"Good evening, Professor Anthony," Tracy replied calmly, withdrawing her hand from the stone brick and straightening up a little.
"And what is the reason today, Davis?" Anthony asked. His lesson plans, his dinner, and the Hogwarts house-elves could all attest that he truly hadn't planned on catching any students out of bed tonight.
Tracy hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. She didn't answer.
"Why do I always run into you during your nightly strolls?" Anthony said. "Come along, Miss Davis. I need to return you to where you ought to be… Points or detention?"
"Points, Professor," Tracy said, stepping out of the stairwell's shadows.
"Alright. Two points from Slytherin for being out of bed," Anthony said. He nodded at her, indicating she should head back to her dormitory. He walked beside her, studying her in the dim light.
He saw no signs of injury on Tracy. Her hair was neatly tied back, her robes were clean and warm, her expression relaxed. She didn't seem to mind the lost points for Slytherin at all.
"Is something wrong, Professor Anthony?" Tracy asked keenly.
"Slytherin isn't too concerned about the House Cup this year?" Anthony asked.
Tracy was privately relieved he wasn't pursuing the reason for her midnight wanderings. She latched onto the new topic easily.
"Hm? No, they still care very much. Draco keeps saying that if it weren't for… certain incidents last year…" Tracy shot a quick glance at Anthony, "…Slytherin should have won the House Cup. Ravenclaw breaking Slytherin's six-year winning streak last year already made a lot of people unhappy." She thought for a moment, then added, "But Slytherin has a very good chance at the Quidditch Cup this year—Roger keeps complaining to me about those Nimbus 2001s—and that will earn Slytherin more House points."
"Alright," Anthony said.
"Why do you ask, Professor Anthony?" Tracy said.
"Because I have the stereotype that Slytherins 'don't like losing points'?" Anthony said, thinking of how Pansy Parkinson had petrified Tracy on the Astronomy Tower, then run out of her dormitory at night because she'd forgotten the counter-curse. He also remembered Pansy's words during detention. "'Slytherin pride'?"
Tracy gave a soft "Oh."
Anthony turned to look at her, surprised by the coolness in her tone. "You don't sound entirely convinced."
Tracy pressed her lips together, hesitating. Anthony said gently, "This is just idle curiosity. I'd be happy to hear your thoughts if you're willing to share. But if not…"
"Alright, it's nothing I can't say," Tracy said. "I suppose that impression comes from Draco—or Pansy?" She glanced at Anthony, studying his expression, then continued calmly, "In any case, that's their Slytherin pride. Not mine. I never cared about losing points to begin with."
It was only then that Anthony remembered Tracy had indeed never shown any particular desire for the House Cup. He had seen that desire, to varying degrees, in Pansy, Malfoy, Roger, Harry, Ron—even the Weasley twins—but Tracy seemed genuinely indifferent. If he remembered correctly, after Ravenclaw won last year, Tracy had even congratulated Roger.
"You're making me consider changing your punishment from points to detention, Miss Davis," Anthony said.
A flicker of amusement crossed Tracy's face. "Roger says you don't like assigning detentions."
"I… well, I don't, no," Anthony admitted, stopping in the dungeon corridor leading to the entrance to the Slytherin common room. "So don't let me catch you out of bed again, alright? I'm afraid next time it will be detention, Miss Davis."
"Yes, Professor Anthony," Tracy said.
The torchlight cast dancing shadows across her face. Anthony noticed the dark circles under her eyes seemed deeper than the last time they'd met in the dead of night.
"Davis, are you having trouble sleeping?" Anthony said. "I think I need to repeat this: if you feel you need it, please don't hesitate to ask Madam Pomfrey or anyone else for help. Seeking help isn't a sign of weakness, Miss Davis."
"I know, Professor," Tracy said seriously, offering him a small smile. "Thank you." She turned towards the damp stone wall. "Pure-blood."
With a grating, rasping sound, a hidden stone door within the wall slid open. Anthony watched as Tracy—a half-blood—stepped inside. The door sealed shut behind her, the stone smoothing over as if she had simply walked straight through solid rock.
…
Anthony stood by the damp wall for a while before finally turning to leave.
The Slytherin dungeons were damper and colder than the rest of the castle. A chill seeped from every corner of the rough stone walls. Apart from the faint crackle of torches and the occasional drip… drip… of water hitting the floor, the place was quiet as a tomb.
Anthony still intended to get a bite from the kitchens, but as he walked, he couldn't stop turning over the peculiar atmosphere of Slytherin House in his mind.
What did Tracy—and the other Slytherin students who weren't pure-blood wizards—think every day when they spoke that password to enter their common room? Snape, the Head of Slytherin House, was a half-blood himself, wasn't he? Why had he agreed to such a password?
He walked up the long corridor, recalling his interactions with Slytherin students.
From his perspective, he'd say they were a group with their own distinct logic. They seemed set apart from the other three Houses. Even with Tracy, with whom he had the most amicable relationship among the Slytherins, he could still sense her wariness during their exchanges. Behind her "thank you," he could hear an entire unspoken chain of "but I don't need it."
Perhaps he should have waited longer in the dungeons. He might have run into another student sneaking out… then he could assign a detention and have a chat with more Slytherins.
The thought had just crossed his mind when he caught something strange in his peripheral vision. The torchlight seemed to hesitate in a dim corner ahead. Anthony whirled around, memories of Quirrell and his Disillusionment Charm flashing through his mind.
His feet were moving before his brain fully caught up, striding quickly towards that corner. He could make out a figure there, like a human-shaped chameleon, but the skillful charm and the flickering torchlight made it impossible to identify who it was.
He drew his wand, pointing it at the wizard. The other wizard seemed to react on instinct too, whipping out a wand and thrusting it threateningly towards Anthony's face, taking a large, aggressive step forward.
That was close enough. Anthony recognized a prominent, hooked nose, its colors shifting rapidly to match the torchlight on the stone wall behind it.
"Professor Snape?" he said, surprised.
…
"Professor Anthony," Snape said grudgingly, lowering his wand a fraction.
Anthony lowered his own wand. "My apologies. I didn't expect it to be you, Professor Snape. What are you doing here?"
"An excellent question, Professor Anthony. This is the Slytherin dungeons," Snape said, also putting his wand away. "A plausible explanation is that I happen to be the Head of Slytherin House. Perhaps the question should be, what are you doing here?"
"Escorting a wandering student back to her dormitory," Anthony explained. "I was just leaving."
"How responsible. Truly impressive," Snape said dryly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Professor Anthony, I have more pressing matters." He moved past Anthony, heading upwards.
Anthony hesitated, then followed.
Snape stopped. A hiss escaped him. "Is there a problem, Professor Anthony?"
"No," Anthony said calmly, deciding not to delve into why the Head of Slytherin was standing in a Slytherin dungeon corridor in the middle of the night under a Disillusionment Charm. Everyone had their secrets.
Snape's voice grew more dangerous. "Then I fail to understand why you are following me, Anthony."
"It's nothing. I'm heading upstairs as well," Anthony replied. They were standing on the nearest ramp leading up to the ground floor.
…
"Would you mind dropping the Disillusionment Charm for a moment?" Anthony said. "It's making me a bit dizzy."
He wasn't lying. If you had a patch of fabric constantly shifting colors and sheen in front of your eyes, you'd feel dizzy too.
Snape's voice was icy. "Yes. I would mind."
"Fine," Anthony said.
…
Anthony had never felt the distance from the dungeons to the ground floor to be so long. Snape strode silently ahead of him, his footsteps so light he seemed to glide. In the heavy silence, the shimmering, shifting illusion before Anthony's eyes felt even more disorienting.
"How is the unicorn blood simulation progressing?" Anthony asked, purely for his own comfort. "I heard you discovered unicorn blood and venom might be used to create an artificial body?"
"Not an artificial body, Anthony," Snape said. "A magically-guided physical coagulation aided by potions. Of course, I don't expect you to grasp the distinction."
"Not 'aided by potions,' but a blending of substances representative of life and death," Anthony echoed his phrasing. "I do read, Snape."
Snape snorted. Anthony felt a little better. He no longer felt like he was trailing behind some bizarre, flowing hallucination.
"Flesh magic," Snape muttered mockingly under his breath. "Flesh magic and a necromancer. Azkaban ought to reserve at least two cells for you, Anthony."
"Hmm…" Anthony said. He knew Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were well aware of his prison break history, but he wasn't sure how much Snape knew.
Snape's tone turned silky. "I'm not stirring up fond memories, am I, Professor Anthony?"
"No. Not at all," Anthony said.
They were finally nearing the ground floor. Anthony sighed in relief, spotting the archway leading to the main corridors through Snape's shimmering form. It was then he suddenly realized Snape didn't seem to be wearing his usual black teaching robes.
"Professor Snape," Anthony said hesitantly, "are you wearing that eight-thousand-Galleon dueling robe?"
"I wasn't aware you'd developed an interest in fashion, Professor Anthony. Your interests are surprisingly broad," Snape said. "I thought flesh magic would be enough. I know Dumbledore has an annoying tendency to try and involve you in this or that research project, but if you and Dumbledore plan to discuss knitting patterns, please do not trouble to inform me."
Anthony didn't let him divert the topic. "What I mean is, why are you wearing a dueling robe, Professor Snape? I recognize it clearly."
Professor Flitwick had once proudly shown Anthony his favorite dueling robe—six thousand, seven hundred and twenty Galleons. According to him, these robes with their tight-fitting sleeves offered no particular advantage other than being perfectly suited for large, sweeping movements. A proper dueling robe ensured its wearer wouldn't be hindered by their clothing during a duel.
Their exorbitant price, aside from the meticulously selected, exceptionally sturdy fabrics, came from them being one hundred percent bespoke. Only a handful of tailors possessed the skill to craft them. In a sense, a dueling robe had become a status symbol. Anthony couldn't believe Snape had just happened to put on an eight-thousand-Galleon robe by chance.
"That is none of your concern," Snape said coldly.
"Don't tell me you're off to duel someone," Anthony said, quickening his pace to catch up. "Seriously, Snape? At this hour?"
"Perhaps, unlike certain idle, time-wasting individuals, my days are too occupied to find a more… conventional time. Perhaps my intended dueling partner would scream and turn to ash in the sunlight," Snape said impatiently. "I said, it is none of your concern."
He strode up the steps. Anthony followed, about to say more, when he noticed Snape had frozen.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were emerging from the hospital wing, talking heatedly. Harry was frowning, Ron was running his hands through his hair in frustration, and Hermione was shaking her head repeatedly, looking positively furious.
"Well, well," Snape murmured softly. "Well, well, well."
At that moment, Harry turned his head. His gaze lingered on the stairwell where Snape and Anthony stood.
To Anthony's surprise, Harry paused, said something to Ron and Hermione while pointing in their direction, and then broke into a jog straight towards them. Ron and Hermione followed, their expressions a mix of anxiety and urgency.
"Professor Anthony!" Harry said breathlessly, clearly overlooking the still-Disillusioned Snape beside him. "Professor Anthony, Sirius is missing!"
May the magical world be free of overtime.
(Have to attend a work event tonight. Taking the day off, sorry!)
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