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Chapter 153 — Snape's Memories!!
Snape already thought Dumbledore allowing Harry Potter to wander around the castle at night was an outrageous privilege.
Yet somehow, there were more.
The aftermath of the last flying lesson proved it.
Professor McGonagall had bought Potter a broomstick.
A first-year student.
Given a private broom.
It was practically an invitation for Potter to chase danger.
Snape stormed straight to Dumbledore's office.
"First-years aren't allowed to bring their own brooms," he snapped. "Where does Harry Potter get this right?"
Did Dumbledore fear no backlash from the rest of the staff?
But the man only smiled his maddening, twinkling smile and said that if a student demonstrated exceptional ability, they might be… utilized.
Snape sneered as he left.
Darren didn't fly nearly as well—why hadn't he been given a broom?
Fueled by irritation alone, Snape marched back inside and applied for an identical privilege for Darren.
"If Harry Potter has one, someone else should too."
Dumbledore had only sighed.
Snape left the office feeling smug—
—and then immediately wanted to slap himself.
Was he insane?
Darren, who already followed Harry Potter into every catastrophe, now had official permission to fly around the castle?
At this rate, when the Dark Lord noticed him, Snape would have no one to blame but himself.
He stared at the privilege slip in his hand with disgust, nearly crumpling it.
But something—stubbornness, pride—made him tuck it away instead.
Fine.
It was only an approved form. It didn't mean he had to give the boy a broom.
And since it was technically a check on Harry Potter's favoritism, ignoring it would certainly annoy Dumbledore.
He comforted himself with that thought.
Only…
He remembered the flicker of longing on Darren's face when Harry received McGonagall's gift.
And somehow, without saying a word, Snape ended up ordering a broom for him anyway.
Merlin help him.
Hopefully Darren didn't fall off and break his neck.
Snape would laugh for a year if a Potter met the ground that way.
But he hadn't expected others to send brooms as well.
Dozens. Enough for Potter to open a shop.
The one that bothered Snape most was a broom with no sender's name.
He immediately suspected the Dark Lord.
There was no proof.
But the Dark Lord was exactly the type to curse a broom so that once the Potter brat lifted into the sky, he'd plummet.
Snape watched closely.
Fortunately, Darren rejected every broom.
Smart child.
Though apparently—trying to keep everyone happy—the little fool still spent an entire afternoon sitting atop the pile of brooms with a forced smile, until he was exhausted and fell asleep instantly.
Snape nearly snorted aloud remembering it.
The Potter boys truly found joy in their own suffering.
But the amusement didn't last long.
Halloween arrived.
And Quirrell performed his ridiculous "troll panic" stunt at the feast.
Snape had briefly thought the man might have a future in comedic theatre.
Yet something felt wrong.
He raced to the fourth-floor corridor to check for tampering—and then heard the troll's roar.
No.
Dumbledore hadn't handled it yet?
Or worse—was this another twisted test for the Potter children?
Snape's expression darkened.
He bolted straight toward the girls' bathroom.
If Quirrell had really put the troll there, why hadn't he dropped it in the Great Hall?
Or Harry Potter's dormitory?
At least then it would've eaten someone useful.
That thought lasted only a second.
A massive explosion echoed through the castle.
Snape ran faster.
He reached the chaos just in time to see Darren, pale as parchment, collapse onto Harry.
The troll lay dead.
Snape's breath froze.
Had the little cub died along with it?
Was this Dumbledore's negligence?
Or one of Harry Potter's idiotic pranks gone wrong?
Snape didn't know why, but for a moment he genuinely wanted to pull out his wand and hex Harry.
Why must the "Chosen One's" adventures always drag others in danger?
With venom dripping from his voice, he hissed, "The famous Harry Potter can worry about someone other than himself?"
Harry didn't answer. He only hovered over Darren, looking terrified.
Fortunately, McGonagall soon reported that Darren was alive—just drained.
Dumbledore sighed with relief.
Harry nearly cried.
Snape felt a knot of resentment twist in his chest.
Resentment for the ruined family he once could've protected.
Resentment for Dumbledore's endless risks.
Resentment for Harry Potter, whose fate dragged everyone around him into disaster.
He stayed silent.
Insulting someone did help relieve stress.
Hearing Dumbledore award Darren extra points, Snape silently cursed the unconscious child.
He'd better remember this lesson when he woke up.
Then came the first Quidditch match.
Snape sat in the stands, watching Quirrell muttering over Harry's broomstick.
Childish.
Even if Harry fell, he wouldn't die—not in a stadium full of wizards.
At worst, Gryffindor would lose the game.
Quirrell probably only wanted a distraction.
And truthfully, Snape almost wanted to let him try.
But seeing Darren jumping, panicking, desperately trying to save his brother—
Well.
Snape supposed he had enough mercy to intervene.
But while he was countering the curse, Granger—of all people—decided to set fire to his robes.
He nearly hexed her on instinct.
Luckily, she knocked Quirrell over in the process.
Still, the way she whispered to Weasley afterward made Snape uneasy.
Would Darren think Snape truly tried to sabotage Harry?
Ridiculous.
Even if the boy misunderstood… what did Snape care?
A child's opinion meant nothing.
Or so he thought.
Until the day he was bitten by the transformed wolfhound and limped back through the corridor…
And heard it.
"Professor Snape is very kind and gentle. He's definitely not a bad person!"
Snape stopped dead.
That little brat had spoken about him behind his back?
He—Severus Snape—Hogwarts' most feared and disliked professor—called gentle?
He also heard Harry whisper a very different, predictably insulting opinion.
Snape strode over immediately, glaring down at him, ready to deduct points—
But annoyingly, he found nothing legitimate to deduct.
Fine then.
"Reading?" he snapped.
That he could deduct.
And he did.
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