Harry's green eyes fixed on Snape. The moment the word "Mudbloods" left his lips, a tremor hit Snape's hand; a vein jumped at his temple.
The next heartbeat, Snape turned serpent—voice cold, sibilant—lashing the Slytherins.
"I don't recall ever teaching you that word."
"Ashbourne was right: some of you need remedial etiquette."
"Stand. Every. One. Of. You."
His wand snapped towards Marcus Flint. "As for you… with a brain duller than a troll's club, standing may be too advanced. Let's try a posture more conducive to learning."
Levicorpus.
Flint flipped upside-down in mid-air. The last few loose teeth abandoned ship under gravity and pattered to the stones.
Even that didn't bleed off Snape's fury. "Slytherin, minus fifty."
Hope drained from Slytherin faces in a single, collective wince. First-years even risked a few smug sidelong looks. Told you it wasn't us…
Snape's gaze cut to Theo, then to Harry. His face went blank. "Theodore Ashbourne. Harry Potter. For your… performance—detention. My office, Tuesday evening. I will see to your… instruction personally."
He stressed the words, turned on his heel, and stalked off.
Hermione and Ron bristled, ready to protest. Theo and Harry exchanged a look, both wearing the same odd half-smile, and tugged their friends a little down the corridor.
"How can he give you detention?" Hermione fumed. "They were in the wrong!"
"Relax," Theo said, amused. "For other people, a detention is a detention. For us? I'm fairly sure he's not talking about scrubbing cauldrons."
Harry nodded vigorously. "I've seen Dudley get 'taken home to be disciplined.' It meant ice cream and a new toy. Professor Snape just did the wizard version. Feels more 'private coaching' than punishment."
Ron squinted. "Is it just me, or did Snape look at Harry like… like he was his—erm—actual daughter?"
Harry blinked. Before he could parse that horrifying thought, Gryffindor swept them up in cheers and shouldered them into lunch.
It was the happiest meal Gryffindor had eaten all week. Half the Slytherin table sat empty—the culprits still "practising posture" in the corridor—and the House Hourglasses glittered with crimson sand well above blue and yellow. Green lagged a distant last.
Even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were smiling.
A barn owl swooped down—Hedwig, late with breakfast post—dropping a thick envelope into Harry's lap. Inside, Hagrid's sprawling scrawl:
Heard yeh kids've the afternoon free.
Come down fer tea 'round three, bring yer friends—
Harry's grin flashed. He scribbled on the back: Would love to. See you at three. Bringing Ashbourne, Ron, and Hermione. He glanced towards Neville and Seamus—the former hunched over Herbology notes with grave purpose, the latter sentenced to polish duty after another Thursday boom. Best not disturb them.
At five to three, Theo, Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the castle, cut across the grounds, and headed for the squat hut straddling the Forest's edge. A hunting crossbow and a pair of rubber galoshes hung by the door.
Theo's eyes flicked to the crossbow. Old flecks of brown along the prod—mostly human blood, a smear of Hagrid's own. Seven-Apertures Heart whispered the tale. Theo's brows rose. Half-giant or not, Hagrid wasn't a butcher; and beneath the bumbling warmth lay a fighter few wanted to meet. Height only a foot shy of Theo's newly domesticated troll, strength and spellwork both solid. Push him to the wall and, among the Order, even Professor McGonagall would think twice about a straight brawl. And behind Hagrid stood Dumbledore.
Who pushed Hagrid hard enough to bloody a crossbow?
Inside, the hut smelled of smoke and wet dog. They made brave faces over rock cakes that could dent steel. Theo, crunching happily, decided they were quite decent—as long as your jaw could bench-press a Bludger.
After pleasantries, Theo tipped his chin towards the crossbow. "Do you run into trouble often, as gamekeeper?"
Hagrid's expression sobered. He nodded. "Course. Forbidden Forest's bigger'n most folks reckon, packed with rare beasts an' creatures worth more'n a vault o' Galleons. That brings the wrong sort o' wizards sniffin' round—poachers, tha's the word." He scratched at his beard. "Nasty lot, too. Nearly did fer me a few times."
Even remembering it made him shiver. "Still, it's nothin' like it used ter be. A century back—now that was poachin' season proper. They even had a name—stinkin' notorious, they were."
He squinted, fishing out the memory. "What d'ye call 'em again? Oh—right. The Cinder Serpents."
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