That sentence landed like a boulder dropped into a still lake.
"What?"
"Not going back to the dorm? Then where do we sleep?"
"You've got to be kidding!"
The students erupted. Whatever fragile team rapport they'd managed to build in the last hour shattered instantly, swamped by panic over the unknown.
Lupin let them run with it for several dozen seconds.
Then his voice cut through , gentle, clear, unhurried.
"You'll be camping here."
"Eating and sleeping. Right here."
His hand gestured toward a pile of enormous gray canvas bundles stacked at the edge of the clearing.
"Magic tents have been prepared for you."
"Now, in your groups, go collect your tent."
"Your task is to cooperate and set it up."
He paused. A meaningful smile settled on his face.
That smile made every last one of them feel a small, cold drop of dread.
"Oh, right." He added, almost as an afterthought. "Lunch is ready."
He tilted his chin in the opposite direction.
The students turned to look. Not far away, several long tables had been laid out, covered in crisp white tablecloths. House-elves moved between them, setting down plate after plate of steaming food.
The smell of roast chicken hit first. Then the dark, savory richness of meat pie. The breeze carried it with surgical precision, straight into the nose of every hungry young wizard standing in that clearing.
Every single person swallowed.
"The rules are simple." Lupin's voice carried a thread of slyness. "Whichever group finishes setting up their tent first, and passes my inspection — that group eats first."
"Good luck!"
Dead silence.
One second.
Two seconds.
Then the clearing exploded.
"Go! We need to grab the tent now!"
"T24, stop standing there — get the biggest bundle!"
"T56! Read the instructions! We'll handle the poles!"
The children who had been split by house and history moments ago transformed into a single ravenous pack that had just caught a scent.
House? Honor? Prejudice?
In the face of steaming roast chicken, what exactly were those things? Could you eat them?
Derek Flint was nearly the first one to move. He reached back and grabbed Stephen Caldwell by the sleeve, snapping him out of his daze.
"T24! What are you doing? Move!"
His tone was still rough. But it wasn't contempt anymore. It was urgency, pure and simple.
"Oh — yeah!" Stephen blinked, then bolted.
Arguments still flared. Voices still clashed.
But the nature of it had changed completely.
Not the cold disdain born from identity and bloodlines. Just the hot, practical friction of people chasing the same goal and disagreeing on how to get there.
Lupin stood to one side, arms folded, a quietly satisfied smile on his face.
---
Douglas, meanwhile, was enjoying a rare luxury: a peaceful morning on the first day of term.
Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, scattering across the wool carpet in warm, lazy pools of color.
He was sunk deep into an armchair, both hands wrapped around a freshly brewed cup of black tea. Steam curled upward, carrying the faint scent of bergamot.
He was very nearly asleep.
KNOCK KNOCK.
Soft. Hesitant.
A house-elf shuffled in, large eyes wide with something between anxiety and apology. It was clutching a roll of parchment in both hands. The seal was dark green wax, pressed into the shape of a coiled serpent.
"Professor Holmes." The elf's voice was barely a whisper. "This is from Professor Snape."
It set the letter on the corner of the desk as carefully as if it were a live snake. Then it bowed so low its nose nearly touched the floor, and was gone.
Douglas raised an eyebrow.
A letter. From Snape.
He broke the seal with one finger. The parchment unrolled to reveal Snape's handwriting , sharp, slanted, thin as a blade.
The content was polite to the point of parody.
I understand Professor Holmes has no classes this morning and finds himself rather at leisure.
In light of certain... gaps in your foundational knowledge of advanced Potions education,
I am generously extending an opportunity.
You are invited to observe the sixth-year Potions class at your convenience.
Consider it a remedial measure for your regrettable deficiencies.
The corner of Douglas's mouth pulled tight.
Generously. Gaps. Remedial.
Every word was soaked through with condescension.
This wasn't an invitation. It was a gauntlet. A challenge dropped from the undisputed sovereign of the Hogwarts dungeons, wrapped in the thinnest possible veneer of courtesy.
Douglas exhaled.
If he didn't show up, he'd spend the next week sitting across from those eyes at the professors' table , and the mockery in them would carve him to pieces without a single word being spoken.
"Fine, then." Douglas stood, brushing non-existent dust from his robes. "Let's see what new tricks you've been working on."
---
The dungeon corridor was exactly as he remembered: cold, damp, torches guttering on the stone walls, shadows leaping and jumping in no particular direction.
Douglas followed the familiar route to the Potions classroom.
And stopped.
The old door was gone. The worn, potion-scarred oak that had stood there for as long as he could remember , gone. In its place was a new iron door. Heavy. Black. Two entwined serpents had been carved across its face, their eyes set with green gemstones that caught the torchlight and threw it back cold.
No handle. Just a line of silver Ancient Runes shifting slowly across the surface, rearranging themselves against the dark stone.
"Theatrical," Douglas muttered.
He stepped forward to examine the runic lock.
He hadn't even raised his hand.
CLICK!
A low, mechanical sound. The door didn't swing. It slid , silent, smooth, gliding inward like the slow opening of something that had been waiting.
Like a mouth.
Severus Snape stood in the shadow behind it. His black robes dissolved into the dark so completely that only his face was visible , pale, sharp, illuminated just enough by the ambient light to be read.
The corner of his mouth was curved upward.
Not a smile. The expression of someone watching prey step into a snare.
"I rather thought," Snape said, his voice dry as old parchment, "that Professor Holmes might be defeated by the entry potion." He let a small, deliberate weight fall on the word Professor. "After all, for someone without formal advanced training, it is somewhat beyond the standard curriculum."
Douglas's tone stayed light. His words didn't yield an inch.
"Can't be helped, Professor." He spread his hands. "When I was a student here, I had the extraordinary privilege of being taught by the world's foremost authority on lacing words with venom. Years of exposure leave a mark. I must have picked up a few things."
He reached out and gave the iron door a light pat.
"The factory tour clearly gave you some inspiration, too. You've even gone automatic."
With that, he walked in.
And stopped.
His pupils narrowed, just slightly.
This was not the room he remembered. Not the large, open chamber filled with drifting vapor and boiling cauldrons, every wall hung with jars of dubious, murky specimens.
The dungeon had been completely remade.
➤ Next: The Weasley Twins: Help! We're Wearing Pinru's Clothes in Snape's Class!
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