The brightly lit underground corridor stretched away beneath the castle, its stone walls lined with oil paintings that looked warmer and cheerier than anything Roger Williams had seen near the Slytherin common room. A little farther down, rows of wooden barrels stood stacked against the wall, and Hufflepuff students passed them with the easy confidence of people returning home.
Several of them greeted Roger in a friendly way as they went by. They did not seem the least bit worried about a Slytherin watching them tap their wands against the barrels, as if the idea that he might steal his way into their common room had never crossed their minds.
"Want to give it a try?" Susan Bones asked, pointing toward the barrels with bright expectation in her eyes. She looked far too innocent for Roger to trust the invitation completely.
"What happens if I get it wrong?" Roger asked cautiously. Jessica had warned him that Hufflepuffs might seem gentle, but they were fiercely protective of their den, and outsiders were not meant to get in.
"You'll probably get drenched in vinegar," Susan said, covering her mouth as she laughed at the way he immediately shook his head. "There isn't any dangerous magic guarding our common room, so why not try? You might become the first guest we've had in a thousand years."
"No," Roger said firmly, standing tall with all the righteousness he could muster. "We must respect school rules. Students should not enter another House's common room."
The surrounding Hufflepuffs burst into laughter at once. It was probably the first time any of them had heard a Slytherin invoke school rules with such a straight face, and from their expressions, they clearly thought it was the least Slytherin thing imaginable.
Roger did not care. He patted his stomach and looked at Susan with dignified urgency. "Miss Bones, please take me to the house-elf kitchen. I'm starving."
"All right, come with me," Susan said, still smiling. She led him away from the barrels and pointed to the opposite side of the corridor, where an oil painting of a silver fruit bowl hung on the wall. "Here it is, Roger. Make the pear laugh, and you'll find the kitchen."
"Thank you, Miss Bones," Roger said quickly. He reached out and gently tickled the painted pear, which squirmed, giggled, and transformed into a shining green doorknob.
"Have a good appetite, Mr. Williams," Susan said, looking surprised that he had figured it out so quickly. She waved, tapped the correct barrel in the proper rhythm, and disappeared through the Hufflepuff entrance.
Roger pushed open the wooden door. Beyond it, dozens of house-elves bustled around an enormous kitchen that mirrored the Great Hall above, preparing ingredients for dinner with almost frightening enthusiasm.
Roasts turned over open heat, soup pots simmered, knives chopped by hand and magic, and trays slid into place as if the room itself were alive. The founders of Hufflepuff had brought house-elves to Hogwarts when the school was established, and many of the elves working here were descended from that original group.
"Welcome, welcome, young Master Williams," several house-elves cried together, bowing so low their ears nearly brushed the floor. Their respect was so intense that Roger almost stepped back.
"Is there anything we can do for you, Master Williams?" asked a small elf wearing a crooked little hat shaped like a carrot. He hurried over with huge shining eyes, staring at Roger as if being given an order would be the highlight of his life.
"You know my name?" Roger asked.
"Of course, Master Williams," the elf said eagerly. "Your magnificent appetite yesterday was the finest compliment we have ever received. All the house-elves at Hogwarts are deeply grateful for your praise."
"Can I have something to eat, then?" Roger asked, finally understanding that his performance at the opening feast had somehow won him a loyal following in the kitchens.
"Of course. Serving you would be our greatest joy," the elf said, practically vibrating with happiness. "Please ask for anything you wish."
"Roast meat, and some fruit," Roger said after a brief thought. It was not an elegant request, but elegance had very little place in an empty stomach.
"Do not worry, young Master Williams. It will be ready at once," the elf said.
The carrot-hatted elf moved like a spinning wheel of fire. In what felt like seconds, plates of hot food were laid out in front of Roger, and the smell alone made his stomach ache with anticipation.
"Well done," Roger said casually.
The elf froze as if he had been struck by lightning. Tears welled up in his huge eyes, and from the looks of the other elves, that simple praise might have been the greatest reward Roger could have given them.
Roger sat down and began eating happily. The freshly roasted lamb chops were still sizzling, each bite bursting with rich juices, the meat tender and springy enough to make the miserable remains upstairs seem like a cruel joke.
The plates in front of him emptied rapidly. Every time one dish vanished, another appeared in a blur, and the house-elves swarmed around him like a delighted storm.
Half an hour later, a towering stack of empty plates stood at Roger's left. The entire kitchen had fallen into stunned silence, because although Hufflepuffs sometimes came down for extra food, none of them ate with the pure, wholehearted devotion Roger showed.
"So happy, so happy!" the carrot-hatted elf cried, bowing over and over again. "Thank you for your recognition, young Master Williams."
As Hogwarts house-elves, they usually worked in places students barely noticed. They cleaned late at night, cooked underground, and stayed out of sight, but now they were watching a young wizard openly enjoy the results of their labour, and several of them had tears in their eyes.
"This is the best meal I've ever had," Roger said, giving the food the praise it deserved. Then he glanced at Daphne's pocket watch and realized the afternoon Potions lesson was about to begin. "Dot, could you prepare two lunchboxes for me?"
"Of course. It is my pleasure to serve you," Dot said, packing the food at remarkable speed. He even added polished silver cutlery, folded napkins, and fruit arranged so neatly that the whole thing looked ready for a picnic.
Meanwhile, in the Hogwarts dungeons, Hermione and Daphne kept looking toward the classroom door. Potions was about to begin, and Roger still had not arrived.
Ron Weasley noticed their concern and immediately brightened. "Harry, that Slytherin Roger is going to be late," he said, lowering his voice but not enough. "You know, that gluttonous freak."
Hermione shot him an angry glare. "How can you say that about him?"
"Why not?" Ron demanded. "Slytherins are all—"
He stopped abruptly because several Slytherins had turned to stare at him with unfriendly eyes. Malfoy, in particular, wore a half-smile, as if he was waiting eagerly for Weasley to finish the sentence and hang himself with it.
Ron flushed and looked away, then turned his glare on Hermione instead. As far as he was concerned, defending a Slytherin was strange enough, but defending Roger Williams was almost a betrayal.
The dungeon door opened with a dramatic sweep of black robes. Snape strode in from the corridor, completely unaware that the missing student had slipped into the classroom right behind him under the cover of his entrance.
"In this class," Snape began, his voice soft and cutting, "there will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations."
Roger moved quickly and silently to his place beside Daphne. Under the shelter of the desk, he passed two lunchboxes to Daphne and Hermione, earning two startled looks and one extremely suspicious sniff from Hermione.
"As such, I do not expect many of you to appreciate…" Snape turned, and his black eyes landed briefly on Roger, who had just sat down. "...the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making."
Under his own Head of House's cold gaze, Roger sat perfectly still. He looked innocent enough to make even a portrait suspicious.
"However, for those select few who possess true talent," Snape continued, lowering his head slightly as his eyes passed over Malfoy, who immediately straightened with pride, "I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses."
The dungeon fell silent. Snape's voice was not loud, but every word carried, curling through the room like cold smoke.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death," he said. Then his tone shifted, becoming sharper and more dangerous. "Then again, some of you may already have come to Hogwarts famous, confident, and convinced of your own extraordinary ability."
His gaze swept across the students' faces before settling on Harry Potter's irritatingly familiar features and Roger, who had lowered his head onto the desk again. "So certain, in fact, that you do not even bother to listen."
Snape gave Roger only a passing glance before focusing fully on Harry. He had no trouble tolerating a sleeping Slytherin, but the sight of James Potter's son sitting in his classroom made something bitter rise in his throat.
"Mr. Potter," Snape said, unbuttoning his cloak with deliberate slowness. "Our newest celebrity."
His dislike of Harry Potter was entirely personal, but that did not make it any less intense. Even hearing the surname was enough to sicken him, a deep nausea that felt as though it might drag bile up from his stomach.
Harry looked up, confused and wary. He had no idea why this professor had decided to mock him the moment class began.
Snape stared into those eyes, and for the briefest instant his voice softened. They were Lily's eyes, exactly Lily's, and that made the rest of the boy's face even harder to bear. "Potter, tell me. What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Hermione's hand shot into the air at once. From the determined angle of her arm, she was clearly aware that Slytherin was still ten points ahead of Gryffindor and intended to correct that as quickly as possible.
"You don't know?" Snape asked when Harry stayed silent. "Very well, let us try again."
Harry's face tightened. Around him, several students leaned forward, sensing that something unpleasant was about to happen.
"Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?" Snape asked.
"I don't know, sir," Harry answered honestly.
"Then perhaps you can tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Hermione's raised hand nearly trembled from the force of her eagerness. Snape ignored it completely, as if the only student in the room were Harry Potter.
"I don't know, sir," Harry said again, and this time there was defiance in his voice. He had realised by now that Snape was targeting him, and embarrassment had started to harden into anger.
"What a pity," Snape said coldly.
Deep beneath the sarcasm, there was something almost like a sigh. Lily's son was a complete idiot, and he had apparently inherited not even the faintest trace of her talent for Potions.
Snape covered it quickly, afraid even of his own thoughts. "Clearly, fame is not everything."
"Hermione obviously knows," Harry said angrily. "Why don't you ask her?"
A ripple of laughter spread through the classroom. It did not last long.
"Silence," Snape said.
His merciless gaze swept over the students like a blade. The young witches and wizards immediately shut their mouths.
.....
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