Watching the first-years' expressions cloud over with rising dread, Truman shook his head with weary sympathy.
'If only they knew this is just the beginning. The real performance hasn't even begun.'
As Hogwarts' sole Potions professor and one of the most renowned Potions Masters in the entire wizarding world, Snape was perhaps the "most impartial professor in his treatment of students"—utterly indifferent to House affiliation or year level.
Because he distributed his scorn, his acid-tongued observations, and his House point deductions with perfect, mathematical equality across Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff the same.
Except Slytherin, naturally.
As a fifth-year prefect who'd weathered half a decade at Hogwarts, Truman had endured five full years under Snape's particular brand of "devoted attention."
'Five. Years. '
Five years of acidic commentary. Five years of watching his brewed potions dismissed with a contemptuous curl of that thin-lipped sneer. Did anyone truly understand what surviving those five years needed?
Fortunately, faced with Snape's unrelenting persecution, Hufflepuff's collective ingenuity had forged something invaluable from the crucible of suffering—a comprehensive survival strategy, refined through bitter experience and passed down like sacred knowledge:
"Right then," Truman began, his voice took on the solemn gravity of a general briefing troops before battle, "everyone remember the 'Potions Class Survival Code' I went over with you last week?
Rule Two: Don't talk back to the professor, regardless of what sarcasm he spews. Just keep your head down, eyes on your cauldron, and mumble something vaguely apologetic.
Rule Three: Follow his instructions to the absolute letter. Unless you genuinely believe your Potions expertise surpasses that of Snape—a Potions Master who's forgotten more about potion-brewing than most wizards ever learn then even if his requirements flatly contradict the textbook, even if they seem completely barking mad, you do exactly as he commands.
The textbook won't be grading your work. He will.
Rule Four: If Snape poses a question and you don't know the answer, admit your ignorance immediately. Don't waffle about 'not being in the syllabus' or stand there like a stunned flobberworm wasting everyone's time. Acknowledge defeat swiftly, or you'll only compound your suffering.
Rule Five: Never, under any circumstances, volunteer information. Snape interprets enthusiasm as either showing off or stupidity, and neither earns favorable outcomes.
Rule Six: When he's deducting House points and he will be—accept it silently. Protesting only triggers additional deductions, like some sort of perverted point-loss multiplication charm.
Rule Seven: If your potion shows any sign of going wrong, unusual colors, suspicious smoking, ominous bubbling—alert him immediately before it explodes, melts through your cauldron, or does something equally catastrophic. Cleaning up disasters wastes his time, which he'll repay sevenfold in lost points and public humiliation.
Rule Eight: Never laugh. Not at someone else's mistake, not at anything. The dungeons aren't a place for humor, and Snape will interpret any cheerfulness as mockery directed at him personally.
Rule Nine: Double-check your ingredient measurements. Triple-check them. Imprecision in Potions can mean the difference between a Cure for Boils and a Face-Melting Acid, and Snape will hold you personally responsible for either outcome.
Rule Ten: If any of these rules prove insufficient, if you encounter a situation not covered by this guide—report immediately to your Hufflepuff prefect. That's me.
I'll revise and perfect the 'Snape's Potions Class Survival Guide' accordingly, incorporating your hard-won battlefield intelligence for future generations.
Now then—have you all committed these rules to memory?"
Though ostensibly reinforcing the other first-years' retention, Truman's gaze remained fixed straight on Tom throughout the entire briefing.
Clearly, this was a supplementary orientation for the student who'd "missed the crucial first week by residing in the Hospital Wing under Madam Pomfrey's tender mercies."
'This whole setup has serious creepypasta vibes,' Tom thought, his whiskers were twitching with amusement.
'Like those internet horror stories with oddly specific rules for surviving supernatural encounters. "Don't look at the portraits after midnight. If the stairs move when you're alone, close your eyes and count backward from thirteen. If a professor's eyes turn completely black, that's not your professor anymore..."'
Still, he nodded with apparent solemnity: [Don't worry, I've memorized every word!]
Of course, understanding the rules and actually obeying them remained two entirely separate matters.
As a cat whom the Sorting Hat had deemed equally suited to Hufflepuff's loyalty, Ravenclaw's intellect, and Slytherin's cunning, a tri-House anomaly, Tom possessed a certain fundamental rebellious streak oven into his very nature.
Rules, he'd learned, were really more like... strongly worded suggestions.
Besides, the code itself contained that crucial loophole: "Unless you genuinely believe your Potions expertise surpasses Snape's." And on that particular point, Tom felt quite confident.
As for whether his potion-brewing methods would meet Snape's exacting standards of orthodoxy? Well. That was a different question entirely, and one Tom felt no particular compulsion to answer.
The process might not strictly adhere to conventional procedure—might, in fact, horrify traditionalists but results were what mattered.
So long as the final product achieved the desired magical effect, so long as the potion's efficacy met or exceeded expectations, who genuinely cared about procedural purity? Who obsessed over whether every step followed some rigid "standard procedure" laid down by long-dead potion-brewers?
Naturally, Truman had no inkling of Tom's private philosophy regarding creative potion-brewing. Observing Tom's apparently attentive expression and solemn nod, he smiled with evident satisfaction:
"Excellent. Remember those rules, live by them, and you'll survive. You see, this code, this accumulated wisdom is precisely how we Hufflepuffs have maintained our iron grip on second place in the House Cup, year after year after year!
When Snape persecutes every House equally, while mysteriously overlooking every Slytherin mistake—we simply need to lose the fewest points to secure second place.
We might never surpass the shamelessly favored Slytherins—not while Snape draws breath and awards them points for successfully arriving to class on two legs but claiming second place consistently? That's our victory. That's the hill we've chosen, and by Merlin's beard, we hold it!"
Hearing Truman's "perfectly reasonable" strategic analysis delivered with such earnest conviction, Tom found himself momentarily at a loss for words.
Look at this—Just look at what Snape's done to these poor students. Look at the psychological damage. They've internalized defeat so thoroughly they're celebrating second place. 'Can't beat the favorites, so losing less badly than everyone else equals winning!' That's... that's actually kind of depressing.
And yet...
'Though I have to admit, the fact that Hufflepuff consistently holds second place in the House Cup is actually quite impressive.'
Say what you would about the defeatist words, but defending that second-place position year after year, term after term, required real organizational skill and House unity.
At the very least, this "Potions Class Survival Code", this comprehensive guidebook to enduring Snape's dungeons represented a unique achievement that existed nowhere else in Hogwarts.
No other House had developed anything comparable. Gryffindors just charged ahead recklessly, Ravenclaws relied on individual brilliance, and Slytherins enjoyed immunity from Snape's worst excesses.
Only Hufflepuff had transformed survival into an organized science.
Even more remarkable was how the upperclassmen continually refined these rules, incorporating new insights and lessons learned, then shared the accumulated knowledge freely with each incoming first-year class.
That kind of intergenerational solidarity, that instinct to protect and prepare the younger students couldn't be matched by the other Houses.
—And that observation is absolutely not a subtle jab at a certain House of reckless little lions who treated every obstacle as a personal challenge rather than a problem requiring collective strategy. Really. Totally not referencing anyone specific.
'Though with our Chosen One attending Gryffindor, even if they somehow mastered these survival rules, they'd be useless... Unless his name were Harriet Potter...'
Tom's whiskers twitched at the absurd mental image.
"All right, stop overthinking it," Truman interrupted Tom's wandering thoughts, misinterpreting the cat's thoughtful expression as anxiety about the survival guide's complexity.
He gave Tom's shoulder a reassuring pat, the sort of gesture that said we're in this together.
"You'll understand everything once class actually begins. Experience is the best teacher. For now, though? Let's enjoy our breakfast while we still can! This is an exclusive Hufflepuff privilege, you know~"
His expression brightened considerably.
Truman clapped his hands: "Henry! I'll have today's standard breakfast, please. Oh, and make the bread whole wheat instead of rye."
The air shimmered.
The instant those words left Truman's mouth, a house-elf appeared.
In his spindly arms he balanced a wooden tray with a glass of orange juice, several slices of bread, and small porcelain dishes containing butter and jam in bright colors.
"Your breakfast, honored wizard sir," Henry announced. "Please enjoy. Henry hopes everything is to your satisfaction!"
Truman accepted the tray with ease, then turned to Tom and winked.
"See that? This is Hufflepuff's unique advantage. We can summon the kitchen house-elves directly whenever needed.
Any time at all, day or night, you simply call the name of any house-elf working in the kitchens and specify what you'd like. They'll bring it to you within moments.
Hot soup at midnight when you're cramming for exams? Done. Fresh pastries during Sunday study sessions? Absolutely. Sandwich delivery when you're too absorbed in a book to trek up to the Great Hall? They're delighted to help.
Of course," Truman added, his tone becoming slightly sheepish, "for the social atmosphere and House unity, we usually still take meals in the Great Hall with everyone else.
Keeps us connected to the broader school community, prevents us from becoming complete hermits. But for those times when you're genuinely rushed, or craving a midnight snack, or just want breakfast in your pajamas? Invaluable."
He glanced down at the tray, and a small crease of confusion appeared between his eyebrows:
"Though... is this everything? Odd. Why no bacon this morning? And I could've sworn I asked for milk last time and got orange juice instead..." He looked up at Henry. "Did something happen with the breakfast meats?"
"Th-that's... I-I mean..."
Henry's enormous eyes suddenly brimmed with shame. His ears drooped further, practically dragging on the floor. The house-elf's entire body began trembling with distress.
"It is Henry's fault!" he wailed abruptly. "Henry failed to prepare adequate ingredients! The wizard sirs cannot enjoy a complete, delicious breakfast because Henry is worthless and incompetent and should be punished—"
The house-elf whirled around with startling speed and charged directly toward the nearest stone pillar, clearly intent on ramming his head against the surface in self-punishment—
"STOP! Henry, stop right now!" Truman lunged forward, catching the distraught house-elf by one thin arm just before impact.
"I was asking casually, just making conversation! Not blaming you, not criticizing! This breakfast is absolutely perfect, exactly what I needed. You've done brilliantly, as always. Now please, go attend to your other duties. I'm sure you're very busy this morning."
Henry hesitated, its enormous eyes were searching Truman's face for signs of concealed disappointment or anger. Finding only reassurance, the house-elf's trembling gradually subsided.
"If... if the wizard sir is certain Henry has not failed..."
"Completely certain. You're one of the best house-elves in this castle, Henry. Now off you go—and thank you for the excellent breakfast!"
With a final uncertain glance, Henry vanished with another soft crack, returning to the kitchens.
Truman released a long breath, then turned to Tom with a somewhat apologetic expression:
"See? That's probably the only downside to this arrangement. The house-elves take our requests so seriously that any perceived failure triggers these dramatic self-punishment spirals.
But in situations like this, you just need to find a excuse to send them away, and they'll calm down once they're back in the familiar routine of the kitchens.
Anyway," Truman's expression brightened again, determined to move past the awkward moment, "do you want to try summoning breakfast yourself? Get a feel?"
Tom hesitated, remembering his standing arrangement with Ariana as they'd planned to meet for breakfast in the Great Hall.
A cheerful, distinctly priestly voice suddenly echoed from within the wall itself, "Excuse me, my young friends—who here answers to the name Tom?"
The Fat Friar, Hufflepuff's resident ghost, emerged through stone as effortlessly as a swimmer surfacing from water.
The Friar's gaze swept across the first-years with interest before locking onto Tom—the only cat among a crowd of human students, rather distinctly identifiable.
He drifted over with obvious pleasure.
"Aha! You must be Tom! I'd heard rumors of our unusual new student, but seeing you in person—er, in cat, I suppose is delightful! I'm the Fat Friar, Hufflepuff's House ghost these past five centuries, give or take a decade.
Welcome, welcome to our humble House! We're absolutely thrilled to have you, most irregular student we've had since that fellow who turned out to be three gnomes in a robe, though that only lasted two weeks before—well, never mind that story.
Oh! Right, yes, I nearly forgot the message in all the excitement. Young Ariana from Gryffindor asked me most politely to relay her regrets. She says she's been, and I quote, 'sealed away by the Great Duvet Demon' and will likely miss your morning appointment. She hopes you'll understand."
The Friar's transparent face furrowed with concern.
"Though I must say, this 'Great Duvet Demon' business troubles me. Is this some new dark wizard and he dares to cause havoc in the castle?.."
Ignoring the Friar's indignant muttering, Tom thanked him, then casually wrote down a house-elf's name and settled in to enjoy the breakfast they brought him, right there in the common room.
'Ah yes, a proper wizarding life should always begin with a delicious breakfast~ (￣▽￣)~This is the life~'