Chop, chop, chop—
Rock was hyper-focused, slicing the African Boomslang skin in front of him into precise, even shreds.
He honestly had no idea why there was always a mountain of ingredients waiting for him every time he served detention.
Judging by how busy Snape was, the man was practically running an underground apothecary.
Rock paused for a second, a thought crossing his mind.
Does Snape actually take custom orders for potions?
If so, his client list must be pretty extensive.
First, it was the Draught of Peace, and not long ago, he was brewing the Draught of Living Death.
The weird thing was, these were all sedatives or calming agents. Was the stress level in the wizarding world really that high?
"Rock!"
Snape looked up, his face cold and expressionless.
"Yes, Professor."
Rock snapped out of his thoughts, quickly bagging the shredded ingredients and placing them in the designated storage spot.
Then, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible, he walked over to Snape's workstation to watch him brew.
As he watched the process, a question that had been bugging him for a while floated to the surface.
Rock's gaze drifted from the cauldron to Snape's face.
"Your eyes are bulging like a goldfish, clearly trying to transmit some sort of query..."
Snape didn't even turn his head, his voice dripping with his usual venom.
"Unfortunately, I do not possess the ability to decipher the hollow thoughts echoing inside a troll's skull."
Classic Snape. Toxic as ever.
But this was exactly the opening Rock needed.
"Professor, what are the specific applications for a Mandrake?"
Snape paused.
His profile was blurred slightly by the steam rising from the cauldron, and he lowered his voice.
"Ah... A troll who hasn't even mastered the first chapter of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi has decided to throw a question at me."
"But since a sliver of curiosity has finally penetrated that empty shell you call a head, remember this: mature Mandrake roots are the primary ingredient in the Mandrake Restorative Draught, used to cure petrification. The extract from their young leaves is used in potent recovery potions."
Rock ignored the insults and flipped open his notebook, jotting down exactly what Snape said.
"Hypothetically, Professor—and I mean hypothetically—aside from being a blood-replenisher, a component in antidotes, and the de-petrification agent you just mentioned... are there any other uses?"
Snape's eyes narrowed slightly.
He finally turned his face fully toward Rock.
"You... have an interest in the Dark Arts?"
His tone was icy.
Rock froze for a second, then quickly realized what Snape was implying.
Right. Excluding the known medicinal uses, the only thing left in Potions regarding Mandrakes usually involved corrupting the ingredients with Dark Magic for nefarious purposes.
Rock shook his head immediately.
"Not at all, Professor. It's just that a few days ago, I saw Professor Quirrell carrying a pot of Mandrake back to the castle. The leaves looked withered and yellow, which seemed odd to me."
Snape's brow furrowed.
A flicker of calculation passed through his eyes as he stared at Rock.
"That's it? That is the sole reason for your inquiry?"
Snape remained skeptical.
"Well, I know the standard uses for Mandrakes," Rock said, blinking innocently. "But Professor Quirrell didn't look like someone who needed a restorative or a cure for petrification. So, I just got curious."
"Hmph... Ravenclaw."
Snape pursed his lips, his tone as biting as ever. "Always eager to replace critical thinking with endless questions."
"Professor, questions are the start of critical thinking," Rock countered, shaking his head.
"Is that so?"
Snape sneered. "If you are truly as studious as you claim, then by tomorrow night, I expect a three-foot essay on the relationship between the frequency of a Mandrake's cry and the active properties of the de-petrification potion. And do remember to use ink, not your usual... drool."
Snape poured cold water on the conversation and assigned extra homework in the same breath.
"Understood, Professor."
Rock smiled, packing up his bag. "I'll be heading back now. Goodnight, Professor."
It was just an essay. He could write that in his sleep.
Snape watched Rock leave, his frown deepening.
Once the door clicked shut, he ignored the steaming cauldron, turned on his heel, and strode toward the door at the back of the room.
He shoved it open.
Inside the dark storage chamber, Snape moved with practiced ease to a bookshelf in the corner.
He paused for a moment, then tapped a specific spot with his wand.
A book bound in strange, black leather flew out.
Snape ignored the whispering voices that seemed to radiate from it and the thick aura of Dark Magic. He raised his wand and flipped the book open directly to the page etched in his memory.
"Cursed Mandrake... applicable for Parasitic Stabilization..."
Snap.
With a wave of his sleeve, the book slammed shut and flew back onto the shelf, sealing itself away.
Snape turned and walked out of the secret room quickly.
Passing his workstation, he pointed his wand at the cauldron—which was now smoking black and thoroughly ruined—and banished the mess into nothingness.
---
Headmaster's Office.
Snape didn't bother knocking. He pushed the door open and strode in.
Dumbledore looked up from his desk, a look of mild surprise on his face. "What is it, Severus?"
Snape kept his face blank, though his voice carried a heavy dose of sarcasm.
"Headmaster. Did your portraits, which infest every corner of this castle, fail to mention that Quirrell removed a Mandrake from the greenhouses a few days ago?"
Dumbledore's hand, which had been reaching for a lemon drop, froze in mid-air.
The relaxed expression vanished from his face.
"No," Dumbledore said, his brow furrowing. He looked straight at Snape. "Tell me everything, Severus."
"The student you dumped on me just asked a question about the uses of Mandrakes," Snape said, the corner of his mouth twitching in a sneer.
"He mentioned seeing Quirrell carrying a withered Mandrake back to the castle a few days ago."
"Fortunately, I once saw a book on Symbiotic Dark Magic in Malfoy Manor. It mentioned that a Mandrake corrupted by Dark Magic can be used to brew a specific potion: the Parasitic Stabilizer."
"Parasitic..."
Dumbledore murmured the word, slowly leaning back into his high-backed chair. He pressed his fingertips together, the firelight from the hearth dancing in his eyes.
"We were wrong, Severus. We assumed he was merely giving orders from the shadows, directing Quirrell's actions. We didn't anticipate..."
"So, according to your theory, the Mandrake isn't being used to strengthen the possession, but to delay the rejection?"
"Quite the opposite," Snape said.
His voice lacked its usual mockery, replaced by a cold, clinical statement of fact.
"The need for such a potion indicates that the vessel is already collapsing. The potion is simply a means to make driving the body more... comfortable."
Dumbledore let out a soft sigh, heavy with implication.
A brief silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the firewood.
Dumbledore stood up and walked to the window, gazing out at the dark grounds and the vague outline of the Forbidden Forest.
"Severus, we need to adjust the defenses guarding the Stone," Dumbledore said quietly.
"I need you to contribute. You will handle the final defense."
Dumbledore turned around, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Snape.
"Your observation is vital. Continue to watch Quirrell, but do not alert him. Now that we know the enemy's form, that is enough."
Snape pursed his lips.
The air in the room felt sickeningly sweet to him.
Even now, Dumbledore was proceeding with the plan. He was going to let Harry Potter... face an enemy who, while weakened, was desperate and dangerous.
The thought of that boy's name made Snape's stomach turn.
He understood the logic.
But that didn't mean he had to like it.
Snape's mouth twisted into a grim, almost distorted smile.