120: Snape’s Peak Moment in Life

In the end, Hagrid agreed to Nolan's request.

Norbert's body was greedily divided among the professors. Snape, thoroughly satisfied with the fresh dragon's blood he received, didn't even bother with a word of thanks before retreating to his laboratory to concoct new potions.

Nolan had his fair share of spoils as well—dragon scales and bones, along with a small piece of Norbert's heart gifted by Professor McGonagall.

It was a lucrative haul. Nolan was certain that acquiring such materials from the wizard black market would have cost him tens of thousands of Galleons—and even then, there would be no guarantee of their freshness.

By the time Norbert was divided up, all that remained was the dragon meat, which was largely useless. This left Hagrid sobbing uncontrollably and Harry Potter seething with anger.

"How could you agree to this, Hagrid?!" Harry yelled, his temper flaring. "Norbert was our friend! Didn't you want to give him a proper burial?"

"Don't be silly, Harry..." Hagrid slurred, waving a massive hand and nearly knocking Harry off his chair. "Even if I wanted to, who would come to the funeral?"

"I'd come!" Harry insisted. "And so would Ron, Hermione, Neville, Seamus, Lavender, George, Fred—everyone would want to say goodbye to Norbert!"

"They're not Norbert's friends, Harry. They're your friends," Hagrid said, his drunken stupor momentarily replaced with rare clarity. "Sometimes I think... maybe Nolan was right. I should never have raised him. Poor little Norbert."

Harry's jaw dropped. "How can you listen to that murderer? He only wanted Norbert for his scales and bones!"

"Oh, get real, Harry. A dragon's body is full of magical treasures. Any wizard would want it..." Hagrid muttered, trailing off into another swig of firewhisky.

"I don't believe this!" Harry fumed.

At that moment, his resentment toward Nolan reached its peak. If he could, Harry would have gladly humiliated the arrogant Slytherin in front of all his adoring fans. Unfortunately for Harry Potter, it seemed that chance would never come.

…

A week had passed since the dragon's intrusion on the Quidditch pitch, and Hogwarts was finally settling back into its usual rhythm.

The initial terror among the students had subsided, replaced by a chorus of eager storytelling.

Many students had witnessed Nolan's battle with the "wicked dragon" firsthand, and they spared no effort in recounting the event with the dramatic flair of bards. Even the older students began to admire the young Slytherin for his audacity and cunning.

He had what most Gryffindors lacked—genuine bravery—and the ruthless decisiveness that was quintessentially Slytherin.

The younger witches and wizards were already crafting tales in their heads, ready to brag in Diagon Alley about witnessing history. "You mean you haven't heard of Nolan Von Draugr? Merlin, you're so out of touch! He just slayed a dragon at Hogwarts!"

Nolan was riding a wave of glory. The boys admired his courage and cunning, while the girls envied Cho and Eve for being under his protection. Many of them gazed at Nolan with hopeful glances, wishing the Slytherin prince would one day notice them.

And Harry?

Harry's life couldn't have been more different. In fact, it was worse than that of the average Hogwarts student.

Initially, the incident where he and two other Gryffindor "idiots" had been caught sneaking out at night—and lost one hundred and fifty house points—had already left many Gryffindors fuming at him.

Now, rumors had spread about Harry attempting to ambush Nolan during his fight with the dragon.

That sealed his fate. No girl at Hogwarts would look at him kindly anymore—not even Lavender Brown, who shared his House.

Harry found himself isolated, with Hermione being the only girl who would still speak to him. But even she seemed distant lately, her mind preoccupied as she sighed wistfully at random moments.

Ron had a theory about it: "There's some kind of stupid rule at Hogwarts, Harry. If you offend Nolan, you've basically offended every witch here. I don't know when it started, but I know why—because they're all insane!"

"Ron, you just included Hermione in that," Harry pointed out with a sigh, glancing toward the professors' table.

Hagrid's enormous chair remained empty. Their giant friend hadn't been seen for over a week.

Ron glanced over at Hermione, who was deep in thought once again. With a nudge of his elbow, he tried to get her attention, causing her to let out a sharp yelp as her marmalade toast toppled onto the table.

"What are you doing?!" Hermione snapped, glaring at him while attempting to salvage her breakfast.

"We were talking about you!" Ron retorted, shrugging unapologetically. "But clearly, you're not even listening!"

Hermione scowled, brushing crumbs off her robes. "Maybe I'd listen if you had something worth saying!"

Ron just shrugged again. "Don't get so worked up. You could fix it all with a simple spell, couldn't you?"

Before Hermione could reply, an unwelcome figure approached the Gryffindor table.

Professor Snape loomed over them, his sharp gaze sweeping across the trio. He stood there in silence, exuding a cold authority as if savoring the discomfort he caused.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Snape broke the silence. "Potter, Granger, Longbottom. Starting tonight, your detention begins."

"What?! Why you?" Harry stammered, his palms suddenly clammy. He didn't dare imagine what punishments Snape had in store.

"Address me as Professor Snape," he replied, his voice icy and precise. "Perhaps your father—may his short and insignificant life rest in peace—failed to teach you even the most basic manners. Allow me to rectify that oversight by instructing you in the importance of proper respect."

Harry's mouth snapped shut, trembling with restrained anger.

Hermione raised her hand hesitantly. "Professor Snape?"

"Speak."

"I'd like to know what we'll be doing during detention—"

"You'll find out when the time comes," Snape interrupted curtly. As he turned to leave, he shot Harry one final, disdainful glance. "Your father must be proud to see his son so thoroughly pathetic—a perfect reflection of himself. Eleven o'clock tonight. Report to Filch. Granger, I'm counting on you to ensure the other two imbeciles show up."

Snape swept away, leaving a trail of suppressed fury in his wake.

Ron, pale as a ghost, finally found his voice. "He's going to kill you, Harry! Snape's definitely planning something! Quick, fake being sick—something really bad, like, 'can't-get-out-of-bed' bad!"

"Stop it, Ron!" Hermione cut in, noticing how Harry's forehead was already damp with sweat. "Snape said to report to Filch, didn't he? It's probably just some cleaning duty."

"Oh, fantastic," Neville muttered miserably. "I can't wait to scrub cauldrons or mop up those horrible bathrooms."

Ron wasn't convinced. He grabbed Hermione by the arm, desperation written all over his face. "We can't let Harry walk straight into Snape's hands! Hermione, think! Is there anyone Snape's afraid of?"

Hermione hesitated, lowering her voice to a near whisper. "There is… one person. But you're not going to like it."

"Who?" Ron demanded.

Hermione sighed, looking deeply reluctant. "Nolan Von Draugr."

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