"Excuse me."
Snape called out just as the Slytherin Quidditch captain was about to leave.
Montague turned, his thick neck swiveling slowly to face him.
He was broad and blocky, with coarse bristle-like hair and forearms like hairy hams. The broomstick in his hand looked like a twig by comparison—one had to wonder how it managed to lift him into the air at all.
"What is it?" Montague asked in his deep, gruff voice.
"I was wondering if non-team members are allowed to use your training room," Snape said evenly.
"You can," Montague answered, eyeing Snape up and down. "A scrawny beanpole like you probably needs the workout. Today's tryouts were pathetic. Not one candidate built like me."
Snape bit down a snide retort. With a head like yours, no wonder the only place it fits is a toilet bowl, he thought acidly.
"Wait here."
Montague disappeared into the team captain's office.
He returned having changed out of his Quidditch gear, holding a black-wrapped bundle in his thick hands.
"You ever had a Chocolate Frog?" he asked mysteriously, though his expression was more constipation than intrigue.
"What are you on about, Montague?"
"You know, the kind that hops like a real frog."
He flung out his arms in a wild gesture, making Snape instinctively recoil—half expecting a charging gorilla.
"I know what they are!" Snape took two steps back, eyebrows high.
"Good, good," Montague beckoned him closer. "Then have a look at this."
Inside the bundle were several glass vials filled with a dark crimson liquid.
"What is it?" Snape asked warily.
"Concentrated Dragonblood Elixir."
Snape frowned. "Is that supposed to turn someone into a dragon? What are you showing me this for?"
"You ever read the cards?" Montague sounded annoyed now. "Dumbledore's Chocolate Frog card—'Twelve uses of dragon's blood'?"
"You mean—"
"Yes. Strength and stamina." Montague nodded sagely. "If you're serious about building muscle, take a bit of this. Contains blood from Norwegian Ridgebacks, Hungarian Horntails, Chinese Fireballs, Welsh Greens, Swedish Short-Snouts, Ukrainian Ironbellies, Antipodean Opaleyes, Peruvian Vipertooths, and Romanian Longhorns. Nine dragons total."
"One bottle's ten Galleons. Buy five, and I'll give you a discount."
"No. I don't want it." Snape backed off further, hands up. "I'm not doing… that."
"What that? It's not technology, it's magic!" Montague huffed. "I'm only telling you because we're housemates and you said you wanted to bulk up."
Snape couldn't help glancing at the top of Montague's head. Merlin's beard… it's only 1976 and the Quidditch world is already this insane?
"Monty—no, Montague, thanks. But no. I'm broke. Just let me use the training room. My friend's waiting for me…"
Snape turned and made a quick escape.
—
After dinner in the Great Hall, Snape dragged his feet toward Professor McGonagall's office.
He had another detention tonight—with James Potter.
So far, their punishments had ranged from sorting Filch's moldy archives, to laundering the infirmary linens for Madam Pomfrey, to polishing Tom Riddle's old trophy. A parade of tedious chores.
And yet, miraculously, they hadn't once come to blows. At least, not yet. Snape found that mildly impressive.
He knocked lightly.
"Come in," came Professor McGonagall's stern voice.
Her office was exactly what one might expect—nothing like Dumbledore's fantastical study. Spartan. Practical. The only decoration: a Gryffindor banner, a few House Cups, books, and tidy scrolls of parchment.
"Good evening, Professor," Snape said. "It seems Potter isn't here yet. What's on the agenda for tonight?"
"Good evening, Severus."
She handed him a stack of parchment.
"This is your last night. You are to write the sentence: 'I will treat students from all Houses with respect and unity.' Fill each page."
Snape sat at a small side table and began, feather quill scratching rhythmically across the page.
It was easier than he'd expected. This wasn't one of those detentions with Umbridge—the deranged toad—where blood and cruelty were involved. This was just… boring.
A few minutes later, James arrived. He chose the farthest corner from Snape, muttered a greeting to McGonagall, and joined in writing.
The professor sat nearby, flipping through the latest issue of Transfiguration Today under the warm lamp.
Almost two hours passed. Snape finally finished. He inspected his work, noticing with mild alarm how his handwriting grew lazier and larger toward the end.
Still, he submitted the stack, hoping McGonagall wouldn't be too critical.
She raised her brows but said only, "That will do."
As Snape turned to leave, a thought struck him. He looked back.
"By the way, Potter—your new parchment shipment will arrive in a few days."
SCREEEEECH—
James's chair made a shrill noise as he tensed, clearly struggling not to leap up. But his quill jerked, blotting his parchment with a splash of ink.
"Mr. Potter, you'll have to redo that sheet," McGonagall said without looking up.
Snape smirked as he pulled the door closed behind him.
Out in the corridor, he pulled the Marauder's Map from his robes.
A tap of his wand, and spiderweb-thin lines unfurled across the parchment, spreading from the point of contact until the entire map was alive with corridors and dots, names drifting slowly across the page.
Snape scanned the halls. Familiar paths, familiar names.
Then his eyes locked on one—Mulciber.
Mulciber was moving near the library on the fifth floor… and then vanished.
Snape's gut twisted.
Mulciber, near the library? Never. Unless he was someone else entirely now. And the spot he disappeared—yes, the map marked it. One of the secret passages to Hogsmeade.
He glanced at Filch's office, saw the caretaker unmoving behind the staircase wall, and dashed upstairs.
He cast a Disillusionment Charm, blending in with the armor stands, waiting patiently as the final stragglers left the library.
When Madam Pince finally pulled the doors shut, Snape moved.
He approached a tall mirror near the library entrance. Following the map's clues, he drew a peculiar pattern on the glass with his wand and whispered:
"Soar on wings."
At once, the mirror split down the middle, gliding apart like parting curtains.
Behind it yawned a wide tunnel.