm, "I was under the impression that I was teaching this lesson,
not you. Now, I am telling all of you to turn your books to page 394."
He swept his gaze across the room, his black robes billowing. "All of you! Now!"
The class collectively rolled their eyes with a chorus of resentful mutters, but
they flipped their pages nonetheless.
"Can anyone here tell me how to distinguish a werewolf from a true wolf?" Snape
asked.
The room went dead silent. No one moved.
"Anyone?" Snape's eyes locked onto the front row, specifically looking at the
dark-haired boy sitting there. "Is it possible that Professor Lupin has failed
to mention even the most fundamental differences—"
Sean felt a sharp poke in his side.
"Sean... Sean..." Ron whispered, his voice trembling. "Is he looking at me?
Please tell me he's not looking at me."
Sean gave a slow, deliberate nod.
Ron felt the world go dim. Professor Snape had begun to glide toward them,
looming over their desk like a vulture. Ron felt as though his lungs had stopped
working.
Just as the tension became unbearable, Sean raised his hand.
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Very few students had the courage to
trigger Snape's temper when he was in this sort of mood. Hermione had tried
earlier and had been shut down with a sneer.
"Speak," Snape commanded. To the surprise of the class, his expression softened
by several degrees.
"In their beast form, a werewolf's appearance is almost identical to that of a
true wolf," Sean began, his voice steady and academic. "Though the snout is
slightly shorter, the pupils are smaller, and the tail is tufted rather than
thick and bushy.
"The true distinction, however, lies in behavior. True wolves are not naturally
aggressive toward humans; modern magical authorities believe that Muggle
folklore depicting them as mindless man-eaters actually refers to werewolves. A
true wolf will rarely attack a person unless provoked. A werewolf, conversely,
seeks out humans almost exclusively. They are a threat to no other species. This
is because the condition is spread through the act of 'hunting' non-werewolves.
Because of the extreme social stigma surrounding the condition for centuries,
very few werewolves live normal lives or have families of their own."
"It seems someone has been paying attention," Snape noted with a cold smirk. He
turned to the rest of the class. "Have your dunderheads of brains provided you
with anything other than the ability to stare? Write it down! Now!"
For the remainder of the lesson, not a single student dared to make a sound.
They scribbled notes on werewolves while Snape paced the aisles, inspecting the
homework Lupin had assigned.
"Vague... inaccurate... Kappas are far more common in Mongolia than Japan...
Lupin gave this an 'Exceeds Expectations'? I wouldn't have given it a
'Dreadful'..."
He slammed Ron's parchment onto his desk with a sharp crack. Ron didn't even
dare to breathe. Snape marked a three-point deduction on the corner. Ron
suspected he had just been penalized for the crime of existing.
Harry fared even worse, losing five points for a smudge of ink. The two boys
shared a look of mutual misery.
When the bell finally rang, the relief in the air was palpable, but Snape wasn't
finished.
"Each of you will produce an essay for me, to be handed in Monday morning. The
topic: How to recognize and kill a werewolf. I want two rolls of parchment. This
class needs a firm hand."
As he strode out of the room, he gave the front row one final, lingering glare.
Ron paled, certain that the heavy sigh he'd just released had been too loud.
"What's Snape's obsession with werewolves?" Ron muttered to Sean once the
Professor was gone. "It's not like we're ever going to run into one."
Sean didn't answer immediately. He looked at Ron with a hint of pity. "Ron," he
said softly.
Ron snapped out of his daze and followed Sean out of the classroom. They moved
quickly through the corridors until they reached a hidden door that led into
Hope Cottage.
The room was filled with the scent of old parchment and beeswax. It was packed
with artifacts from the previous century and walls lined with portraits. What
truly convinced Ron this was Sean's private sanctum, however, were the literal
mountains of books stacked floor-to-ceiling.
"Do you actually read all of these?" Ron asked, his jaw dropping as he stared at
the towers of knowledge.
"Eventually," Sean said. "If the world allows it."
Sean reached into his bag and pulled out the Marauder's Map. Ron leaned in
curiously as Sean tapped the parchment with his wand.
Sean traced a finger along the ink-drawn corridors. He stopped at the Gryffindor
Tower. There, a small black dot labeled "Peter Pettigrew" was moving slowly
across the floor of Ron's own dormitory.
"Who's that?" Ron asked, frowning. Then, his face went white. "Wait... Peter
Pettigrew? The hero? The one with the Order of Merlin? The one Sirius Black
killed?"
Sean nodded, then gave a slow, meaningful shake of his head.
"What are you trying to say, Sean?" Ron asked. He found it hard to swallow. Why
is a dead man in my bedroom? Is he a ghost? But the map doesn't show ghosts...
"Peter Pettigrew was the Potters' Secret Keeper," Sean said.
"No, I know the story! They chose Sirius Black to be—wait... are you saying..."
Ron's voice trailed off as a terrifying realization took hold.
"It was a switch," Sean explained, his voice as calm as a storyteller's. "At the
last second, they made Peter the Secret Keeper to throw the enemy off the scent.
They thought it was the perfect plan."
The candlelight in the room flickered. Ron's head felt heavy and dizzy.
"But what they didn't know," a raspy, hollow voice said from the corner of the
room, "was that Peter had already sold his soul to the Dark Lord."
Ron spun around so fast he nearly fell. Standing in the shadows was a gaunt,
skeletal man. His face was identical to the one on the "Wanted" posters, but his
eyes weren't wild with madness. They were filled with an ancient, bone-deep
weariness.
"Is this... is this a joke?" Ron stammered, his body going rigid with fear.
He looked at Sean, then back at the "gentle" version of Sirius Black. He tried
to remember that this man had supposedly murdered a dozen Muggles, but the man
before him looked like he could barely hold up his own weight.
"The explosion wasn't my doing," Sirius said, taking a step toward Ron. "When I
cornered Peter, he screamed for the whole street to hear that I was the traitor.
Before I could even draw my wand, he blew the street apart with a wand hidden
behind his back, killing everyone within twenty feet. Then, he transformed and
dove into the sewer with the other rats."
Sirius looked Ron in the eye. "Ron, you're a friend of Mr. Green's. Think about
it. Think about your rat. Did you never wonder how a common garden rat could
live for twelve years? Did you never wonder why his body was... incomplete?"
Sirius's voice dropped to a whisper. "Mr. Green told me you heard the story at
the pub. Tell me, Ron... what was the biggest piece of Peter Pettigrew they ever
found?"
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