Chapter 49: The Torn Potions Professor

Snape could hardly believe that a student at Hogwarts would dare ask him such a question to his face. Even more shocking was that Edward Bedivere had somehow seen through him—realizing he was trying to save Potter's life. On the Quidditch pitch, Snape had noticed something off with Harry's broom right away. With Dumbledore absent, all he could do was maintain a counter-curse to keep Potter from plummeting to his death. If he stopped, even for a moment, Harry would've been a goner, smashed to bits on the ground. Snape hadn't bothered hiding his spell-casting. He knew anyone with a pair of binoculars from the Gryffindor stands could see him muttering incantations aimed at Harry's broom. He even had a good guess who'd tipped Edward off—likely those meddling fools, Weasley and Granger, Potter's little sidekicks. What he hadn't anticipated was Edward piecing together his true intentions despite the "damning evidence." "My warnings go in one ear and out the other, don't they, Mr. Bedivere?" Snape paced the room, his tone softening slightly despite his words. "I've told you repeatedly to mind your own business—" "No, Professor, I can't call this 'my own business,'" Edward cut in firmly. "Students' lives are at stake—more than one. First the troll, now the Quidditch match. Who knows what's next?" "And more importantly," he continued, his voice earnest, "this is about your reputation. I don't want people slandering or framing you. You're a great teacher—at least to me." Snape's eyes narrowed, studying the handsome boy before him. Reputation? He'd stopped caring about that long ago. He knew what students whispered behind his back—greasy hair, brooding in the dungeons brewing potions, flitting about like some oversized bat. Cold, harsh, gloomy, biased, inscrutable. Sometimes, even Snape wasn't sure which parts were his true self and which were the mask he wore. "Should I swear to keep your best side a secret? If you insist—" Dumbledore's words and face flickered in his mind, making him falter. And yet, here was Edward Bedivere, claiming to care about his reputation—and meaning it. Those sincere green eyes held no trace of deceit. For a fleeting moment, Snape considered telling Edward about Quirrell. But reason quickly overpowered emotion. The Philosopher's Stone, Quirrell—everything had to stay under wraps. Quirrell was dangerous, possibly tied to Voldemort. Even Dumbledore had only instructed Snape to keep an eye on him, not to act, because they lacked definitive proof or the right opportunity. Edward's rare knack for logical deduction among wizards might've gotten him close to the truth, but that didn't matter. Students couldn't get involved. After today's fiasco, Snape was already considering volunteering as referee for Gryffindor's next Quidditch match. Dealing with Potter's chaos was bad enough; adding a nosy Bedivere to the mix would turn him into a glorified nursery teacher. "Let me remind you," Snape snapped, his voice back to its venomous edge, "you're a student, not Hogwarts' headmaster, a professor, or the castle caretaker! Some things aren't your concern—my reputation or otherwise!" "Get back to your common room, and don't let me hear you mention anything related to this conversation again. Now. Immediately!" Without another word, he shoved Edward out of the office and slammed the door shut. Edward felt a twinge of disappointment but also relief. His judgment about Snape was spot-on. The professor was already aware of the situation and actively countering whoever was behind it. That eased Edward's mind. He also understood why Snape had kicked him out. No teacher would want an eleven-year-old first-year putting themselves in danger, especially against a dark wizard capable of controlling trolls, brooms, and Bludgers. Maybe he didn't need to meddle further. Snape was on top of it, and perhaps Dumbledore was too. Was the headmaster's absence from the Quidditch match a deliberate move to lure out the culprit? A flurry of theories swirled in Edward's head, but he decided to clear his mind for now. A run might do him good. So, he took off down the corridor, weaving past familiar classmates and climbing different staircases as usual. As he ran, he found himself in a corridor where he'd once spotted a sneaky figure lurking. It might've been Snape, but Edward's gut told him it was the mastermind trying to slip into the right-hand corridor on the fourth floor. What was that three-headed dog guarding behind that door? Lost in thought, Edward suddenly heard faint rustling from a nearby classroom, like hushed whispers. His curiosity piqued, he pushed open the door. The room looked abandoned—desks and chairs piled against the walls, covered in dust and cobwebs, with an upturned trash can in the corner. The dusty blackboard was scrawled with crude insults, no doubt Peeves' handiwork. But in the center of the room stood something out of place, as if it had been temporarily stashed there. A mirror. It was massive, far larger than a standard dressing mirror, with an ornate golden frame supported by two claw-like feet. Carved along the curved edge were strange words: "Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi." The text was odd, but Edward's protective charm seemed to nudge him, hinting there was another way to read it. read more inpatreon ilham20