Snape left the Headmaster's office with a worse mood than when he entered.
That was impressive.
Quirrell remained bound to the chair behind him, breathing unevenly, leaf talisman glowing faintly on his forehead. Fawkes watched from the perch, bright and silent. The black mark under the chair had dimmed, but not disappeared.
Snape did not like any of it.
He did not like Voldemort speaking through Quirrell's mouth.
He did not like Theodore Snow's strange leaf working.
He did not like Dumbledore's calm trust.
Most of all, he did not like that insulting Quirrell had helped.
That meant he would have to do it again.
Life was becoming unreasonable.
When he reached the corridor, Theodore was waiting by the window.
Snape stopped.
"No."
Theodore looked at him. "I did not say anything."
"You were about to."
"You did well."
Snape's expression turned poisonous.
"That is worse."
Theodore smiled.
Snape swept past him.
"Find someone else to praise."
Theodore did not follow.
He already had what he needed.
Through the Wuzhuang foundation, he could feel the new rhythm in Quirrell's soul. Weak, broken, and buried under Voldemort's pressure, but clearer than before.
The thorn had caught.
Now it needed to grow.
That was the difficult part.
Quirrell did not lack fear. He did not lack shame. He did not even lack regret.
He lacked the habit of choosing.
Voldemort had taken that from him piece by piece until obedience became easier than thought.
Theodore could place a thorn.
Dumbledore could bind the chair.
Fawkes could burn away rot.
Snape could irritate Quirrell into remembering himself.
But the final choice still had to come from Quirrell.
Otherwise, the mark below the lock would use him anyway.
Theodore looked out the window.
The Black Lake was dark.
Still.
Watching.
By morning, Hogwarts had returned to lessons.
Again.
This time, the students were less surprised. After surviving the tournament, dream residue, emergency talismans, and whatever rumors claimed Theodore had done to the pitch, the school's tolerance for abnormality had grown visibly stronger.
A Ravenclaw first-year stepped around a corridor talisman without being told.
Filch almost cried from pride.
In Potions, Snape was especially unpleasant.
This was normal.
What was not normal was that he occasionally stopped mid-lecture, stared toward the ceiling, and looked as if he wanted to go upstairs and insult someone.
Neville noticed.
This made his hands shake harder.
His potion turned purple.
Snape looked at it.
Then at Neville.
Then at the potion again.
"Mr. Longbottom."
Neville squeaked.
"That is not the color of a Boil-Cure Potion."
"I-I know, Professor."
"An admirable discovery. Perhaps next time you will make it before poisoning the cauldron."
Theodore, sitting nearby, glanced at the potion.
Then at the faint black thread curling from the steam.
His eyes narrowed.
Not Neville's mistake.
Not entirely.
The black thread was thin.
Very thin.
Dream residue.
The thing below the lock could not enter directly, but it had begun using weakness in attention. A tired student. A feared professor. A familiar failure.
Small cracks.
Neville's fear had given it a place to brush.
Theodore tapped the table once.
A tiny green spark slipped into the floor.
The Wuzhuang foundation answered.
The black thread in Neville's steam vanished.
Snape noticed.
So did Theodore.
Their eyes met.
Snape's face darkened.
"Mr. Snow."
"Yes, Professor?"
"Since you appear so attentive, explain why Mr. Longbottom's potion is now less catastrophic than it deserves to be."
Neville looked horrified.
Theodore answered calmly, "Because the steam carried external interference."
The class went silent.
Snape walked closer.
"External interference."
"Yes."
"With a first-year potion."
"Yes."
Snape stared at the cauldron.
Then at Neville.
Then at the room.
His expression became colder.
"Everyone step away from your cauldrons."
Nobody hesitated.
Even Draco moved quickly.
Snape raised his wand and cast several detection spells in rapid succession. Most students saw only faint light. Theodore saw the spells scrape the air, looking for foreign rhythm.
A second black thread appeared above a Slytherin girl's cauldron.
Then a third near the sink.
Snape's eyes became murderous.
"My classroom."
The temperature dropped.
The black threads twitched, as if realizing they had made a serious mistake.
Theodore almost laughed.
Filch guarded corridors as territory.
Snape apparently regarded the Potions classroom the same way.
Snape flicked his wand.
Blue fire appeared over every cauldron.
Not hot enough to boil.
Sharp enough to burn residue.
The black threads shriveled.
The students watched in frightened silence.
Snape turned slowly.
"Class dismissed."
Everyone stared.
Snape's voice dropped.
"Did I stutter?"
The room emptied in record time.
Neville nearly forgot his bag. Harry grabbed it and pulled him out.
Once the door closed, Snape looked at Theodore.
"Explain."
"The dream below the lock is testing smaller cracks."
"In my classroom."
"Yes."
Snape's mouth tightened.
"That thing has poor judgment."
Theodore agreed.
"It used fear and failure to brush against students' thoughts. Not enough to control them. Enough to observe."
Snape looked at Neville's abandoned cauldron.
His anger did not lessen.
It changed direction.
"Longbottom."
"He was tired and afraid. Easy target."
Snape's face did not move.
But something in the room became uncomfortable.
Theodore looked at him.
"You do realize your teaching style provides many convenient cracks."
Snape's eyes snapped toward him.
"Careful."
"That was careful."
For several seconds, the two looked at each other.
Then Snape looked away first.
Not because he agreed.
Because he hated that the point existed.
"The solution?"
"Reduce fear spikes during practical work for now."
Snape's expression turned as if Theodore had suggested he wear pink robes.
"No."
"Then more students will become convenient testing points."
Snape's jaw tightened.
Theodore added, "You do not need to become kind. Just less predictable."
That landed better.
Snape understood tactics.
He could tolerate adjustment if it was framed as denying an enemy advantage.
Perhaps.
Barely.
"I will consider it."
"That means yes."
Snape's glare became sharp enough to cut glass.
Theodore smiled and left.
That afternoon, the Potions classroom changed.
Not warmly.
No one would ever call it warm.
But Snape stopped hovering behind Neville's shoulder every five minutes. He still insulted mistakes, but the insults came after the potion was stabilized, not while nervous hands were holding ingredients.
The difference was small.
The dream residue did not return.
Neville did not notice why he felt slightly less doomed.
Harry did.
Hermione definitely did.
Ron leaned toward them and whispered, "Did Snape become less horrible?"
Hermione whispered back, "Slightly."
Ron looked disturbed.
"I don't like it. What if he's been replaced?"
Harry glanced toward the front.
Snape turned around.
Ron immediately faced his cauldron.
"Never mind. Still him."
In the Headmaster's office, Quirrell received his second visitor.
Not Snape.
That was later.
This time, Dumbledore came alone, carrying tea.
Quirrell stared at the cup as if it might contain poison.
Dumbledore placed it on a small table beside the chair.
"It is only tea."
Quirrell gave a weak laugh.
"At Hogwarts, Headmaster, that is no longer reassuring."
Dumbledore smiled faintly.
"Fair."
The leaf thorn on Quirrell's forehead glowed.
Voldemort remained silent.
Too silent.
Dumbledore sat across from Quirrell.
For a moment, he said nothing.
That was worse than questions.
Quirrell shifted uneasily.
Finally, Dumbledore spoke.
"Do you remember the first time you taught here?"
Quirrell blinked.
The question was so ordinary that it hurt.
"I… yes."
"You were nervous."
Quirrell let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
"I was terrified."
"You knocked over a stack of books in the staff room."
Quirrell closed his eyes.
"I remember."
"Minerva helped you collect them."
"She said if I dropped them again, I would alphabetize the entire shelf."
Dumbledore smiled.
The thorn warmed.
Quirrell's fingers loosened slightly.
A memory.
Small.
Embarrassing.
His.
Voldemort stirred.
"Sentiment."
Dumbledore's gaze did not move.
"Memory."
The black mark under the chair pulsed once, then dimmed.
Quirrell swallowed.
For a few seconds, his breathing became easier.
The evening visit belonged to Snape.
He entered without tea.
Quirrell looked more afraid of him than of Dumbledore, which Snape found irritatingly useful.
Snape stopped in front of the chair.
"Still alive."
Quirrell's lips twitched.
"Yes."
"Disappointing, considering your decision-making."
The thorn glowed.
Quirrell gave a weak, broken laugh before he could stop himself.
Voldemort surged angrily.
Snape's eyes sharpened.
"There. That."
Quirrell looked confused.
"That pathetic sound was yours."
The laugh died.
Snape leaned closer.
"Keep making your own pathetic sounds, Quirrell. They are preferable to his."
The leaf talisman brightened.
Fawkes watched.
Voldemort's rage pressed outward, but the thorn held.
In the Room of Requirement, Theodore felt the response again.
The separation was growing.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But growing.
Willow Immortal rustled beside him.
A small branch pointed toward the model of the common rooms.
Theodore looked.
A faint black mist circled the Gryffindor region but could not enter.
Then it moved toward Slytherin.
The Wutu seal there held.
Then Ravenclaw.
Then Hufflepuff.
Each barrier responded.
The dream below the lock was still searching.
Theodore studied the mist.
It had changed since last night.
Less like water.
More like smoke.
"So you learned from the barriers."
The mist paused outside the model.
Then it formed a shape.
A door.
A small one.
Not the black door below the prison.
A classroom door.
Theodore's eyes narrowed.
Ah.
Common rooms were protected.
So it would try classrooms.
Places where students gathered, feared failure, wanted praise, competed, slept badly, and made mistakes.
Efficient.
Annoying.
Very annoying.
Theodore looked toward the Potions classroom model.
Snape had already burned one attempt.
Good.
But Hogwarts had many classrooms.
The mist spread toward the Defence classroom next.
Theodore smiled faintly.
Empty.
Quirrell was bound.
The room had no teacher.
A hungry dream looking for weakness had just chosen an abandoned classroom tied to the Dark Lord's failed subject.
That could be useful.
Very useful.
Theodore raised his hand and let Willow Immortal's roots shift beneath the model.
"Let it in."
The tree stilled.
Theodore continued, "Only there."
The Defence classroom model darkened.
The dream mist slipped inside.
At once, the door shut behind it.
Theodore's smile widened.
The thing below the lock wanted a classroom.
Fine.
Hogwarts would give it one.
By midnight, an unused Defence classroom on the third floor grew cold.
The desks stood empty.
The blackboard was blank.
The windows reflected no moonlight.
A faint dream mist gathered near the teacher's desk, searching for minds that were not there.
Then the floor glowed green-gold.
The door locked.
The blackboard wrote one sentence by itself.
Lesson One: Stay where you are.
The dream mist froze.
Far below Hogwarts, behind the black door, the hunger paused.
Theodore stood in the Room of Requirement, watching through the foundation.
"You wanted to learn."
He raised two fingers.
"Then attend class."
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