At breakfast, the scent of coffee and toast filled the High Table.
The Quidditch finals had concluded two days earlier, and a lingering sense of post-excitement fatigue hung over the Great Hall, making the atmosphere relatively calm.
That was until Professor Flitwick, overly excited while discussing a new waterproof and pest-repelling charm with Professor Sprout, accidentally knocked over his coffee.
The scalding liquid was about to spill onto Professor McGonagall's half-graded stack of Transfiguration essays.
Just as Professor McGonagall's eyes widened, her week's worth of work on the verge of being ruined, Sagres tapped the table without even lifting his head.
The spilling coffee froze instantly.
It hung suspended mid-air, halted just an inch above the essays.
A brief silence fell over the entire High Table.
Sagres glanced at the frozen scene, then pointed lightly at the cup.
The coffee reversed as if time had been rewound, flowing neatly back into Professor Flitwick's cup without a single drop spilled.
"Oh! Minerva, I'm so sorry! I got carried away!" Professor Flitwick apologized repeatedly, hurriedly checking whether the essays had been damaged.
Professor McGonagall let out a quiet breath of relief, adjusted her glasses, and gave Sagres a stiff nod. "...Thank you, Sagres."
"You're welcome," Sagres replied indifferently, continuing to eat his toast.
From the side, Snape let out an almost inaudible sniff and muttered with faint sarcasm, "Show-off."
At that moment, several first-year Ravenclaw students passed by and witnessed the scene.
Their mouths fell open as they looked from the slightly flustered Professor Flitwick, to the expressionless Sagres, and finally to the restored coffee cup.
"Pro-Professor…"
One of the braver girls, her eyes sparkling, looked at Sagres. "That just now! What kind of magic was that? Can we learn it too?"
Sagres looked at the young students, his face still expressionless. Just as Professor McGonagall expected him to ignore or refuse, he spoke:
"It's 'Two Hundred Points Magic,' fourth from the bottom on the exchange catalogue list. It doesn't have much practical use for you."
The young wizards: "???"
Professor Flitwick eagerly added from the side, "Exquisite magical control! Children, the key is precision! Instantly analysing trajectory, form, and state, then completing the 'restoration' with the smallest amount of magical input, not brute force! This requires calm—"
Snape cut him off, his tone smooth as he addressed the students. "If you haven't even mastered the Levitation Charm, discussing this is somewhat premature. It is akin to a troll attempting to comprehend celestial mechanics. Go back and copy the first chapter of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 five times. Perhaps that will slightly expand your rather limited mental capacity."
The young wizards shrank back in fear at Snape's words and immediately ran off. Even as they fled, they kept glancing back, whispering excitedly among themselves.
"You frightened them, Severus," Professor Sprout said gently.
"I merely made them face reality."
Snape spooned up some porridge. "Preventing them from indulging in unrealistic fantasies, such as believing that magic requires no foundation."
He did not look at Sagres as he spoke, but his meaning was clear.
Sagres seemed not to hear. He finished the last bite of his toast and casually picked up a napkin to wipe his mouth.
"Sagres's 'foundation' is probably not quite what we understand," Professor McGonagall said, shaking her head. Then she turned to Snape. "Is Mr. Malfoy feeling any better?"
"Still lying in the hospital wing," Snape replied coldly.
Draco had accidentally injured his arm during the Quidditch match two days earlier. Snape had not only granted him two days off but had also privately given him two of his own spell manuscripts from his student days.
"Does lying in bed help with the recovery of an arm?" Sagres asked without lifting his head.
Snape let out a soft snort and did not respond.
Meanwhile, at the Gryffindor table, the entire scene had also been witnessed.
"Did you see that? That was silent, wandless casting!"
"I bet that spell can be exchanged. I just don't know how many points it costs. If it were me…" another had already begun fantasising.
Ron chewed on his sausage and muttered to Harry and Hermione, "So when are we going to the duelling club today? Is Malfoy's arm still not better?"
He swallowed and continued complaining, "If you ask me, he's just faking it. It's only a scratch, and he has the nerve to lie in the hospital wing for two days? Madam Pomfrey could fix that in a second, and he's acting like his whole arm's broken!"
He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "He definitely just wants to slack off, or slow down our progress on purpose."
Harry shrugged, pouring himself some pumpkin juice. "Who knows. But without him and Goyle, we really can't find such suitable meat shields… uh… I mean, such solid defence."
He corrected himself quickly, though a mischievous grin remained on his face.
Hermione, however, was frowning, absentmindedly stirring her porridge as she muttered to herself, lost in her own thoughts.
Ron ignored her and continued, "If you ask me, Snape must have given him a fake medical note. He can just go back and lie down if he doesn't want to attend class. Did you see it? Yesterday in Potions, Snape looked at Malfoy's 'injury' like he'd found his long-lost child…"
He lowered his voice, imitating Snape's oily tone. "'Mr. Malfoy, given your… unfortunate condition… for today's Swelling Solution, you may complete only the theoretical portion.' Merlin! If we were a minute late, he'd have us hanging at the dungeon entrance!"
Harry couldn't help laughing. "Come on, Ron. Snape's like that with everyone. He's just a little 'lenient' with Slytherin. And a little 'strict' with us."
He pinched his fingers together to show a tiny gap.
"A little?"
Ron pouted. "That's a little? That's practically…"
He racked his brain for a suitable word. "...I bet when he grades essays, the quills he uses for Slytherin are gold-plated!"
"Ron! Keep your voice down!" Hermione snapped out of her thoughts, glancing around nervously.
But Ron was clearly full of resentment. "If you ask me, he's the one who should go to the Hospital Wing and have his head checked. Professor Lupin never should've let him take over, because I doubt he even has something like a 'syllabus' in his head…"
He grew more indignant as he spoke. "He made me scramble and work like mad to write pages of parchment, and then Professor Lupin came back and cancelled the assignment!"
Just then, a voice that seemed to drop the surrounding temperature by ten degrees sounded from behind them:
"It seems, Mr. Weasley, that you have… an extraordinary concern for your Professor's teaching methods."
Harry, Ron, and Hermione felt their blood run cold.
Ron's fork clattered onto his plate, his face turning as pale as the milk in front of him.
The three of them slowly turned their heads.
Snape stood behind them like a black statue radiating coldness.
His dark eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing within them, while a thin, chilling smile curved his lips.
"Not only that, but the three of you also seem to possess unique insights into the school's medical decisions and staffing arrangements?"
Ron tried to recover. "Professor Snape, we were just—"
"You were just caught speaking ill of me behind my back… again."
Snape's voice was icy. "I am, however, honoured that my brain can serve as such a 'profound' topic of discussion during your meal."
Hermione covered her forehead, looking utterly helpless.
Snape stepped closer, his tall figure almost engulfing the two boys.
"Clearly, Gryffindor's hourglass must today pay the price for certain people's uncontrolled tongues."
A mocking smile lingered on his face.
"You have evidently chosen to expend your energy on criticising professors far more knowledgeable and powerful than yourselves, rather than considering how to improve your abysmal Potions marks."
"Twenty points from each of you."
He pronounced it coldly. "Detention tonight at eight. Location: the dungeons. I trust there are plenty of rat intestines and frog entrails awaiting two 'profound' thinkers to process."
Snape looked down at the three students before him with satisfaction, then swept his robes.
"Now, remove yourselves from my sight at once. And congratulations on 'contributing' so meaningfully to Slytherin's House Cup."
Under the sympathetic gazes of their classmates, the trio hurriedly fled the Great Hall.
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