Angry Snape

It felt as though the holidays had passed in the blink of an eye.

Summer faded quickly, and the weather gradually turned cooler. The small freezers between the shelves at Huili Supermarket were no longer stocked with cones, popsicles, and tubs of ice cream; instead, they were filled with frozen chicken and bags of French fries. Even the larger freezers carried only the last wave of discounted ice cream—because if it wasn't sold before golden leaves blanketed the lawns, it would have to sit in storage all winter, as if hibernating like a bear through the cold season.

Anthony never found the time to visit the Romanian dragon sanctuary, and Snape still hadn't discovered a suitable substitute for unicorn blood. However, Anthony had made some progress in his research on curses and rituals. No matter what the records claimed, he was certain that Quirrell had cut his left arm at the time—and he had even found some evidence hidden within the gaps of old documents.

"I know this is unconventional," Anthony admitted. "Most flesh-based magic we've come across involves sacrifices on the right side—right leg, right hand, right arm, right eye, right ear. But you see, Snape, these two rituals were meant to be different. Quirrell wasn't trying to reshape my flesh—he was trying to expel me."

Snape snorted but kept his focus on the cauldron, carefully pouring a thick, dark green substance into the potion.

"And I don't remember him pulling out a knife," Anthony continued, frowning in thought. "So he must have made the cut magically—biting open a blood vessel wouldn't make sense, would it?" He glanced at Snape, who still hadn't responded.

"Given that Quirrell was right-handed if he had switched his wand to his left hand, I would have noticed. But I didn't—so the blood must have come from his left arm. I actually found a similar case in a second-hand book at Flourish and Blotts. They used a left-arm bloodletting ritual when they wanted to expel an Inferius... Are you even listening, Snape?"

Just then, the small hourglass on the table let out a shrill chime.

Snape flipped it over roughly before adding more ingredients to the cauldron: shredded plant matter, fine brown powder, animal hide, blue stones, crushed insects ("evil"), and—

"Wait, is that... a bunch of eyeballs?"

Snape let the eyeballs tumble into the cauldron as casually as if he were tossing in a handful of peas, then stirred the mixture slowly. His frown deepened, but he still didn't respond.

"Why does it take so many eyeballs to replicate unicorn blood?" Anthony asked, stepping back as Snape turned up the heat. "Unicorns only have two eyes, you know." He watched as the eyeballs bobbed up and down in the bubbling potion, rolling aimlessly as they were stirred.

"Amazing observation, Anthony," Snape deadpanned, tapping the hourglass twice with his wand. The sand inside suddenly reversed direction, flying back to the top before beginning to fall again—slowly this time.

"I'm serious. Why all the eyeballs? And are you actually planning to drink this stuff?"

"That kind of thing," Snape muttered vaguely. Then, without looking up, he added dryly, "No, I'll just put it in a jam jar and let Dumbledore spread it on his toast."

"You're joking."

The second hourglass chimed.

"I'll remember to send you a jar," Snape said flatly.

Anthony grinned and settled into a cushioned armchair nearby. They had these discussions often—so often that he had memorized which chair in the room was the most comfortable.

Snape turned the flame beneath the cauldron to an eerie pink, replaced the lid, and turned around with a sharp glare.

"Chatting, joking, and relaxation, is it? Would you like a box of biscuits and a picnic blanket while you're at it?" he drawled. "Anthony, I would appreciate it if you could be quiet while I work. Potions is a delicate subject, as you may have realized."

"I'm sorry, I just remembered we were supposed to discuss this today," Anthony said, holding up their research chart in front of Snape. "A minor reminder: I live quite a distance from Hogwarts, and I didn't Apparate here four times just to watch you brew potions with graceful precision."

Snape sneered. "You must be shocked, Anthony, to discover that the world does not, in fact, revolve around you. If you had bothered to ask, you would know I don't live anywhere near Hogwarts either."

"Okay, my mistake," Anthony conceded. "I just assumed you were staying at the school. I heard you usually return before the holidays end."

"Yes," Snape said softly, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "Unlike some people, I do not spend my days idly fretting over how to free my pet chicken..."

"Don't bring that up again," Anthony sighed. "Look, I do appreciate everything you're doing, Professor Snape. But if this is causing you too much trouble, you don't have to do it. This isn't your responsibility."

"Oh? Then tell me, Anthony," Snape said smoothly, arching an eyebrow. "How exactly do you plan to find an alternative? Because I must admit, I am simply dying to know. Ah, I see—you'll be praying every night, and then, by sheer luck, Quirrell will come sliding down your chimney like Father Christmas, yes?"

"First of all, my fireplace is sealed shut, so I'm not expecting any Christmas surprises—be it Quirrell or Father Christmas," Anthony said dryly. "But if Quirrell does decide to pay me a visit over the holidays, I'll be sure to escort him straight back to Hogwarts to finalize his resignation."

Before Snape could deliver a scathing retort, Anthony continued, "As for an alternative solution… I don't know yet. But there will be one. It just takes time—trial and error, patience, waiting. As my grandfather used to say, if you can't catch fish, try catching shoes."

"Shoe fishing," Snape repeated, his tone heavy with skepticism.

"My grandfather loved fishing," Anthony said with a nostalgic smile. "He could sit by the river all day and, when he came back, he'd proudly show us the cans and shoes he had caught. He always said those shoes must have drifted all the way from Italy. Before I started school, I genuinely thought Italy was just next door."

"It's very touching," Snape interrupted coldly. "You should tell this story to Dumbledore. No doubt he'd be moved to tears and swear to offer his left hand to free your precious pet. But in front of me, you'd best save yourself the trouble."

Anthony snapped out of his thoughts and looked at Snape inquisitively.

Then, suddenly, he remembered.

The last time they had discussed Kevin's family, Snape's words had been laced with jealousy and resentment.

He recalled the moment Snape had accused him—his voice dripping with sarcasm—of having a happy and perfect childhood, almost as if it were an accusation.

Ah… I see.

Anthony didn't know what expression flickered across his face, but whatever it was, it sent Snape into a fury.

His face contorted, the long nostrils of his hooked nose flaring, his teeth grinding together so forcefully that Anthony could hear it.

A raging fire burned in Snape's dark eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper:

"Anthony…"

Anthony immediately knew he had made a mistake. He jumped up from his chair. "I'm sorry—"

That only made it worse.

"Sorry? For what?" Snape demanded, his thin lips curling into a terrifying sneer as Anthony hesitated in silence.

Before he could say anything else, Anthony tried, "For—uh—whatever hurt you—"

"Stop it. You're disgusting," Snape spat. "Oh, the ever gentle and kind Anthony... How dare you claim you don't want to trouble me? Wasn't it you who ran to Dumbledore, talking about how much you needed the company of a pet—so much so that he assigned me to fulfill your wish? Wasn't it you, sitting in my office in that ridiculous turtleneck sweater, chattering away? And now you sit here, spinning your hypocritical little warm memories..."

Anthony made a desperate attempt to change the subject. "Is your potion ready for the next step? That hourglass—"

But Snape had already asked the question. The final, cutting blow.

"I'm really curious, Anthony," he said, voice silky and venomous. "If you loved your grandfather so much… why did you never think to resurrect him, after you became a necromancer?"