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Chapter 221 — Like a Muggle's Menopause!!
"How can that be?"
Snape's voice shook.
He looked genuinely rattled, almost losing his footing. His wand twitched upward as if he meant to test the blood on Darren Potter's face—but he froze, not daring to touch it.
"Professor… I'm okay…"
The little cub showed a guilty expression, clearly believing it was wrong to make the professor worry.
Snape suddenly felt helpless.
Especially when he met Darren's earnest, worried gaze—there was a strange, embarrassing warmth bubbling up inside him.
Impossible.
How could this child be his?
No. No, no. It had to be some strange connection, some resemblance, something explainable. But…
His instincts as a Potions Master had already started fitting pieces together almost instantly.
The boy's talent. Darren Potter's intuition. Darren's creativity with brews. His genius-level sensitivity…
But it was impossible.
Snape knew what he had done—and not done—in his life. And even if he couldn't remember every detail, Lily…
Snape's mouth opened and closed again.
His eyes finally returned to Darren's wound.
Earlier, he had only been furious because Darren was foolish enough to catch a falling cauldron with his face.
But now, his anger twisted into something else entirely.
"Whose cauldron?"
Snape spun around, black robes flaring behind him like a storm cloud. His expression was so frightening that even Goyle trembled.
Still, Goyle raised his hand—because everyone had seen the cauldron roll from his table. Denying it would make things worse.
"Pr–Professor… it was mine…"
"Yours? You useless lump! What else can you do wrong? Can't boil a basic potion? Idiot—absolute waste of space—I've seen trolls with better sense!
Slytherin detention. A full semester. I'll send a note to Filch myself!"
Snape roared.
"Professor… don't shout. It's my fault. I should've used a spell earlier."
[Ding, Father +100]
[Ding, Father +80]
[Ding, Father +50]
[Ding…]
Darren accepted the Father Value quietly, guilt written all over his face.
"You—" Snape sputtered, anger faltering as he stared at him. "You drank the potion, didn't you? If you dare pull something like this again, I'll— I'll— Just drink it!"
He yanked a potion bottle from his pocket and shoved it into Darren's hand, his expression vicious but his eyes unmistakably desperate.
If it was true… if it really was…
No. Ridiculous. Absurd. He hadn't verified anything.
He wasn't a foolish young man anymore, jumping to conclusions.
But if it were true…
Snape cut off the thought abruptly.
The small cut on Darren's face suddenly looked far too distracting.
"Go to Madame Pomfrey. Now. There might've been poison on the blade. Those idiots are capable of anything."
Snape knew he was overreacting. The wound was clearly not poisonous. And even if it was, the potion he'd forced on Darren would take care of it.
But what if?
What if Darren collapsed later, alone in the dormitory?
Darren noticed the look in Snape's eyes and sighed inwardly.
Snape was aware of his bloodline problem. He just hadn't confirmed it yet.
Old bat.
But Darren only nodded obediently. As he turned to leave, he glanced worriedly at the chaotic classroom.
[Ding, Father +80]
"Hmph. There's an antidote on the shelf. You don't need to worry."
Snape snapped irritably.
Darren let out a small sigh of relief, cast a sympathetic look at the battered students, and slipped out of the dungeon classroom.
Only when Darren's back disappeared did Snape realize—he was still in the middle of class. His black eyes swept across the room.
Especially toward Goyle.
The look could've sliced him into pieces.
Goyle clutched his swollen eyes, which were the size of watermelons, and staggered upright.
Snape did not care in the slightest.
His fury reached a peak. He scolded every student. No one was spared.
Harry was called a brainless troll.
Although Snape's anger seemed bizarrely disproportionate, Harry was so full of guilt that he didn't even register the insult.
Of course Darren would step in front of Snape.
He should have expected it—Darren always did things like that. Even if Snape were a stranger, Darren would still protect him.
And this time, Harry had hurt him again.
He always ruined things.
His stomach twisted.
Ron wore the same miserable expression.
They truly hadn't meant for Darren to be harmed.
Fortunately, Hermione came darting out of the storage room, her robe bulging with stolen herbs. That eased their guilt a bit.
Finally, Snape—having exhausted his rage—snapped:
"Anyone hit by the Swelling Solution, come get the antidote. Move. Don't make me repeat myself!"
Harry spotted Malfoy stumbling toward the desk, ears swollen to the size of pig's ears and wobbling with each step.
"Pff—!"
Harry's guilt evaporated instantly. Nothing healed him faster than seeing Malfoy suffer. Only Snape suffering could top it.
But as soon as he laughed, he felt Snape's eyes pierce him.
Instantly, memories flashed:
Snape giving Darren the Veritaserum in Dumbledore's office.
Them secretly brewing Polyjuice in the girls' bathroom.
Darren saying he needed to pretend to hate Snape.
Why was he remembering all this?
And why did he suddenly feel that Snape already knew everything?
No—he couldn't panic. He forced his face into an innocent confusion.
Snape looked away, distracted—but oddly anxious.
"If I find out who's responsible, I'll expel them."
His voice carried across the room, but the fury in it wasn't the same as before.
Harry blinked.
Ron blinked.
"It's like Muggle menopause," someone muttered.
And honestly—it wasn't wrong.
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