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"Excuse me," Snape called out to the team captain, who was about to leave.
Montague paused and turned to look at Snape.
He was a burly figure, with thick, coarse hair and massive forearms that resembled hairy hams. The broom in his hand looked like a mere twig in comparison, making one wonder how it managed to lift him into the air.
"What's up?" Montague asked in a gruff, booming voice.
"Hello, I was wondering if non-Quidditch players could use your training room."
"Sure," Montague said, eyeing Snape up and down. "A scrawny bloke like you could definitely use some exercise. Today's tryouts were rubbish—no one as solid as me showed up."
Snape fought the urge to retort, thinking to himself that a lumbering oaf like Montague probably deserved to get his head stuck in a toilet.
"Wait here a sec." Montague disappeared into the captain's office.
When he emerged, he'd shed his Quidditch gear and was holding a black parcel.
"Ever had a Chocolate Frog?" Montague asked with a secretive air, though his expression looked more like he was battling constipation.
"What are you on about, Montague?"
"You know, those candies that hop around like real frogs."
Montague flung his arms wide in an exaggerated gesture, startling Snape, who nearly mistook him for a gorilla lunging forward.
"I know what they are!" Snape snapped, taking two steps back.
"Oh, good," Montague said, beckoning Snape closer. "Take a look at this."
Inside the parcel were several glass vials filled with a dark red liquid.
"What's that?"
"Compound Dragon Blood Potion."
"Does it turn you into a dragon?" Snape asked, now thoroughly confused. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Haven't you seen the cards?" Montague said, sounding impatient. "Dumbledore's card—twelve uses of dragon's blood."
"You mean—"
"Exactly. Builds strength." Montague nodded. "If you want to bulk up, this'll do the trick. It's got blood from nine different dragons: Norwegian Ridgeback, Hungarian Horntail, Chinese Fireball, Welsh Green, Swedish Short-Snout, Ukrainian Ironbelly, Australian Opaleye, Peruvian Vipertooth, and Romanian Longhorn. One vial's ten Galleons, but if you buy five or more, I'll knock off ten percent…"
"No, I'm good," Snape said, leaping back. "I'm not into… enhancements."
"Enhancements? This is magic!" Montague huffed. "If you weren't from my house and looking to get fit, I wouldn't even bother telling you."
Snape's eyes flicked to the top of Montague's head. Merlin's beard, it's only 1976, and the Quidditch scene's already this advanced?
"Mund—er, Montague, thanks, really. But I'm broke! Just let me use the training room. My friend's waiting for me…"
Snape bolted.
After dinner in the Great Hall, Snape trudged reluctantly toward Professor McGonagall's office. Tonight, he was stuck serving detention with James Potter—again.
So far, he and Potter had sorted through Filch's old files, washed bed linens for Madam Pomfrey, polished Tom Riddle's award plaque, and tackled other mind-numbingly dull tasks. The fact that they hadn't come to blows yet was, in Snape's opinion, nothing short of a miracle.
He knocked lightly on the door.
"Come in," came Professor McGonagall's stern voice.
Her office matched her no-nonsense demeanor. Unlike Dumbledore's whimsical quarters, this room was stark, almost austere. Aside from a Gryffindor banner, a few House Cups, and shelves lined with books and parchment scrolls, there was little decoration.
"Good evening, Professor," Snape said. "Looks like Mr. Potter hasn't arrived yet. What are we doing tonight?"
"Good evening, Severus." Professor McGonagall handed him a stack of parchment. "This is your last detention. You and Potter will write lines: I will get along with students from other Houses and work together in unity. Fill these sheets, and you can start now."
Snape took the parchment and settled at a small desk, dipping his quill to write the sentence over and over. This was far easier than he'd expected. It wasn't like Umbridge's sadistic punishments—no blood quills here.
Soon, Potter arrived and sat as far from Snape as possible, joining the line-writing brigade. Professor McGonagall, meanwhile, sat reading the latest issue of Transfiguration Today by lamplight.
Nearly two hours later, Snape finished. He reviewed his work with satisfaction, though he noticed his handwriting grew sloppier and larger toward the end. Nervously, he handed the stack to McGonagall, hoping she wouldn't nitpick.
To his relief, she merely frowned and said, "That'll do."
As he prepared to leave, Snape paused and turned to Potter. "Potter, the parchment I owe you will arrive in a few days."
A shrill screech erupted as Potter's chair scraped against the floor. He visibly struggled to stay seated, but his quill jerked, splattering ink across his parchment.
"Potter, what are you doing? You'll need to rewrite that sheet," McGonagall said sharply.
Smirking, Snape pulled the door shut behind him.
In the corridor, Snape slipped the Marauder's Map from his robes. With a tap of his wand, thin ink lines spread like spiderwebs from the point of contact, crisscrossing and filling the parchment.
He scanned the map, watching the tiny labeled dots move. His eyes traced familiar corridors until they landed on a name—Mulciber.
Mulciber was near the library on the fifth floor. Then, abruptly, his dot vanished.
Snape's heart raced. Unless Mulciber had transformed into someone else, there was no way he'd be in the library. And at the exact spot where he disappeared, the map marked a secret passage to Hogsmeade.
Noticing Filch's dot stationary in his office by the marble staircase, Snape sprinted upstairs. He cast a Disillusionment Charm, blending into the shadows like a human chameleon, and hid among suits of armor as the library's closing crowd dispersed.
Once Madam Pince locked the doors, Snape emerged and approached a large mirror near the library. Following the map's instructions, he traced an odd pattern on the glass with his wand and whispered, "Soar on wings."
The mirror parted, sliding into the walls.
A wide passage yawned before him.
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