Erwin straightened up, his voice steady as he addressed the class. "Snargaluffs are mostly used to brew antidotes. While they can't neutralize every poison outright, they can delay the effects of over seventy percent of toxins, buying time for help to arrive."
Professor Sprout clapped her hands in delight. "Excellent, Mr. Cavendish! Spot on. That earns Slytherin five points for your keen knowledge."
Erwin dipped his head politely. "Thank you, Professor."
She waved off the praise with a warm smile. "Right, then. As Mr. Cavendish has explained, many adventurous wizards carry Snargaluff potions to counter unknown venoms. The wizarding world is full of perils, especially in the wild, where magical creatures lurk—and plenty of them are venomous. Even the most prepared witch or wizard can't stock antidotes for every threat. That's where Snargaluffs come in. Historical records credit them with saving countless lives by staving off disaster just long enough."
Sprout demonstrated the transplanting technique herself, yanking a Snargaluff from the soil with practiced ease. Its roots and stems writhed in the air, revealing the plant's serpentine rhizome—the key medicinal part. A single thick taproot formed what looked like a snake's head, complete with a snapping maw. The bite wasn't deadly, but it stung fiercely if mishandled. To avoid it, one had to seize the roots immediately upon uprooting, lest that sharp nip leave a lingering ache no one forgot.
Everything proceeded smoothly at first, and Erwin figured the lesson would wrap without incident. But Gryffindors had a knack for chaos, or perhaps some people were just wired to court trouble—like Neville's clumsiness or Ron's reckless streak.
The first yelp shattered the calm. Ron, fumbling with his gloves, had let the Snargaluff slip past his defenses and clamp onto his arm. He howled, shaking it off.
The noise jolted Neville, who was handling his plant with exaggerated caution nearby. His own Snargaluff seized the moment, sinking its teeth in. Another cry echoed through the greenhouse.
Heads turned. In moments, agonized shouts rose in a chaotic chorus as more Gryffindors fell victim. Even a few Slytherins got caught up in the distraction, their focus wavering.
Erwin frowned, steadying his own plant. Some of his housemates were glancing over, tempted to join the fray.
"Steady on!" he called sharply. "Eyes on your own Snargaluff. Don't let the noise throw you."
The Slytherins snapped to attention, redoubling their efforts. Professor Sprout sighed, eyeing the pandemonium among the Gryffindors before glancing approvingly at the composed Slytherins. The difference was stark—and exhausting.
In past years, Slytherin students had been just as prone to mishaps. They were young witches and wizards, after all, bursting with energy and prone to errors. But this cohort was different: disciplined, sharp, a credit to their house. The professors often discussed it in the staff room, crediting Erwin's influence—and the Head of House who guided them.
Snape, who rarely lingered there, had taken to haunting the staff room during free periods, ostensibly to read. Though everyone knew his books often stayed closed, his pride in Erwin shone through. The Heads of the Houses envied him openly, though transfer requests were out of the question. Snape would sooner hex himself than let his star pupil—a pure-blood heir with such promise—slip away.
The class, for all its hiccups, ended on a high note. As the students filed out, Slytherins clustered in knots, chuckling over the Gryffindors' misfortune. Erwin didn't intervene. The rivalry between the two houses stretched back to Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor themselves—a deep-seated feud neither side would yield. And frankly, Erwin held no fondness for Gryffindor; why play the peacemaker?
By noon, the Great Hall buzzed with the morning's end. For the young witches and wizards, mealtimes here were a highlight—endless platters of hearty fare under the enchanted ceiling.
Dumbledore tapped his goblet, and the tables groaned under the weight of appearing dishes: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, treacle tart, and more. But today, something was off. Directly in front of Erwin, no food materialized. The space remained bare.
The Slytherins around him blinked in confusion, turning to him with raised eyebrows. Whispers rippled across the hall as other tables noticed the anomaly.
At the Gryffindor bench, Ron grinned triumphantly. "See? Those slimy Slytherins are starving us out. Hogwarts knows justice when it sees it!"
Harry rolled his eyes, pushing his glasses up. Lately, he'd started wondering if Malfoy wasn't entirely off-base about some things. His choice in friends... Ron wasn't the sharpest wand in the shop. Harry's parents, James Potter and Lily, had been prodigies, and though he hadn't inherited their brilliance, he held his own. Still, Ron's antics were wearing thin—dodging Snape's barbs and Ron's blunders had turned school into a minefield. Was it hatred for Slytherin, or plain envy of Erwin? Harry suspected the latter. He felt it himself: the sting of Erwin's effortless popularity, his stellar performance. Jealousy, pure and simple.
Up at the staff table, the professors stirred. Snape's expression darkened to a storm cloud. House-elves discriminating against a Slytherin? Against *Erwin*? Unthinkable. They'd pay dearly.
Though Snape had defected to Dumbledore's cause years ago, his roots ran deep in the old ways. He'd worn the Dark Mark once, a Death Eater through and through—until regret and loyalty shifted his path. But old instincts died hard, and this slight demanded retribution.