AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you once again for your follows, favourites and reviews. There are a few quotes here taken from the original book. Don't own anything and making no money from it. Enjoy.
Chapter Two
The Gryffindor dormitory was too warm, too crowded, and too full of people she didn't trust. Whispers had followed her all the way up the tower, and the moment she stepped into the first-year girls' dormitory, the questions started.
"So… you're a Greengrass?" Lavender Brown had asked, wide-eyed, as Daphne pulled back the red velvet curtains around her four-poster bed.
"That's what they tell me," Daphne muttered, dropping onto her mattress.
Parvati Patil, sitting cross-legged on her bed, tilted her head curiously. "I thought all the Greengrasses were Slytherins."
Daphne rolled her eyes. "Yeah, me too."
Lavender leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Are you, like, a spy for them or something?"
Daphne laughed at that, an actual bark of amusement. "Riiiight, because I'd choose to live in a tower full of loudmouth Gryffindors just to report back to my Slytherin family?" She snorted. "Brilliant strategy. On the other hand, if I were a spy, would I ever admit it?"
Lavender huffed, but Parvati nudged her with a grin. "Told you that was dumb."
As the girls continued talking about the Sorting and speculating about their professors, Daphne found herself withdrawing. They weren't nasty, not like some of the looks she'd received from her housemates downstairs, but she could feel the distance between herself and them.
She was a Gryffindor now, but she wasn't one of them.
The next morning, after a broken sleep, Daphne was still feeling restless. She shoved her blankets aside, grabbed her trainers, and pulled them on. She needed to move.
The common room was mostly empty when she crept down the stairs, only a few early risers stirring the embers in the fireplace. No one paid her much attention as she slipped out the portrait hole and headed for the castle grounds.
The morning air was crisp as Daphne stepped outside, the sky streaked with the first golden rays of dawn.
She took off toward the Black Lake at a steady pace, her mind still buzzing with frustration. Gryffindors didn't trust her. Slytherins hated her. She didn't belong anywhere.
But none of that mattered when she was running.
Her feet pounded against the soft grass, breath coming in controlled bursts. She pushed herself harder, circling the lake's edge, the cold air biting at her skin. Every step drove her frustrations further away.
If they don't trust me, fine. I don't need them. I've never needed them.
The world blurred into motion. Wind rushing past, trees flashing by, the rhythmic slap of her trainers against the earth. It was the one thing that was hers, something her mother could never take away with stupid dresses and pointless social gatherings. Trees and rocks and grass and leaves flashed past in a maelstrom of colour. Unbidden, her memories started flashing behind her eyes as well…
Daphne ran.
The cold London air bit at her skin, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she wove through the streets, her boots slapping against the pavement. Behind her, shouts echoed. Rough voices, angry and hungry, closing in. She didn't look back. She knew better than to waste time.
She had learned fast in the past few weeks. The city was not kind to the weak, and for all her sharp words and quick fists, she was still just a girl alone in a world that didn't care if she survived the night.
A wrong turn had put her here, in the middle of a chase she wasn't sure she could outrun.
The alley she sprinted into was a dead end.
Daphne skidded to a halt, cursing under her breath as she spun around, heart hammering.
Three of them. Older. Taller. Their smiles sharp and confident, like they knew they had won.
"Well, look at that," one of them sneered. "Little runaway's got nowhere left to go."
Daphne's fists clenched. She refused to go down easily. She'd bite, scratch, break fingers if she had to. She'd fought off enough of her mother's perfectly manicured expectations to know that she was stronger than she looked.
They lunged.
Something snapped.
A pulse of raw energy surged through her veins, a silent boom vibrating in the air. A sudden gust of wind tore through the alley… impossible, unnatural. The men froze, their confidence shattering into confusion and then fear.
Daphne didn't question it. She took her chance and ran.
She didn't stop running until her legs threatened to give out, until the sounds of the city had blurred into a distant hum.
By the time she finally slowed, she had no idea where she was. The streets had shifted from polished and crowded to empty and broken, the buildings abandoned and looming in the dim streetlights.
Her breath steadied. Her pulse slowed.
Then she heard voices.
Low, hushed, urgent whispers from around the corner. Daphne crept forward, keeping to the shadows.
Two kids around her age. A boy with messy black hair and glasses too big for his face. A girl with wild brown curls, her expression tight with unease.
They were huddled together outside what looked like an old warehouse, their small figures thin and wary, speaking in hushed tones.
Daphne didn't know why, but something in her chest settled.
She stepped into the light.
"Who the hell are you?" she said.
They spun around, immediately defensive. The girl moved in front of the boy like a shield, her stance protective.
"Who are you?" the girl shot back, eyes narrowing.
Daphne smirked despite herself, crossing her arms. "Someone who needs a place to stay."
The boy studied her. His green eyes were sharp, weighing her words like he was deciding whether she was a threat or not.
"You're posh," he finally said.
Daphne rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well, I ran away from posh." She gestured vaguely behind her. "Not going back."
The girl hesitated, then said, "We don't have much."
"I don't need much." Daphne met the boy's gaze. "Just a place to belong."
A long pause.
Then, finally, the boy nodded.
"All right," he said.
Daphne let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
She wasn't alone anymore.
When she finally slowed, muscles burning, she found herself standing at the edge of the water. The castle loomed above, golden lights flickering in the high windows. The reflection of the towers shimmered in the black depths of the lake.
Daphne rolled her shoulders, exhaling heavily. At least I can still do this.
Glancing toward the Great Hall, she figured it was late enough for breakfast. She made her way inside, still sweating, and spotted the others immediately.
Harry was the first to notice her. His eyebrows shot up as she dropped onto the bench beside him, still red-faced from the run.
"Uh… you alright?" he asked, eyeing her sweat-drenched state.
Daphne grabbed a goblet of pumpkin juice and took a long drink before answering. "Needed to clear my head."
Hermione frowned. "By running?"
"Yes, Hermione, by running." Daphne swiped a piece of toast. "Some of us actually like moving, you know."
Hermione huffed, but her gaze lingered on Daphne's tired expression.
Neville, for his part, had been quiet through the exchange, absently pushing his eggs around on his plate.
Daphne narrowed her eyes at him. "What's your problem?"
Neville hesitated. Then, in a carefully neutral voice, he muttered, "Ravenclaws… talk a lot."
That got a snort from Harry. "Isn't that a good thing for you? You know, Mister Endless Facts?"
Neville didn't answer immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the Ravenclaw table, where a few of his housemates were deep in discussion. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. "It's… different."
Daphne frowned but didn't press him on it. She knew what it was like to feel out of place.
Hermione, however, was still watching Daphne closely. "You are okay, though, right?" she asked.
Daphne rolled her eyes. "Yes, mum."
Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, one of those wordless conversations they had perfected over the past year.
Daphne scowled. "What?"
"Nothing," Harry said, taking a bite of toast. "Just… you know where to find us."
Daphne hesitated, then gave a small nod and smile. "Yeah. I do."
The four of them ate in relative silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts. They might be in different houses, but one thing was clear: Hogwarts wasn't going to be easy for any of them.
The first years bustled into the Transfiguration classroom, the excitement of their first real lesson buzzing in the air. The room was orderly, with rows of wooden desks facing a grand wooden teacher's desk at the front. A large blackboard stood beside it, filled with precise, looping script outlining the day's lesson.
Neville, seated in the centre of the room near the front, glanced around at the students as they murmured to one another, flipping through the pages of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration. Harry and Hermione sat together one row behind him, while Daphne slouched lazily in her seat off to the side, arms crossed.
McGonagall was nowhere to be seen.
The class settled into a nervous silence, waiting. Then…
A tabby cat leapt onto the teacher's desk.
Several students gasped, a few whispering excitedly. Neville's mind instantly began sorting through what he knew, fur markings consistent with the Scottish Fold breed, but body proportions more in line with a domestic shorthair.
The cat's form twisted.
Before their eyes, the tabby stretched, limbs shifting, fur retracting, until suddenly, standing where the cat had been, was a stern-faced woman in emerald robes.
A stunned silence hung in the room.
Ron Weasley, arriving at that exact moment, yelped so loudly that a few students jumped. He stood frozen in the doorway, his ears burning red.
McGonagall peered over her spectacles. "Thank you for joining us, Mr. Weasley. Do take a seat."
Laughter rippled through the class as Ron scrambled to a desk, muttering apologies. McGonagall merely clasped her hands behind her back, surveying them all with a sharp gaze.
"Transfiguration," she began, her clipped voice slicing through the remaining giggles, "is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."
The room fell completely silent.
McGonagall gave a short nod before tapping the blackboard with her wand. The writing shimmered and changed to a list of key principles:
1. Transformation – Years 1-7 (changing one object into another)
2. Vanishing – Years 5-7 (making an object disappear entirely)
3. Conjuration – Years 6-7 (creating something from nothing – NEWT Only, highly advanced!)
She turned back to face them. "Transfiguration is not simply waving your wand and wishing for something to change. It requires precision, focus, and an understanding of the fundamental nature of what you are altering."
She gestured to a small stack of matchsticks on each desk. "By the end of today's lesson, you will attempt to transform a matchstick into a needle. But first…"
She flicked her wand, and the chalk lifted itself, writing her next question on the board:
What factors affect the difficulty of a transfiguration spell?
A few hands tentatively rose, but before McGonagall could call on anyone, Neville's voice burst out in an unstoppable stream.
"Difficulty is determined by the Five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, which explain why certain things, like food, cannot be created from nothing but can be altered, multiplied, or summoned. The larger the change in an object's inherent properties, the harder the spell. Changing wood to metal is easier than changing wood to air because the structure is more closely aligned. Also, the complexity of an object matters; living beings are vastly more difficult than inanimate objects due to the magical matrix sustaining life…"
He stopped, blinking.
The room was dead silent.
Then a Gryffindor boy - Seamus, maybe? - let out a low whistle. "Blimey."
A few Slytherins exchanged amused smirks, and a chuckle came from the back, probably Malfoy.
Neville flushed, sinking slightly in his seat.
McGonagall, however, looked faintly impressed. "Correct, Mr. Longbottom. Five points to Ravenclaw. Though next time, take a breath before you attempt to recite the entire Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1."
That earned a ripple of laughter, though it lacked the cruelty of Malfoy's smirk.
Neville, cheeks burning, mumbled, "Yes, Professor."
Hermione reached over to pat Neville's shoulder in congratulations. As she pulled back, an odd feeling settled over her. The noise of the classroom faded, and she cocked her head to the side.
There was something in this classroom. Something beneath the words McGonagall spoke, beneath the scratches of quills against parchment, beneath the wooden desks and ancient stone walls.
She had felt it in the Great Hall, too. Faint, but present. And here, in the quiet focus of magic being shaped and studied, it hummed just beneath the surface, like the pulse of something vast and unseen.
She shivered.
But when Harry nudged her, whispering, "You okay?" she forced a small nod.
"Yeah," she murmured. "Just… thinking."
McGonagall clapped her hands. "Enough theory for now. Wands out, let's see if any of you can manage the first step."
As the class eagerly picked up their matchsticks, Hermione forced herself to shake off the uneasy feeling.
It was nothing. Just nerves.
She turned her focus to the matchstick in front of her.
For now.
The classroom was filled with the sound of rustling robes and the soft clack of matchsticks being placed on desks. Wands were drawn, and the first years looked between their notes and the tiny wooden sticks in front of them.
McGonagall's sharp gaze swept over them. "The wand movement is a simple tap. The incantation: Mutatis Acus." She demonstrated, her wand tapping the matchstick lightly. Instantly, it shimmered and morphed into a gleaming silver needle. She picked it up between two fingers, holding it up for them to see.
"This is the result you should aim for. You will not get it perfect on the first attempt, nor the second, nor likely even today. But with diligence and practice, you will improve. Begin."
A flurry of whispers filled the room as students exchanged nervous glances. Then, one by one, they tried.
Hermione, ever the perfectionist, had already memorized the instructions. She bit her lip, eyes narrowed as she carefully tapped her matchstick. "Mutatis Acus."
Nothing happened.
She frowned, adjusted her grip, and tried again. The matchstick trembled slightly - was that a glimmer of silver? - but it remained stubbornly wooden.
Beside her, Harry sighed, glaring at his matchstick as though willing it to obey. "You'd think with all the weird stuff we've done, this would be easier." He tried again, with no more success.
Meanwhile, Neville sat completely still, his matchstick untouched.
He understood the spell. Every theoretical component, every nuance of intent, every factor that should logically make the transfiguration work. He could explain the principle of molecular rearrangement in precise detail.
And yet, when he lifted his wand, his hand trembled.
He swallowed. He knew how to do this. But knowing and doing were different beasts entirely.
Across the room, Ron had jabbed his matchstick so forcefully that it rolled off the desk. "Bloody thing won't change," he muttered, retrieving it.
From the back of the class, Daphne leaned back in her chair, watching the others struggle before she finally sighed and gave it a go. "Mutatis Acus."
Her matchstick twitched. A single spark flickered at its tip.
She frowned, trying again. The spark flared brighter, but the transformation still eluded her. "I'd rather just fight something," she grumbled.
At the front of the room, McGonagall was making her rounds, observing each student. When she reached Neville, she paused. His matchstick remained untouched.
"Is something wrong, Mr. Longbottom?" she asked, her voice softer than before.
Neville licked his lips. "I… I understand it, Professor. I know how it's supposed to work, but…" His fingers tightened around his wand.
McGonagall studied him for a moment. "Transfiguration requires confidence, Mr. Longbottom. You cannot hesitate. Magic responds to will, to belief. If you doubt yourself, the spell will fail before you even begin."
Neville swallowed hard and nodded. He forced himself to raise his wand and tapped the matchstick. "Mutatis Acus."
The matchstick quivered. Then…
A single, tiny pinprick of silver bloomed at the very tip.
Neville's heart leapt. It wasn't a needle, not even close. But it was something.
McGonagall gave a curt nod. "A start. Keep at it." Then, just as swiftly, she moved on.
By the end of the lesson, Hermione had managed to turn her matchstick a dull grey, and Daphne's had gained a metallic sheen. But the silvery tip of Neville's matchstick had, with repeated attempts, slowly spread until he could now change almost three-quarters of his match.
Harry, scowling, poked at his unchanged matchstick. "I think mine wants to stay a matchstick."
Daphne snorted. "Maybe you're just bad at this."
"Maybe you can shut up," Harry shot back, smirking.
McGonagall clapped her hands, regaining their attention. "That will be all for today. Homework, one roll of parchment on the fundamental principles of basic transfiguration. Due next lesson. Dismissed."
Groans filled the air, but the students packed up, chattering as they left the room.
Hermione, walking beside Harry, bit her lip. That feeling, the hum of something deeper, hadn't left her the entire class.
She couldn't explain it.
But she was certain of one thing.
There was something special about Hogwarts, something beyond the magic they were being taught.
The Charms classroom was a stark contrast to the disciplined order of Transfiguration. Where McGonagall's room had been rigid and precise, Flitwick's felt almost alive. Shelves were packed with enchanted trinkets that whirred and sparkled with faint magical energy. The desks were arranged in a semicircle rather than strict rows, as if encouraging conversation and cooperation.
Professor Flitwick himself, a tiny man who had to stand on a stack of books to see over his desk, beamed at the class.
"Welcome to Charms!" he said excitedly. "You are about to embark on a journey into one of the most expressive branches of magic! I understand you've just come from Professor McGonagall. Where Transfiguration is about precision and control, Charms is about feeling. The right wand movement, the right pronunciation, yes, yes, those are important. But at the heart of it all is intent. You must mean what you wish to happen!"
Harry and Daphne exchanged a glance, already sensing how different this would be from McGonagall's strict, by-the-book approach.
Flitwick clapped his hands together. "Now, let's begin with something simple! The Levitation Charm, Wingardium Leviosa!"
With a flick of his wand, a feather on his desk floated gracefully into the air. It hovered there for a moment before he guided it around the room, letting it swirl above their heads, diving and swooping and twisting in a figure of eight, before settling back down.
A murmur of appreciation ran through the class.
"This is an excellent starting charm," Flitwick continued. "Simple in theory, but it requires just the right mix of control and confidence. A perfect example of how magic responds to both mind and emotion! Now, let's see who among you has a natural talent for Charms!"
He paired the students up and distributed the feathers.
Harry found himself next to Daphne, while Hermione ended up with Neville.
"Alright, let's see how this goes," Harry muttered, giving his wand an experimental swish.
Daphne smirked. "Hope you're better at this than Transfiguration."
Meanwhile, Hermione was already adjusting her grip, rolling her wand between her fingers as she studied the feather in front of her. Neville, on the other hand, had yet to even attempt the spell. He was frowning down at his wand, mumbling under his breath.
"Standard wand movement… twenty-two-degree upward flick… origin of incantation traces back to…"
Hermione nudged him. "Come on, let's try it together."
Neville inhaled sharply, focused on his feather, and flicked his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa!"
It twitched but didn't lift.
Hermione tried next. "Wingardium Leviosa!"
Her feather wobbled slightly before settling back down. She huffed, adjusting her stance.
From the other side of the room, Ron groaned loudly. "This is impossible."
Lavender and Parvati giggled despite their attempts failing miserably, but before Ron's annoyance could distract Hermione, she turned back to her feather and flicked her wand again.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
This time, it lifted a full six inches off the table, swaying gently in the air.
Flitwick, who had been making his rounds, suddenly perked up. "Excellent work, Miss Granger! Ten points to Hufflepuff!"
Neville's grip tightened on his wand. He knew the theory behind this spell better than anyone. He could explain the exact reasoning behind the incantation, why the movement mattered, and even trace its historical applications back through magical society. But doing it…
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He had always thought of magic like an equation, something to be calculated, understood, controlled. But this wasn't that kind of magic. Charms required something different.
So instead of thinking about the steps, he simply imagined the feather rising.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
The feather twitched… and then lifted a few inches before dropping back down.
Flitwick happened to pass by at that moment and beamed. "Excellent, Mr. Longbottom! Keep at it!"
Neville's shoulders relaxed.
Meanwhile, at the next table, Harry was growing frustrated.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" he repeated, but his feather remained stubbornly in place.
Daphne, for all her confidence, wasn't doing much better.
She growled under her breath, flicking her wand a little too sharply. "Come on."
Harry snorted. "I thought you were supposed to be good at this."
Daphne rolled her eyes. "We can't all be natural prodigies."
Harry smirked. "Clearly."
By the end of the lesson, Hermione's feather was the only one still floating effortlessly in place, earning her another ten points and a bright smile from Flitwick.
As they packed up, Harry nudged her. "Alright, you win this round."
Daphne stretched her arms over her head. "You better find something you're good at, Harry. It'd be a shame if they kicked you out."
Neville, still contemplating his small success, muttered, "If I just adjust my thought process slightly…"
Hermione grinned, enjoying the end of a successful lesson. She had a feeling she was going to like Charms.
Daphne had been dreading Potions from the moment she saw the class schedule. It wasn't the subject itself. It was the company.
Potions was shared with Slytherin.
She had barely stepped into the corridor leading to the dungeon classroom when the confrontation started.
"Well, well," a smooth, mocking voice called. "Look who's finally returning to her roots. But what makes you think we want you here, Greengrass?"
Daphne clenched her jaw before even turning around. She knew that voice.
The Slytherins were clustered near the door, a loose but deliberate wall of green and silver robes. Standing in the middle, arms crossed, a smirk firmly in place, was Theo Nott.
Beside him, Pansy Parkinson let out a dramatic sigh. "It's so tragic when a family falls apart like this. You must be so embarrassed, Daphne. The first Gryffindor Greengrass in… oh, how many centuries?"
"Six and a half," Blaise Zabini supplied helpfully, his voice laced with amusement.
Daphne rolled her eyes. "Amazing. You can count. I'm sure your parents are so proud."
Theo took a step closer, tilting his head. "You know, you don't have to stay with them. Everyone makes mistakes. I'm sure the Sorting Hat can be persuaded to correct this one."
Daphne let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Right. Because I want to spend my time with a bunch of inbred, backstabbing little cowards."
Theo's smirk faltered for a split second before sharpening. "Careful, Greengrass. Just because you've got a lion on your chest now doesn't mean you're brave. You're still one of us, whether you like it or not."
"Yeah," Pansy sneered. "You can't just pretend you're not a Greengrass. I wonder if your mother knows you're back from the dead."
Daphne felt heat flood through her veins. Her fists clenched at her sides.
She was just about to take a step forward, ready to shove Theo right into the cold stone wall behind him, when the dungeon door slammed open.
Professor Snape loomed in the doorway, black robes billowing as his sharp, dark eyes swept over them.
"Inside," he said, his voice soft, but somehow cutting through the tense air like a blade.
The Slytherins turned in perfect unison, filing into the room without another word.
Daphne exhaled sharply, unclenching her fists before following.
The Potions classroom was cold, the air thick with the scent of dried herbs and something acrid Hermione couldn't quite place.
Snape moved to the front of the room with deliberate precision, surveying them all with an expression of mild disdain.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, yet somehow, it filled the entire room. "As there is little foolish wand-waving in this class, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."
Hermione shivered, but not from the cold.
There was something off about Snape. It wasn't just the way he moved, or the way his dark eyes seemed to pierce right through them. It was the storm of emotions radiating from him.
Anger. Bitterness. Loathing, no… Self-loathing.
She swallowed hard.
This was different from the emotions she usually picked up. Most people projected their feelings outward, intentionally or not. But Snape… Snape's emotions were buried deep, tangled up in something old and painful, like a wound that had never properly healed.
She forced herself to focus on his words instead.
"I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death."
He paused, his eyes flicking to Harry, who was hastily scribbling down some notes.
"But perhaps some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so incredible that you feel you do not need instruction."
Harry stiffened.
"Mr Potter," Snape continued smoothly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry stared blankly. "I…"
"Tut, tut," Snape murmured, shaking his head. "Fame isn't everything."
Neville, who had been silent up until now, suddenly muttered, "That's the Draught of Living Death. Uses include inducing an artificial coma. Originates from…"
"Enough," Snape snapped, turning sharply. His lip curled. "Five points from Ravenclaw for interrupting."
Neville shrank in his seat, his rapid-fire whisper cutting off abruptly.
Harry clenched his jaw.
Snape wasn't done. "Let's try again, shall we? Potter, where would you find a bezoar?"
Harry frowned. "I… don't know, sir."
Snape's eyes gleamed. "A pity. Clearly, our celebrity hasn't read the book."
It was enough for Neville to start again, "bezoar cures most poisons, found in the stomach of a goat. Not actually a stone, amalgamation of"
"Silence, Longbottom. Another 10 points from Ravenclaw." Hermione grabbed Neville's hand and squeezed it gently, trying to calm him down now that the flow was in full force.
Daphne shifted in her seat, hands tightening into fists. She had no idea what Snape's problem was, but she did not like the way he was going after Harry.
Snape continued his interrogation, firing off another question, "Mr Potter, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"Monkshood, wolfbane, same plant. Also called aconite. Grows best in shady areas. Potions with monkshood are very dangerous. When used with lotus blossoms, it prevents lycanthropy…"
"Twenty points from Ravenclaw, and if you cannot control yourself, Mr Longbottom, you will be assigned detention for a week."
Neville's face flushed as he quickly shut his mouth, the words continuing to swirl in his head, but this time, they were muted, his thoughts scattered and slower than usual.
The class fell into a tense silence. Snape moved on, though his eyes lingered on Neville for a long moment, as though making sure the reprimand had landed.
The rest of the lesson was spent brewing a simple Cure for Boils.
Daphne worked steadily beside Harry, who was chopping ingredients with practiced ease. He had spent enough time in the Dursleys' kitchen to know his way around the preparation of ingredients. Not to mention the nights attempting to conjure up makeshift remedies for injuries they couldn't risk taking to a hospital.
Neville, still shaken from his reprimand, worked carefully with Hermione. His movements were precise, each step deliberate, but his hands trembled slightly whenever Snape passed their table. He muttered under his breath as he worked, hardly aware of the words spilling out.
"The roots need to be chopped to a fine powder… no, wait, not that much… careful, careful… yes, yes! And the frog spleen has to be stirred just like… oh, but then you…"
Hermione glanced at him, frowning slightly. She could tell he was doing it again, rambling facts, processing everything in rapid-fire succession.
"I think we're okay," she whispered, trying to offer him some reassurance. "You've got it."
Neville nodded, but the tension didn't leave him.
By the time class ended, they were all eager to leave.
As they stepped into the corridor, one of the other Ravenclaws, Anthony Goldstein, a quiet boy with sandy hair, nudged Neville with a small smile.
"Don't take it personally," he said. "Snape takes points from every Ravenclaw for knowing the answers at some point. It's practically a rite of passage."
Neville blinked. "Really?"
"Oh, yeah," the boy grinned. "Apparently, a few years ago, he took fifty points in one lesson just because a fifth year wouldn't stop correcting him."
Neville let out a short, surprised laugh. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased.
As they walked away, Harry glanced at Hermione. "Alright, you're the one who's good at reading people. What's Snape's deal?"
Hermione hesitated.
She had picked up a lot from Snape. More than she knew how to explain.
"…I don't know yet," she admitted. "But I don't think it's just about you."