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Chapter 63 — Eccentricity?!
Snape's good mood from earlier vanished in an instant.
Once again, he began prowling through the classroom like a dark storm cloud, his sharp eyes searching for faults to punish. Harry Potter's furious scowl in particular brought him a strange, bitter satisfaction.
Then—
"Boom!"
A cauldron exploded.
Snape spun around, cloak flaring. Who was it this time? Every year there was at least one incompetent fool who managed to blow up a perfectly simple potion.
I should have told Dumbledore ages ago—half these dunderheads don't belong anywhere near a cauldron, Snape thought grimly.
He moved slowly, deliberately, letting the silence thicken. Let them squirm. Let them learn.
But before he could speak, he caught sight of Darren Potter sprinting toward the door—crucible clutched in his arms like it was a newborn child.
"Idiot!" Snape hissed. "What in Merlin's name—"
Was the boy insane? Carrying a boiling cauldron with his bare hands? Did he have a death wish?
Madam Pomfrey had told him the child was unusually sensitive to potion fumes—one strong draught and he could sleep for days. And yet here he was, charging across the room with enough volatile ingredients to level a corridor.
The Sorting Hat must have been confunded to put this one in Slytherin, Snape thought irritably, chasing after him.
"Evanesco!"
With a flick of his wand, the mess vanished in a puff of smoke. Snape's eyes darted to Darren's hands—miraculously unburned, pale and unmarked. He exhaled, the relief irritating him even more.
He almost raised his wand again—just to rap the boy on the head for his stupidity—but when Darren turned, wide-eyed and frightened, Snape froze.
"Are you completely mad?!" he barked instead. "Get back to your seat—now!"
The moment the words left his mouth, guilt pricked at him. He should scold the boy properly, teach him something—but the sight of those trembling hands stopped him cold.
Instead, he turned sharply toward Neville.
"You—Longbottom! If your cauldron survives this lesson, it'll be a miracle."
Snape's temper simmered. He knew he was being unfair, but Merlin help him—why was it so hard to stay angry at that Potter cub?
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That evening, the atmosphere in the Slytherin common room was tense.
Snape and Dumbledore waited in the shadows, both hidden by a Disillusionment Charm.
It was nearly six o'clock when Darren finally pushed open the door. His face was tired, but bright with relief. Then he noticed the assembled students—and remembered the punishment awaiting him.
Snape's lips curved into a thin, cynical smile. Oh, now you remember?
He caught the flicker of intense focus in Dumbledore's eyes. The Headmaster wasn't watching the students—he was studying Darren.
The boy doesn't even realize the great Albus Dumbledore hides in shadows to test him, Snape thought bitterly.
Then began the punishment—an old Slytherin ritual, designed to test loyalty through pain. Betsy, the prefect, looked uneasy, her wand trembling slightly as she cast the mild Cruciatus Curse.
Snape's jaw clenched, but Darren only winced and bit his lip, his expression dazed but gentle.
Even as the pain coursed through him, his gaze remained soft—almost apologetic.
Predictably, the other Slytherins couldn't stand it. Within minutes, several stepped back, muttering that it had gone far enough.
Of course, Snape thought grimly. The boy's purity disarms even snakes.
When it ended, Darren slumped against the wall, trembling but smiling faintly at the others.
"You should be satisfied now, Headmaster," Snape muttered, glaring at Dumbledore.
Dumbledore's expression didn't change. "I am… and yet, I must be certain. There's still one test left. I'll need your help, Severus."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "You want me to confront him? When he's half-conscious? What next—make him confess to something he didn't do?"
"Not confess," Dumbledore replied softly. "I simply want to know what choice he'll make when pressed."
Snape stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned away with a snort. "You are unbelievable."
He left, but returned moments later, as Dumbledore instructed—hidden now, invisible once more.
The lounge was empty except for Darren, sitting weakly near the fireplace.
"If I remember correctly," Snape's voice cut coldly through the air, "any student subjected to the Cruciatus should be in the Hospital Wing by now."
Darren flinched, pale and startled. Then, lowering his head, he whispered, "Professor, it was me. I cheated and used my gift—it has nothing to do with anyone else."
Snape's stomach twisted. Merlin's beard… the fool actually confessed.
He turned sharply toward where Dumbledore stood unseen, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. Satisfied now?
Dumbledore's eyes softened. Darren's refusal to shift blame had proved what he needed to know — the boy was incorruptibly kind.
Snape exhaled through his nose, fury and pity mingling in his chest. He watched Darren wipe his tears with trembling fingers.
"Pathetic," Snape muttered, though his tone was gentler now. "If you insist on being noble, at least learn to lie better."
He dismissed the boy gruffly and rounded on Dumbledore once Darren left.
"You should leave too, Headmaster," he snapped. "It seems your obsession with sweets has rotted your brain. Next time, don't drag me into your ridiculous experiments."
He turned to go, his cloak billowing behind him.
"Severus," Dumbledore's voice followed, quiet but firm, "Harry is also her child. You shouldn't be so… eccentric."
Snape froze for a fraction of a second.
Eccentric?
Was Dumbledore blind? He'd given both boys the same treatment—or so he thought.
Then again, perhaps that was the problem.
Snape said nothing. He only walked away, the echo of Dumbledore's words burning in his chest.
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