The Potions dungeon, already gloomy and thick with the steam of the various cauldrons, felt like a pressure cooker under the cold scrutiny of Professor Snape.
Vivian, despite her initial startlement, had followed Anduin's precise, non-verbal command. The moment the third clockwise stir was complete, she dropped the last crucial ingredients—the finely chopped pufferfish eyes—into the softly boiling potion.
The effect was immediate: the raw, eerie dark blue color that had signaled danger in other cauldrons instantly mellowed, shifting into a uniform, calming pale green, releasing a puff of perfectly controlled steam. The potion was complete, stable, and ready.
"Hmph!" Snape spat, the sound barely audible above the simmering cauldrons, but radiating pure disappointment. He had been lurking, expecting the precise moment of error, ready to swoop in with a lethal, cutting critique. Finding the potion flawless, he was momentarily thwarted. He turned his attention to the second row, his voice like cold sandpaper. "You two—Mr. Goyle, Mr. Crabbe—cease that senseless fidgeting! Do you aspire to spontaneously inflate and turn yourselves into grotesque, spiky pigs before the morning is out?"
Vivian silently patted her chest, exhaling a huge sigh of relief. "I swear, I almost ruined it. He's terrifying. I thought for sure we were adding the eyes too late. He's deliberately trying to mess with us."
Anduin, however, was already in his deep study mode—a state of focused detachment where external pressures rarely registered. He packaged the final, stabilized batch of the Swelling Potion with meticulous care. He was the first in the class to finish, by a considerable margin.
The final result, when presented to the Potions Master, earned him the briefest, most cursory glance. Snape marked his parchment with a hasty flourish and an even hastier designation: "Mediocre. See me after class, Wilson."
The bell signaling the end of the class rang, and the students, including the habitually slow Slytherins, bolted from the dungeon like startled gazelles, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere. The first lesson under Professor Snape had been a harrowing, emotionally exhausting experience for everyone.
Anduin alone remained. He collected his satchel slowly, acknowledging the necessity of this confrontation. He could not, and would not, endure an entire school year as the Professor's personal, silent target. He needed to establish terms, even if they were hostile terms.
Snape chuckled, a dry, contemptuous sound, as the last student vanished. He began tidying his desk with dramatic, unnecessary precision. "What is it, Mr. Wilson? Have you decided that your 'reckless arrogance' demands another public duel? Or perhaps you wish to strike your Head of House with a non-verbal hex now that the Headmaster is not present to shield me?"
Anduin stood his ground, maintaining a posture of calm respect despite the raw sarcasm. "Professor Snape, I stayed because I owe you a genuine apology. Yesterday, my judgment was entirely clouded by grief and confusion over the tragedy. I was completely ignorant of your true allegiances and was acting on faulty, if justifiable, information. I regret the offense and the physical damage I caused to you and the castle."
Snape stopped polishing a brass scale, his attention suddenly sharp. "Such eloquent grandiloquence, Wilson. You attempt to use high language to excuse the low quality of your judgment. I do not require your formal apology. I remember you perfectly well—you were the boy Sirius Black felt compelled to protect. As Black's friend, your rash emotional outburst comes as no shock. Fools corrupted by unstable influences tend to have erratic magical control."
The mention of Sirius, delivered with such venomous contempt, made a muscle twitch in Anduin's jaw. He narrowed his eyes slightly. He is deliberately provoking me. Why mention Sirius, and not James? Then, the core of Snape's contempt became clear.
"I was friends with Sirius, yes, but I was also close friends with Lily Potter," Anduin retorted, discarding the formality for a moment of sharp honesty. "And I do not believe my affection for her makes me a 'fool.' Was she also an 'unstable influence,' Professor? Or do you reserve your judgment only for those who are still breathing?"
Snape slammed the brass scale down on the desk with a deafening clang. He moved with alarming speed, closing the distance between them until he was directly in Anduin's personal space, his black eyes blazing with a dangerous, barely contained fire.
"Mr. Wilson, you will watch your tone and your insinuations when addressing a Professor. Your friend is a martyr, and your grief is understandable, but that does not give you license to lecture me on my emotional attachments, which you know nothing about." His voice was low, furious, and shaking with a passion that deeply unsettled Anduin.
Anduin stepped back, regaining his composure. The anger was too sudden, too absolute. It confirmed that Snape's hostility wasn't just about the duel; it was profoundly personal.
"I apologize, Professor. But if your hostility towards me is not resolved by my apology for yesterday's misunderstanding, then what is it?" Anduin demanded, his tone turning clinical. "If it is a personal prejudice that you cannot overcome, then I can only express my regret, and ask what conduct you expect from me that can possibly satisfy you."
Snape's rage slowly subsided, replaced by a cold, calculating sneer. "Arrogant brat. But perhaps you are not entirely without luck yet. Let me remind you of your house. I ask you, Wilson, why was I unable to locate you within the Slytherin Common Room yesterday? And the day before that? And the week before that? You are rarely, if ever, seen among your Housemates."
Snape's voice tightened with disdain. "Do you consider yourself above Slytherin, Mr. Wilson? Do you find the company of your own House so beneath your superior intellect that you must slink around the castle, an apparition who appears only when a dramatic hexing opportunity presents itself?"
"I do not hide because of disdain, Professor, but because of necessity," Anduin shot back. "My existence as a Muggle-born wizard is a guaranteed trigger for certain, less-than-intelligent pureblood members of this House. Staying in the common room was a safety issue that would lead to constant conflict, which I preferred to avoid."
"Do not make excuses, Wilson! The Dark Lord has fallen, and this is a time for the House to assert its discipline, not its cowardice!" Snape sneered, mocking the very idea of a Muggle-born seeking safety.
"I recall you possess an unusual aptitude for self-defense, judging by yesterday's impromptu demolition. Do not pretend you are physically intimidated. As the new Head of Slytherin House, I order you to return to the common dormitories. You will no longer act like a ghost. I will be making an inspection of the common room this evening, and I expect to see you among your Housemates. Do not disappoint me."
"I understand, Professor," Anduin responded, his jaw tight. He hated being forced, but he also saw the strategic value: if the Head of House insisted on his presence, it might inadvertently grant him a level of protection from the minor skirmishes he usually avoided.
He collected his things and left the dungeon, the oppressive smell of boiled snake bile and Snape's dark mood clinging to his robes.
Anduin wasted no time. He knew the pureblood contingent would be waiting for him, but he was no longer worried about their petty hexes. The breakthrough to the Transcendent Level of the Wizard's Hand had fundamentally changed the balance of power. He was now capable of reacting to and neutralizing spells with a speed and force that few students could match.
He muttered the password and stepped into the Slytherin Common Room.
The difference was startling. The usual atmosphere of simmering, plotting silence had been replaced by a jarring, almost festive cacophony. The sound of excited chatter, coupled with the rhythmic clack, clack, clack of small, rectangular tiles, filled the stone chamber.
In the center of the room, a large, antique table—usually reserved for serious planning—had been appropriated for an improvised Mahjong game. Four female students, including a slightly rebellious fourth-year named Tabitha, were enthusiastically slamming tiles, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers ranging from first-years to sixth-years. Mahjong, introduced as a foreign curiosity, had clearly become the House's newest, slightly desperate distraction from the war's end.
The appearance of Anduin, wearing his usual air of detachment and intellectual focus, caused an immediate ripple effect. The younger students stared at the "stranger" in Slytherin robes, whispering about the elusive "Slytherin Ghost" they rarely saw.
The whispers quickly turned into hostile glares as the pureblood contingent—Travers, Rozier, and a few others—noticed his return. They had been trying to forget the humiliating ambush they suffered in the main tower, and the sight of the architect of their disgrace was a massive provocation. Travers, whose family's reputation had been shredded by the Dark Lord's defeat, felt his humiliation most keenly.
He couldn't restrain his simmering rage. Ignoring Rozier's warning hiss, Travers detached himself from the group, his face a mask of scarlet fury.
"Well, well, look who slithered back into the dungeon," Travers sneered, loud enough to stop the clacking of the Mahjong tiles. "Isn't this our famous Slytherin Ghost? So, the half-blood finally deigns to honor us with his presence. I suppose the stench of his Muggle-born origin forced him to stay away until the dust settled. The Sorting Hat clearly made a mistake placing such a disgusting mudblood in Slytherin."
Anduin smiled, a cold, humorless expression that didn't reach his eyes. He stopped directly in front of Travers.
"I agree with a portion of your statement, Travers," Anduin's voice was smooth, carrying effortlessly across the room.
"Slytherin students are defined by ambition and cunning. However, fools like you, who require a Dark Lord to provide courage and whose primary ambition is to simply repeat the bigotry of their parents, consistently lower the standard of this House. You dare to spout this nonsense, yet when faced with a real challenge, you are reduced to screaming about your wallet."
Travers' face went from red to a terrifying shade of purple. "You—! I'll show you who's the fool!" He lunged forward, his hands already twitching toward his wand pocket.
Rozier and another student, Crabbe's elder brother, immediately wrestled Travers back. "Stop, Travers! Not here! The Professor will be here tonight!" they hissed, terrified of incurring Snape's wrath on their first day back.
The commotion brought the entire room to a standstill. Even the usually engrossed Mahjong players paused, their attention fixed on the volatile confrontation.
It was then that an older, more imposing figure stepped between Anduin and the struggling Travers. The boy was in his fourth year, stocky, with short, light brown hair and a surprisingly intense, calculating gaze.
"Enough, Travers. Stop making a spectacle of yourself," the older student commanded, pulling Travers back with a strength that suggested genuine authority.
Anduin recognized the student: Quake Wilkes. He was a known, ardent pureblood ideologue, and the relative who had died in the skirmish at the Potter house last Christmas had been his uncle. Anduin braced himself for the inevitable, deeply personal attack.
But instead of hostility, Wilkes turned to Anduin and offered a slight, almost chillingly professional smile. He attempted a show of diplomacy, his voice smooth and deceptively calm.
"We are all Slytherins, Anduin. There is no need for such aggression in our own common room, is there?" Wilkes concluded, his eyes assessing Anduin not as a target, but as a complicated problem. The internal power structure of Slytherin had just shifted.