Over the next two days, Snape began tailing Samuel and Lina.

He didn’t follow them constantly. That would have looked strange. Instead, he timed his appearances, showing up in places they were likely to pass through. The route from the dungeons to the Great Hall before breakfast. The corridor between the Great Hall and the common room after lunch. The stretch from the castle’s side door to the courtyard after class.

He memorized their patterns. Which route, what time, how long it took, whether they stopped, and where.

Then he noticed something. Other people appeared around Samuel and Lina from time to time.

Alex, watching from a corridor corner as they passed. Cuthbert, trailing at a distance behind them.

Snape didn’t let it bother him. They watched, he followed, everyone played their part. No reason to interfere with each other.

He filed that away too. He’d report all of it to Rabastan when the time came.

The young lord wanted a show, after all. Someone chasing, someone running, someone watching. That was what made it look real.

Sunday morning.

In a corner of the Slytherin Common Room, Cuthbert lounged on a dark green velvet sofa, legs crossed, hands laced over his stomach.

He was trying to copy that air Regulus carried. He wasn’t pulling it off.

There was too much tension in it. His back was too straight, his shoulders too squared, trying to project authority but straining under the effort.

He thought he looked commanding. Sitting there like a man in charge.

Snape stood before him, face dark enough to wring water from.

He knew this was theater. Knew it was for the benefit of anyone watching. But being summoned to stand in front of a younger student, in public, still stung.

He wanted to hate Cuthbert. The Avery heir, a second-year, one year below him, sitting there putting on airs, making him stand because he could.

But the hatred wouldn’t come. This was his own choice. Standing here would pay off.

He didn’t hate Rabastan either, because Rabastan was an idiot. Too stupid to see that this entire performance was staged for his benefit.

Hating an idiot was a waste of energy.

He only hated his own powerlessness. Only hated that he had no choice but to stand here.

But he knew that standing now meant not having to stand later.

He swallowed the bitterness. His expression stayed the same. Dark, closed off.

Cuthbert didn’t offer him a seat. The opposite sofa sat empty, but Cuthbert said nothing, so Snape stood.

That was how it worked with a Cuthbert. Second-year or not, middling at magic or not.

His name was Avery. If he wanted a half-blood to stand, the half-blood stood.

In Slytherin’s logic, that was perfectly reasonable.

A few others were scattered around the common room.

Two fourth-year girls sat near the fireplace, flipping through a magazine. Their eyes drifted this way for a moment, then returned to the page.

A sixth-year boy sat in the middle of the room writing something, his quill scratching against parchment. He didn’t look up.

A handful of younger students huddled on a distant sofa, whispering among themselves, glancing over every few seconds.

Cuthbert kept his voice low, pitched to sound deeper than it was. "Those two belong to Black. Mind your own business."

Snape said nothing.

Cuthbert watched him for a beat, chin lifting slightly. "If I catch you following them again, you can figure out the consequences yourself."

Still nothing.

Cuthbert waited. When no response came, the corner of his mouth pulled down. "Did you hear me?"

"I heard you." Snape’s voice was flat. Wooden.

Cuthbert studied him a moment longer, then waved a hand, shooing him off like a fly.

---

Sunday afternoon. Before dinner.

A corridor junction near the common room. The light was poor here. Torches were spaced far apart, and none reached this particular corner.

Rabastan stood there, arms crossed over his chest, chin tilted up, leaning against the wall with practiced condescension.

He wore a dark robe today. A Lestrange crest pinned his collar. His hair was combed back neatly, exposing his forehead.

Snape stood across from him, tone level, stripped of emotion. "Those two keep their mouths shut. I asked them directly. They gave me nothing."

Rabastan said nothing. He just looked at Snape, let the silence sit, then let it sit some more.

He was trying to manufacture pressure. The kind of silence that only someone in power could wield over a subordinate.

It made him feel important. A man who got things done. A man whose people reported back to him.

The silence made him feel very impressive indeed.

Snape kept his head down, hiding the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Surveillance confirmed that they always have someone nearby. Rosier and Avery, taking turns."

He drew a breath, smoothed his expression, and lifted his head. "Avery warned me off in the common room. Publicly. Told me to stay out of it. Said those two are Black’s people. Cross them, and you pay for it."

"That’s it?" Rabastan spoke at last, a thread of impatience winding through his voice.

Snape nodded. "That’s it."

Something shifted in Rabastan’s expression. The mask slipping.

He’d planned to react with depth. Listen, nod slowly, say "Noted," and dismiss Snape with a wave.

But everything Snape had just told him, he already knew.

He’d sent Snape to dig up more. What Snape brought back was exactly what he’d started with.

So what was the point of sending him?

Didn’t that make his entire plan look useless?

Snape looked up, watching him.

Rabastan had stopped pretending. The practiced gravity had cracked apart, and irritation sat openly on his face. He didn’t even bother hiding it.

"There’s another way," Snape said.

Rabastan’s brow knotted. "What way?"

"Veritaserum."

Rabastan’s eyes narrowed.

Snape’s tone stayed flat, no inflection. "I assisted in Slughorn’s office. I’ve seen the formula. I can brew it."

Rabastan stared at him without speaking. They were the same year. He knew Snape’s skill with potions.

"Market price for a finished batch is five hundred Galleons," Snape continued. "Brewing it yourself, materials run about three hundred."

Rabastan’s brow tightened further.

Seeing the hesitation, Snape added, "Brewing requires the right lunar phase. Full moon is in two weeks. After that, term ends."

Rabastan was quiet for a long time. 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

Three hundred Galleons was nothing to him. Pocket change, loose coins he wouldn’t miss.

But Veritaserum wasn’t an ordinary potion. Using it on a student, getting caught... that wasn’t a minor offense.

An image surfaced unbidden.

Bellatrix.

She was his brother’s wife. He should call her sister-in-law. But his brother and Bellatrix had never been close. There was no love between them.

If he could uncover Black’s secret. If he could find proof of what the heir was really doing, the heir Bellatrix cared about...

Would she look at him differently? Would she stop seeing a boy and start seeing a man the next time they passed in a hallway?

He swallowed hard and pushed the images down.

Not yet.

Rabastan turned his attention back to Snape.

"I’ll buy the materials. You just brew." His voice settled back into that lofty register.

Snape’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. The briefest flash of being caught out. A hint of frustration, a hint of resentment.

Rabastan caught it. The confirmation settled his certainty.

Of course. The half-blood was trying to pocket the gold. And he’d seen through it.

"Fine." Snape’s voice was still flat, his expression sinking, the look of a man whose scheme had fallen through.

Then he began listing ingredients. "Boomslang skin, one ounce, dried and ground. Quintaped Horn, half an ounce, powdered. Mistletoe Berries, twelve fresh or twenty dried. Fluxweed juice, two ounces... Standard additions: distilled water, crucible sealing wax."

Rabastan listened, brow furrowed.

Snape kept going. "Extra boomslang skin, one portion. Extra Quintaped Horn, half a portion. First attempt. In case something goes wrong."

Rabastan studied him. The surplus alone would run another two hundred Galleons.

He nearly asked: Your first attempt. Why is that my problem?

But the words died before they reached his lips.

Veritaserum was an advanced potion. For the Lestrange family, it was nothing special. The potions cabinet at home held plenty.

But he couldn’t take it from home. His brother ran the household now. His brother would ask. What do you need Veritaserum for?

Could he answer that?

Tell him he wanted to know what the Black heir was up to at school?

Or that he wanted to impress his sister-in-law?

Buying it outside wasn’t an option either. Every apothecary in Diagon Alley kept records on Veritaserum sales. Who bought it, what they bought, when they bought it. All on file.

The young lord of House Lestrange purchasing Veritaserum. For what purpose, exactly?

So Snape’s proposal was perfect.

Rabastan supplied the materials. Snape brewed. If anything went wrong, Snape took the fall.

Rabastan was just a generous classmate buying supplies for a less fortunate peer. How was he supposed to know Snape would use them to brew Veritaserum? And administer it to students?

He knew nothing about it. Nothing at all.

Rabastan’s mouth curved upward at the thought.

He tamped down the satisfaction, put the grave expression back on.

He nodded, said "Wait for it," turned, and walked away. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing fainter.

Snape stood at the corridor junction, head lowered.

The corner of his mouth lifted for half a second, then flattened.

Five hundred Galleons. He’d never seen that much money in his life. Five hundred Galleons’ worth of ingredients was equally beyond his experience.

Veritaserum? What Veritaserum?

He was conning a fool. Nothing more.

The materials were real. The prices were real. The surplus estimates were real. The only thing that wouldn’t be real was the Veritaserum itself.

Rabastan would buy double portions. Snape would use a fraction to brew something that looked like Veritaserum. The rest would disappear into his pockets.

Those leftover ingredients would become money, or become potions that became money. Either way, they wouldn’t sit idle.

Perhaps, after all this was done, a certain potions shop in Diagon Alley owned by the Black family would have his work on its shelves. Bottles bearing his mark. His sealing rune. The small stamp pressed into the shoulder of each vial.

Snape had discovered a truth. Pure-bloods could be fools. Not just the occasional one. Possibly many of them.

He used to place them above himself, craning his neck to look up, convinced he’d never reach that high.

Now he looked down and found them standing in the same spot. Heads empty.

Rabastan was one. There would be others.

The thought sent a flare of heat through his chest, but it cooled in under two seconds.

Because he thought of Black. Without Black handing him this opportunity, what could he have done?

He wouldn’t even have had someone to con.

No, that wasn’t right either. He could still con people. But what happened after?

Get caught. Get destroyed.

Black was the one who’d pushed Rabastan in front of him. Black was the one who made this con possible.

Snape was just playing his part in a scene that had been arranged for him, collecting what he was owed.

He thought he’d seen through the stupidity of Pure-bloods. But seeing through it changed nothing.

He was still being moved by someone else’s hand. The only difference was whose hand it was.

He killed the last trace of that smile, turned, and walked away.