Hogwarts, first floor underground.
The oak door of the Potions office creaked open and shut, the lock clicking sharply into place. The old brass hinges let out a faint squeak, the sound carrying far down the dim, chilly corridor.
"Professor Snape, truly a Potions master. Even an unknown potion with mysterious ingredients, and you cracked it in just a few weeks."
Melvin closed the door, flashing a smile. He'd asked for a favor, so a little flattery couldn't hurt. "If you weren't swamped with Hogwarts classes, I bet you'd be up there with Damocles Belby, earning a Merlin Medal for Potions research."
The office was built from long, slate-gray stone blocks, like several half-domes stacked together. The arched ceiling formed a curved dome, with a slightly tarnished crystal chandelier dangling from it.
Along the walls, shelves of Albanian hardwood gleamed with a bronze-like sheen under the light. They were packed with countless glass jars, each holding clear solutions with bizarre specimens suspended inside—snakes, toads, eyeballs, livers, and something that might've been a primate fetus.
Snape sat behind his desk, half his body swallowed by shadow in the dim room.
"Done talking?" Snape's face was expressionless, but a faint smirk curled his lips at Melvin's words, dripping with unmasked sarcasm.
"If you're up for it, I'd love to dive into Belby's Wolfsbane Potion or my take on where Potions is headed." Melvin gave a helpless shrug. Ever since they'd debated narcissus flowers and the subconscious, Snape hadn't given him a single kind look, no matter what he said.
"Tell it to your pet snake tonight."
Snape shot him down coldly, lifting his head. His unwashed hair glistened with grease. "Where did you get that potion?"
"Does the source matter? Don't worry about where it came from—figuring out what it does is the key. The moment I got word from the Bloody Baron, I rushed over. Show me what you've got, Potions master." Melvin grinned.
Snape gave him a look but said nothing more. He stood and headed to the back storeroom.
They passed through a stone-arched passage into an even colder, darker space. Shelves crammed with magical plants, animal parts, and vials of what looked like finished potions filled most of the room. The remaining space was so tight, two grown wizards could barely turn around without brushing elbows.
"The potion you gave me is bizarre. Color, smell, texture—nothing hints at its ingredients." Snape led him to a platform that doubled as a workbench. "So I had to test it on live subjects."
"Didn't it have a dittany scent?" Melvin asked, curious. "I caught a whiff of rot and blood, too."
Snape glanced at him. "All plants in the rue family smell like dittany. Some heal, some hasten death. And your 'rot and blood' description is wildly imprecise."
"..." Melvin pressed a finger to his lips, signaling he'd shut up about his shaky Potions knowledge and let Snape take the lead.
Snape waved a hand, and a hanging lantern flared to life, illuminating a crude, spacious rat cage on the workbench. A few listless rats lay inside, limbs intact but fur shaved clean, revealing pink veins beneath.
Their eyes were dull, pewter-gray, devoid of spark. Their skin showed no rise or fall—no heartbeat, no breath.
"A lethal poison?" Melvin studied the motionless rats.
"With such obvious color and smell, if it were just a poison, it'd be a third-rate concoction." Snape's voice was low. "What makes this poison unique isn't that it kills—it's that it denies them peace in death."
He slipped his wand into the cage, a faint spark of magic flickering. A tiny flame shot out, grazing the lifeless, bald rats.
"Squeak!"
The rats screeched, shrill and piercing.
The corpses jolted as if shocked awake, dragging their shriveled, stiff limbs to stumble away from the flame. Their movements were sluggish, radiating an eerie, bone-chilling dread.
"Inferi?" Melvin frowned.
"It's similar to those dark magic puppets, but not quite." Snape extinguished the flame, watching the rat corpses twitch restlessly. "Inferi feel no pain, have no will or thought, and don't care about self-preservation—they'll shatter themselves to complete their task. But these potion-made corpses retain faint senses. They fear fire, feel pain, and try to flee."
Classic Voldemort move.
Melvin stared at the rats, now stilling, and couldn't help but muse, "Corpses that keep moving after death—fitting for tonight's feast, Easter Eve."
"Terrible joke."
Snape shoved the rat cage aside and pulled out several glass jars. Inside were animal corpses: a dehydrated toad frozen mid-tongue-flick, a snake twisted like a vine, a bald rabbit, a bluish-gray hedgehog.
All shriveled post-mortem, yet driven by some magic to move again. Their stiff muscles and bones contorted into grotesque shapes, their inelastic skin torn, with blackened, dry blood like grime.
"I tested the potion's duration on small animals. For toads and lizards, the corpses stay active about two weeks. Rabbits and hedgehogs, about a week. For something human-sized, probably a day or two."
Melvin gave him an odd look. "You've tested it on humans?"
"Try it yourself." Snape packed away the cage and jars into a wooden box etched with runes. "I couldn't reverse-engineer the formula, so no appraisal fee. But testing costs labor. Half the potion's left—consider it payment. Any objections?"
"None."
Melvin had collected a full cup originally, splitting it into four vials. The smallest went to Snape for analysis; he hadn't planned to take it back.
Besides, with the cup in hand and a cozy deal with Riddle, he could churn out more whenever he wanted.
"One more thing—I've got another potion for you to analyze."
"..."
Snape turned warily as Melvin produced a test tube of milky-white potion, pure and untainted, with a faint dittany scent.
With decades of expertise, Snape instantly knew it was like the last one—untraceable ingredients but the opposite effect, likely a gentle healing potion.
He took the tube, frowning. "Where are you getting these strange potions?"
Melvin flashed a Dumbledore-esque, deflecting grin. "You'll find out someday, Severus. Not today, though."
Just as Snape looked ready to hurl the tube at his face, the office clock chimed the hour.
Dong...
Dong...
The pendulum swung, striking thin copper plates, signaling it was time for the feast.
Second Sunday in April: Easter Feast.
...
"Why's your Easter egg bigger than mine when my mum sent them?"
"Probably because Mrs. Weasley likes me better."
Harry and Ron huddled at the Gryffindor table, cracking open chocolate-shelled eggs and grabbing handfuls of Mrs. Weasley's homemade toffee. They didn't bother peeling the wrappers—rice paper dissolved in your mouth anyway.
Nearby, Ginny and Hermione had their own eggs from Mrs. Weasley, stuffed with similar candies, all slightly bigger than Ron's. He ground his teeth in frustration.
The Easter Feast wasn't as grand as Christmas, nor as big as the start-of-term or end-of-year feasts, not even Hallowe'en. But the enchanted hall still sparkled with magic.
The ceiling mirrored a summer night's sky, twinkling with stars. Massive crystal chandeliers gleamed, and multicolored candles floated overhead, spinning slowly, their soft glow like little Easter eggs.
Dumbledore sat at the head table in white robes, his blue eyes twinkling warmly. Flanked by the four Heads of House, with elective professors nearby, their goblets brimmed with sparkling champagne and red wine.
"Surprising to see you two arrive together," Dumbledore said, smiling gently at Melvin and Snape, two minutes late. "I'd thought you didn't get along. Seems I was mistaken."
"That's the mistake," Snape deadpanned, his voice flat as his expression.
Melvin didn't comment, settling in and chatting cheerfully with Flitwick. He always got on well with colleagues, blending in effortlessly.
"Easter holidays are over—Apparition lessons start soon," Professor McGonagall muttered about work nearby.
Dumbledore personally poured her a glass from a jug of Rosmerta's mead, its sweet aroma wafting. "Minerva, it's Easter break—feast time. Work can wait."
A muscle in McGonagall's cheek twitched. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one wrangling paperwork and Ministry clerks."
Dumbledore, knowing he was outmatched, changed the subject. "Let's start the feast. I hear the choir and drama club have performances tonight. It's been years since I've seen the drama club."
"Absolutely!" Kettleburn chimed in, buzzing for the drama club.
Dumbledore tapped a silver spoon against his goblet, the clear chime ringing out. Students in wizard robes and wide-brimmed pointed hats gathered in front of the head table. Flitwick left his seat, hopping onto a triangular stool to lead.
The chandeliers dimmed, and candles circled the choir, lighting up the young witches and wizards' nervous faces—and a toad perched on a book.
Croak... croak...
"The time has come, the time has come.
Toads slumber in cold stone's bed,
Thirty-one nights in a row,
Sweat drips, venom turns to dust..."
The lyrics sounded like some ancient potion recipe, heavy on ingredient prep but vague on brewing details. Typical wizard folk songs—creepy words, but paired with the kids' ethereal, lilting voices, it was oddly captivating.
The song ended, and the silver spoon clinked the goblet again. The hall hushed, chandeliers fading further, leaving only the magical candles to light the stage.
At the stage's edge, drama club members darted about. Marietta organized the set-up, Transfigured horses and ponies clopping their hooves. Cedric, in silver armor, gripped a lance, exhaling steadily.
Silence fell. The show was about to begin.
Dumbledore suddenly noticed the seating arrangement's flaw, setting down his goblet with a frown. "Shouldn't we move to the house tables? We can only see the backdrop from here—no view of the performance."
"If we go now, the kids won't be able to focus," McGonagall said, glancing at Neville, who was playing a faceless backdrop prop. "We'll fix it next time."
"We could stand at the back—won't bother the kids."
Kettleburn, at his last Hogwarts Easter Feast, didn't care about appearances. He just wanted no regrets, seeing the drama club he'd accidentally torched years ago reborn.
He slipped from the head table, sneaking to the back in the dim light.
Dumbledore sighed, resigned, but perked up at Kettleburn's move. He nearly followed, but McGonagall's glare pinned him to his headmaster duties.
Melvin watched the stage take shape. It was a makeshift setup—no proper curtains or panels. You could see the performance from the back, just at a worse angle.
"Drama club's back after decades," a ghost at the table mused wistfully.
"Heard Lestrange revived it," another ghost said. "They've been rehearsing hard—every weekend."
"Lestrange's guiding them; it's bound to be great," the Fat Friar cheered.
Nearly Headless Nick wasn't thrilled, clutching his head. "Drama club's return'll steal thunder from my ghost theater."
The soft buzz of chatter made the drama club kids move stiffer, the whole hall watching their every step. You could almost hear their pounding hearts.
"A noble heart and sturdy frame—call for Sir Cadogan when in need!"
The chandeliers flared. Hooves echoed through the hall. Cedric, in gleaming silver armor, strode onto the stage.
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