The Gryffindor common room smelt faintly of burnt toast, spilled wet grass oil, and the lingering tang of candle wax. Shadows flickered across the walls, thrown by a shaky circle of candles that Hermione had arranged with meticulous care. She crouched at its center, cauldron simmering beside her, every muscle taut with focus. The potion inside hissed and bubbled, a delicate green luminescence pulsing beneath the surface, signaling the precise moment it was ready.
Harry crouched across from her, spellbook in hand, upside-down in a moment of exasperation he didn’t care to admit. He muttered the incantation beneath his breath, eyes darting to the flickering candle flames as if they might leap up and scold him for doubting. Curiosity warred with caution in his chest. He didn’t fully trust this plan—summoning anyone, let alone someone as volatile as Professor Snape, seemed reckless—but the edge of thrill was impossible to resist. His gaze kept flicking to Hermione, to her steady hands, to the fire in her eyes, and he found himself hoping against reason that she knew exactly what she was doing.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he whispered, leaning closer to the cauldron, voice low enough that the shadows themselves seemed to hush in anticipation.
“Absolutely,” Hermione said, her brow furrowed, lips pressed in concentration. Her fingers danced with precision, adding drops of a silvery elixir to the potion as she murmured the final charm under her breath. “I’ve studied every step in Advanced Conjuration and Summoning, cross-referenced it with Professor Flitwick’s notes on complex charm interweaving. We can do this. Carefully.”
Harry’s stomach churned with unease, but a small spark of excitement kindled within him. He could feel it in his fingertips—the same electric thrill that accompanied flying on a broom for the first time, only sharper, more dangerous. “Carefully… right,” he said, trying to sound confident. “Because… well, Snape is Snape.”
Hermione’s lips quirked, a brief shadow of a smile that betrayed her anticipation. “Yes. Precisely why we must be careful. He’s… challenging. But imagine if it works. Imagine seeing him—getting some kind of input from a being like him—from a controlled distance, where we can… observe. Understand. There’s no one else at Hogwarts like him. Not even Dumbledore. Not Flitwick. Not Filch. I know Ron has his feelings about Snape, and I’m glad he voiced them. Do you think you can keep a measured temper when dealing with someone who is like but isn’t Snape?”
Meanwhile, somewhere upstairs, Ron lay sprawled across his bed, arms crossed, a scowl deepening on his freckled face. He didn’t understand. Why couldn’t they summon someone safer, kinder, easier to manage? He didn’t see the fascination, the intellectual thrill Hermione chased like a star. Instead, he pouted, muttering to himself about “absolutely unnecessary risk” and “completely crazy idiotic schemes,” and decided to leave them to it. The thought of being dragged into whatever mess Hermione and Harry were stirring made him sink further into his pillows, entirely absent from the impending experiment.
In the common room, Hermione tightened her grip on the wand, her heart thudding with anticipation. Every calculation, every adjustment of the potion, every whispered word of the charm felt electric, like she was balancing on the edge of a precipice. Harry’s pulse matched hers, even as doubt whispered from the back of his mind. What if something went wrong? What if… Snape came, and this wasn’t as controlled as Hermione promised?
He glanced at her again, at the gleam in her eyes, at the way her hands moved like an experienced conductor commanding an orchestra. He didn’t fully understand why she insisted on summoning him, but he could feel the weight of her certainty pulling him forward, threading through his caution and coaxing out curiosity, excitement, and a touch of fear all at once.
The air thickened with the scent of charred candle wax and brewing magic, the shadows of the flickering flames stretching like fingers across the stone walls. Hermione whispered the final incantation, her voice sharp, precise, and unwavering. Harry’s hand hovered over his spellbook, heart hammering.
Somewhere, in the quiet upstairs, Ron grumbled once more, but it was irrelevant.
The ritual had begun.