Abbot stared at them both with a blank expression before yanking off his earmuffs.
"Hey—"
Thump, thump.
Fortunately, before he could get another word out, Professor Sprout banged the table, silencing the murmurs and whispers among the students.
"All right. When it's safe to remove your earmuffs, I'll give you two thumbs up. For now—muffs on."
Snape arched a brow at Abbot and immediately pulled on the pink, furry earmuffs. In an instant, all outside noise was cut off.
Professor Sprout rolled up her sleeves, grasped a clump of leafy greens firmly, and yanked.
What came up wasn't a root but an ugly, squirming infant with leaves growing from its head. Its skin was a blotchy pale green, and it thrashed about with its stubby limbs, clearly howling—though none of them could hear a sound.
Sprout retrieved a large flowerpot from beneath the table and stuffed the grotesque creature inside, packing it with moist, dark compost until only the leafy top stuck out.
She dusted off her hands, gave them the promised two thumbs up, and removed her own earmuffs.
"I imagine none of you want to miss Christmas with your families," she said calmly. "So do keep those earmuffs on while you work."
"Oh, and watch out for the stinging tendrils," she added cheerfully. "They're starting to grow teeth. And if anything goes wrong, you are absolutely allowed to use spoken spells in my class. Your safety is the priority."
"Besides, no one will hear your incantations anyway." She patted the nearest Mandrake, which recoiled from her touch, withdrawing the vine it had stealthily stretched toward her.
"Hello, I'm Patrick Abbot," Abbot finally got a chance to say. "Would you like to join our group? Honestly, I think your vibe fits us really well…"
Because we're all freaks, aren't we? Snape thought, watching Abbot—who used to read quietly and scowl at distractions—now babbling like a sugared-up first-year.
There wasn't much time left for conversation. They put their earmuffs back on and focused on the Mandrakes.
It wasn't easy work. The Mandrakes didn't want to be pulled from the soil, but once out, they fought just as hard to avoid being replanted.
They twisted, snarled, lashed out with their venomous tendrils—anything to escape the witches and wizards trying to handle them.
While working on the second Mandrake, Snape slipped. The momentary lapse gave the plant just enough time to reach out and grab Abbot from behind.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
Snape raised his wand, trying to separate the Mandrake from his partner.
But it clung too tightly—and dragged Abbot into the air along with it.
Abbot flailed wildly, arms and legs windmilling, mouth opening and closing in silent protest. He looked, Snape thought, exactly like a fully grown Mandrake himself.
Pandora burst out laughing. She clutched her stomach, bending forward, eyes wet with mirth.
Snape paused, watching her shake with breathless laughter. A sudden image surfaced in his mind: a monstrous, sharp-toothed figure. Guilt flickered briefly—but then he realized, I could eat three meals today just watching this scene.
Has my soul grown less pure? he wondered dryly.
The Mandrake's strength gave out at last. With a frustrated flail of its limbs, it let go—and Abbot plummeted.
Snape aimed his wand quickly, softening the landing before his friend could faceplant.
But now the Mandrake was free. It hit the ground running, silent-screaming, and darted among the students on its stubby legs, waving its tendrils like a furious vegetable octopus.
Snape looked at Abbot, who stood red-faced, mouth working at top speed in rage. Calmly, he adjusted his earmuffs. He decided pink really wasn't so bad after all—it suited him.
The lesson ended in glorious chaos.
Back in the Great Hall, the emeralds in the Slytherin hourglass had dipped slightly lower into the base.
"Why do people avoid you in the halls?" Pandora asked.
They were crossing the Entrance Hall on their way to lunch. A few first-years spotted Snape and immediately stepped aside in a panic.
"It's out of respect," Snape replied smoothly. "That's their way of honoring me."
Abbot snorted before remembering he was still supposed to be furious. He quickly forced a scowl back onto his face.
"If anyone calls you 'mad girl' again, you let me know. I'll help you earn the same kind of respect."
"Oh… I don't mind," Pandora shrugged. "I guess they just think I'm a little strange."
"Fine, your choice." Snape said. "But come on, Pandora. Sit with us for lunch."
"That's the Slytherin table."
"No, it's a Hogwarts table." He tugged gently at her sleeve. "Come on. I never understood all the bickering anyway. What, are we going to uphold some 'Founders' Law' like it's gospel? I really need to have a word with the Headmaster about this."
He glanced toward the staff table—Dumbledore's chair was empty.
Snape realized it had been days since he last saw the Headmaster. Not since that late-night conversation. Ever since, the seat was often vacant.
Could I have said something that made him start investigating already?
Maybe. But overthinking wouldn't help. He'd probe subtly next time they met.
After Snape devoured three full plates of food, Abbot finally seemed to cool off.
"Want to come watch the Quidditch tryouts this afternoon?" he asked Pandora. "We're mostly going to check out what kinds of brooms they're using."
"I'll pass," she said. "I've still got some experiments to finish—need to make the most of the time."
They watched her hop away, hands in pockets, bounding up the staircase like she lived in her own gravity.
Then the boys turned and headed out toward the Quidditch pitch.
Neither of them particularly cared for the sport, but Abbot's father had written last week asking him to report back on the broom market at school. Under the pressure—and promise—of a generous cut of the Galleons, Abbot had surrendered instantly.
As he read the letter, he told Snape, "No one says no to Galleons. Not even you. Seventy-thirty split?"
"Deal," Snape said flatly.
By the time they found seats in the stands, the tryouts were already halfway through. Half of Slytherin house—years one through seven—was present.
The younger students gripped battered school brooms nervously; the older ones towered over them, looking every bit the part of elite athletes.
"The Quidditch team has its own training room, right?" Snape asked.
"Yeah, Sev. What, thinking about getting fit again?" Abbot teased. "Feel that stomach of yours—you've grown rounder, mate."
"That's why I'm going to consult a professional." Snape pointed toward Montague, the burly Slytherin team captain.