August passed without much incident.
Snape occasionally visited Godric's Hollow to meet with Harry, though he never set foot inside the Potter residence—it made him deeply uncomfortable.
The development of a cure for lycanthropy had hit a wall.
The potion they'd managed to create ultimately resembled Wolfsbane in effect—it allowed werewolves to retain their rationality on full moon nights, shortened transformation durations, and even prevented transmission of the curse through bites. But it didn't solve the core problem.
A werewolf was still a werewolf.
Lupin wasn't discouraged. He marveled at Harry and, to an extent, Snape's brilliance.
Genius indeed—to achieve a potion this effective.
But Snape wasn't pleased. In fact, after Lupin awkwardly thanked him, he felt like the furball was being passive-aggressive.
The youngest potions master in history was in a foul mood.
Voldemort was dead.
Yet Snape couldn't feel at ease. Barty Crouch Jr. had increased communication with him, but remained elusive, never revealing his location or plans. And yet, he constantly issued orders—prepare Wolfsbane, send over some Galleons...
Most bizarrely, in his latest letter, Crouch requested Snape to accept the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts.
Snape had always longed for that position.
But... why would Crouch want it too?
At the end of August,
Harry and the others visited Diagon Alley to purchase school supplies for the new year—new robes, new textbooks, new tools.
The famous Mr. Potter was given the warmest of welcomes.
Every shop offered him steep discounts, practically giveaways. Even Flourish and Blotts politely asked if he needed one set of textbooks, or three—one for class, one for notes, one to preserve?
Several wizards also approached him with partnership proposals.
Outside the ice cream shop, a wizard approached, sincere and hopeful, holding a stack of ornate pamphlets. "Mr. Potter, would you consider it?"
"Our Smith's Spell Express Tutoring is for Squibs and underperforming adult wizards. Just two weeks—only two!—and you'll master all household charms. In a month, you'll be Auror-level!"
"Hundreds have already signed up!"
He lowered his voice, "Each cycle is two weeks, ten Galleons per person. Over a hundred per cycle!"
"Mr. Potter, just lend us your name. We'll give you 80% of the profits. That's over 800 Galleons every two weeks—800!"
Ron's eyes sparkled. His fingers twitched.
Do nothing. Get 800 Galleons. Every two weeks. Enough gold to knock someone out.
Harry shook his head. "No. I refuse—and I don't want to say it a third time."
He drew his wand with a soft clack and placed it lightly on the table.
The wizard flinched and, visibly bitter, left reluctantly, glancing back repeatedly.
"Harry, that was eight hundred Galleons," Ron muttered, counting on his fingers. "That's more than my whole family could spend in a lifetime."
"Don't underestimate the Weasleys," Hermione countered. "Fred and George have probably already spent thousands."
Ron pursed his lips.
"And that was clearly a scam," Hermione added, picking up the pamphlet the wizard had left behind.
Ron tilted his head. "A scam?"
"But these adult wizard tutoring courses are really common—even a lot of Ministry officials take them."
Hermione and Harry both looked at him in disbelief.
"It's true," Ron nodded. "Every year."
"No wonder the Ministry keeps hitting new lows," Harry muttered.
Hermione glanced at the flyer and said after a pause, "Maybe there are legitimate courses, but clearly not this one."
"Helping a Squib do magic? That person wouldn't need a tutoring center—they'd get the Order of Merlin, First Class, and fame on par with Professor Dumbledore."
Squibs, after all, were defined by their inability to perform magic.
Harry flicked his wand, and the flyer soared into a nearby trash bin. "Forget it. Tell Tonks—she probably needs the case record."
September 1st.
They boarded the Hogwarts Express.
As prefect, Ron held a lengthy meeting in the prefect carriage. By the time he returned, it was past noon and the sun was nearly setting.
He burst into their compartment, visibly thrilled. "Harry! Hermione! Guess what just happened?"
The two didn't even look up.
"Come on, give me something!" Ron groaned, plopping across from them and grabbing a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. "It's huge news."
"Malfoy?" Harry said lazily.
Ron blinked. "How'd you know?"
"It is about Malfoy."
He gasped as he bit into a bean—spicy Indian curry flavor. He turned Gryffindor red. "You wouldn't believe what he's been through. He's all scarred up—blind in one eye."
"Death Eaters chased him for over two weeks," Harry said softly.
"Chased?" Ron froze. "Why would they chase him? His dad was a Death Eater, right?"
"His dad was. He wasn't."
"Voldemort tried to recruit him—probably to add another set of eyes at Hogwarts. He refused."
"After the holidays started, they hunted him down."
Ron was dumbfounded. "He refused to join the Death Eaters?"
"I thought every Slytherin saw that as an honor."
Harry and Hermione said nothing.
Ron took a gulp of pumpkin juice. "In the prefect meeting, Malfoy said he plans to purge Slytherin. He wants to make it truly Slytherin again, not someone else's puppet."
"Pansy didn't take it well—they fought on the spot."
"Malfoy didn't hold back. Hit her with a stunning spell before anyone could react."
"He said he didn't want us interfering with Slytherin House matters."
"Harry… do you think we should listen?"
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Powerstones?
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