"Professor, it was Severus who attacked first and insulted Lily! I was only defending myself!" — the moment Slughorn lifted the spell from James, he blurted this out, glaring at Grid with fury.
"Professor Slughorn," — the former Archmage began in a calm, level voice, "I simply asked Miss Evans to return a textbook I had once lent her. He grabbed me by the jacket and began making some incoherent demands while threatening me, so I applied a nonverbal Silencio. Apparently he did not appreciate that very much, which is why he decided to attack me from behind. Though what am I saying — he is an animal. They have no such thing as honour. Please disregard what I said earlier."
"That's not true!" — Sirius, who had rather pleasant features and a light aristocratic pallor, cried out in defence of his friend. "He attacked James first, and it definitely wasn't Silencio. And on top of that he called Lily a Mudblood!"
"I merely called her what she is."
"What did you say?!"
"She is a Muggle-born — a witch whose parents are Muggles. I was not insulting her by saying so."
"I understand," — the Head of Slytherin said in a calm voice, stopping them, and looked at Severus with mild surprise.
Slughorn had always considered him one of his favourites. He knew the boy well, and this change unsettled the professor slightly. The Severus he remembered would never have called Lily that — she had been his only friend and the person he held most dear.
He considered him an exceptionally talented wizard who would achieve great things in the future, and it was for that reason alone that Slughorn had invited the boy into the Slug Club — a club the Head of House had founded several decades ago to gather those who showed promise of greatness.
Horace himself was deeply fond of comfort. He was also fond of surrounding himself with talented people, helping them develop their gifts and introducing them to one another. And though he was Head of Slytherin, Slughorn never discriminated against students from other houses and treated everyone equally.
"Five points from Slytherin," — the professor shook his head in disapproval. "Mr. Snape, 'Mudblood' is an insult, and I ask that you refrain from using that word toward Miss Evans."
"I offer my apologies, but I do not consider the word insulting," — Grid shook his head. "The Daily Prophet even ran an article stating that the word is not an insult but an informal designation for witches and wizards born of Muggles."
"Is that so? Then perhaps you could give me the issue number?"
"Of course. Issue 6910."
"Very well, I shall look into it, and if it proves to be accurate, I will award ten points to Slytherin," — the Head of House nodded with a slight smile and turned to the group of Gryffindors. "Mr. Potter, for your attempt to harm Mr. Snape, I am also assigning you one month of detention with Mr. Filch."
"But he started it! Lily, why are you silent — say something, you saw everything!"
Lily had been staring at Severus throughout all of this. She simply could not recognise him. She had never seen such coldness in him before, and the indifference in his eyes as he choked James had frightened her deeply. She could not understand how he could have changed so completely in just a few days. When she heard Potter's voice, she flinched and looked at him with confusion.
"…what?"
"It was Severus who attacked first!"
"Yes…" — Lily nodded slowly, glancing back at Severus. Their eyes met, and she flinched again, finding nothing in his gaze but indifference.
"That was self-defence, Miss Evans. And it was merely a simple Silencio — a silencing charm. It posed no threat to anyone's life."
At that moment three more students approached the group. On the chest of their robes was a silver serpent on a green background — the same emblem that appeared on Grid's own.
"Forgive the interruption, Professor, but we are prepared to corroborate Mr. Snape's account," — a boy with aristocratic features and blond hair swept back said in a confident voice. "We witnessed him approach this group and politely request his textbook. However, Mr. Potter seized him by the jacket and began demanding something aggressively. Mr. Snape calmly asked to be released, but was ignored, after which the spell was used to silence him. Once the textbook was returned, Mr. Snape lifted the spell and turned to leave — but in a fit of rage Mr. Potter aimed his wand at his back. We were about to intervene when you arrived."
"Very well, I shall take your account into consideration," — the professor nodded with satisfaction. It pleased him to see the students of his house looking out for one another, even if most often out of self-interest. "However, Mr. Snape, you will also be punished — I trust I need not explain for what?"
"No, I understand entirely."
"Good. Three days of detention with Mr. Filch, beginning tomorrow. Today, however, I expect you to come by my office — there is something I wish to discuss with you," — the professor said with a smile. "You five, follow me to the examination. And you, Mr. Macmillan, you are free to go."
"Yes," — Macmillan cast a contemptuous smirk at the four Gryffindors, gave Grid a nod, and went on his way with his two companions following close behind.
Grid returned the nod with an equal smile and followed Slughorn, paying no attention to four gazes burning with hatred at his back.
"Professor."
"Yes, Mr. Snape?"
"After the examination, would you be able to grant me a pass to the Restricted Section?"
"What for?"
"I wish to study the art of Potion-making in greater depth." — And also to learn more about this world — especially about its magic and spells.
"I see," — Slughorn nodded approvingly, produced a small notepad, whispered something, tore out a page and handed it to Grid. "If any questions about Potion-making arise, I am always available to answer them. You know where to find me."
"Thank you, Professor."
They reached the Potions classroom in the dungeons of Hogwarts without delay. The room was a spacious, gloomy, and rather cold space, lined throughout with various potion-making ingredients.
"I see everyone is present," — the Head of Slytherin said, surveying the room. "Then let us begin the examination." — Several dozen sheets flew from his desk and settled before each student. "The examination will proceed in two stages: the first written, the second practical. You are allotted forty-five minutes for each stage. Any questions?" — He waited ten seconds, then continued. "Good. You may begin."
Looking down at his sheet, a faint smile played across Grid's lips. At a single glance at the first question, the answer rose to the surface of his mind without effort.
If he hadn't taken his own life, he would have become a great Potioneer, — he thought with regret. Why do such geniuses always die young?
With a heavy sigh, Grid began the test. Five minutes sufficed to complete it. The sheet vanished at once and reappeared in Slughorn's hands. The professor skimmed through the answers, smiled with satisfaction, nodded, and set the paper on his desk.
The moment the first part of the examination concluded, everyone rose from their seats. At the same instant the chairs and desks disappeared, and in their place cauldrons appeared.
"For the second part you are to brew a Draught of Peace. You all have the necessary ingredients, so you may begin."
The moment they were permitted to proceed, Grid walked to the ingredients, selected what he needed, returned to his station, and set to work.
As he brewed, his hands moved on instinct, adding the required ingredients in precise proportions and at precise intervals.
I wouldn't say Potion-making is all that difficult a subject. The main thing is simply following the recipe exactly. Though watching how these hands move, it's clear the boy truly worked hard to excel in this discipline. Even so, seals and runes remain closer to my heart.
Thirty minutes later, a dense grey paste had formed in Grid's cauldron. It carried a faint, pleasant aroma — one that, when inhaled, caused both mind and body to slowly unwind.
"Very good," — Slughorn glanced into the cauldron and nodded with satisfaction. "Mr. Snape — Outstanding, as always. The potion is perfectly brewed."
"Thank you, Professor."
Ten minutes later time was called, and the Archmage left the classroom. His next destination was the library, which greeted him with a tomb-like silence.
The room was quite large, with an enormous number of tall bookshelves. It was, one might say, no different from an ordinary library — save for the rather specific nature of its material.
Approaching the desk where a middle-aged woman sat — one whom it would have been difficult to call beautiful, though certainly pleasant-looking enough for her age — he placed before her the sheet Slughorn had given him.
"Madam Pince, you look magnificent as always." — The words drew only a modest reaction from her, but as a woman she was not unaffected by the compliment. Her mood lifted slightly, and she did not regard the unfortunate Grid with the eyes of a bulldog prepared to tear him apart for so much as thinking about damaging a book.
Madam Pince loved books with a fervour that bordered on the maternal. She guarded them to the last. Heaven help anyone who so much as smudged or slightly tore a page — they would become her personal enemy and face her wrath in full.
There was even a legend at Hogwarts that the Headmaster had once decided to read a book on the Theory of Transubstantial Transfiguration and, lost deep in thought, began scribbling notes in the margins — whereupon the book promptly slapped him across the forehead. It was said to be her doing, and that even the Headmaster — the most powerful wizard in the country — had been powerless against her fury.
For that reason, many feared her. If she had not hesitated to answer the Headmaster, what would she do to an ordinary student?
"Snape…" — she examined the slip thoughtfully, nodded, and returned it. "You may go. But if you so much as touch a single book in the wrong way…"
"I know, Madam Pince," — he smiled politely, gave a nod, and made his way toward the iron gate with its lock, beyond which lay a dark room several times smaller than the main library. Well then. Let's see what this world has managed to achieve — a world with such a meagre amount of magic.