Echo spent the rest of the day in a dark mood, skipping dinner and retreating to the relative solitude of the Slytherin common room. He sat by the dying embers of the fireplace, Sniffles curled unhappily in his pocket, sensing his master's despair. The laughter and jeers of the Marauders replayed in his mind, chipping away at his hard-won confidence. He was powerful, yes, but what good was that power if he couldn't even walk down a corridor without being humiliated?
The common room slowly emptied as the evening wore on. Echo was almost relieved when he heard the familiar soft click of the dormitory door opening, signaling Snape's return. He braced himself for a lecture about his academic failings, or perhaps a dry, cutting remark about his outburst in Charms. He did not expect what followed. Snape walked over to the fireplace, his usually impassive face etched with a rare, almost imperceptible frown. He didn't speak immediately, simply staring into the embers, his dark eyes reflecting the fading light.
"You've had a… difficult day; I gather," Snape finally said, his voice flat, but without its usual edge of disdain.
Echo merely grunted, unwilling to elaborate. He was tired of talking about his failures.
"Potter and his ilk," Snape continued, almost to himself, "are predictably puerile. Their actions are designed to elicit precisely this response." He turned, his gaze finally settling on Echo. "And you, unfortunately, are predictably susceptible." Echo flinched, but Snape held up a hand, cutting off any protest. "Your 'unorthodox magical manifestations,' as the Ministry so delicately put it, are indeed extraordinary. But you allowed them to define the encounter. You allowed their narrow perceptions to wound you."
He paused, then took a rare, deliberate seat on the armchair opposite Echo. "I confess, when you demonstrated your abilities in the assessment, I detected a… certain arrogance in your display. A desire not merely to prove your understanding, but to… overshadow. To demonstrate superiority. That, Echo, is a dangerous path."
Echo looked up, surprised by the unexpected introspection in Snape's tone. "But they were mocking me!"
"And your response was to present them with a parlor trick, however impressive, that served only to confirm their preconceived notions of your strangeness," Snape countered, his voice sharp once more. "You proved nothing, save that you possess a dramatic flair and an inability to control your emotional responses."
Echo bristled. "It wasn't a parlor trick! I made it live!"
"Indeed," Snape conceded, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "A fascinating, albeit reckless, display of raw transformative power. But entirely without strategic merit in the context of their puerile antagonism. You engaged on their terms, and thus, you lost."
Snape leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. "Listen to me, Echo. You possess a dangerous, formidable gift. It is a sword, honed and sharp. But you are wielding it like a blunt instrument, flailing wildly when precision is required. You cannot allow every petty slight to unravel you. You cannot allow every ignorant sneer to dictate your response. True power lies not in demonstration, but in control. In reserve. In knowing when and how to strike, and when to observe merely."
He pointed a long, pale finger at Echo's chest. "That 'beast within,' as you so dramatically refer to it, is indeed capable of profound creation. But it is also capable of profound destruction. If you allow it to be provoked by every common fool, you will become nothing more than a trained animal, dancing for their amusement or thrashing in their cage."
Echo stared, the truth of Snape's words hitting him with an uncomfortable force. He had been showing off. He had wanted to rub their faces in his unique ability. And it had backfired spectacularly.
"So, what do I do?" Echo asked, his voice barely audible. "Just… let them walk all over me?"
Snape sighed, a rare display of exasperation. "No, you imbecile. You do not 'let them walk all over you.' You become impenetrable. You become… unreadable. You do not respond to their provocations. You learn to choose your battles, and when you fight, you fight with lethal precision, not emotional theatrics."
He rose, his shadow falling over Echo once more. "Potter and Black thrive on reactions. Deny them that fuel. Let their taunts fall on deaf ears. Let their pranks become meaningless. And then, when they least expect it, when they have lowered their guard, you strike. Not with flamboyant displays of power, but with cold, calculated consequences that serve your own interests, not merely your bruised ego."
Snape's lips thinned into a familiar, cruel smirk. "They believe they are tormenting you. Let them believe it. Let them grow complacent. And then, Echo, you will show them the true meaning of 'useful' magic. A magic that does not merely awaken stones, but reshapes realities. Are we clear?"
Echo looked at the dying embers, then at Snape's unyielding gaze. He still felt the sting of humiliation, but a cold, calculating resolve began to settle in his chest. Snape was right. He had been reacting, not acting. He had been a puppet to their provocations. That would end now.
"Clear," Echo said, his voice quiet, but firm. The beast within stirred, not with rage, but with a chilling, newfound purpose. "But it's not as easy as you say it is. You have years of this experience, and I can barely read a room or social cues."
Snape's thin lips pressed into an even thinner line. "Indeed. A regrettable deficit in your… extracurricular education. However, you will not have to endure their childish antics for much longer. The term is nearly at its end. The End-of-Term Feast, then the train. You can resume your… unique studies with the half-giant in the summer, far from the prying eyes of imbeciles."
Echo slumped further, the thought offering little comfort. "But what about now? And next year? They'll just keep doing it. I can't… I can't keep pretending it doesn't bother me."
Snape let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries of suffering. "Fine. We will postpone the finer points of strategic psychological warfare for a later date, when your… emotional resilience has matured beyond that of a kneazle. For now…" He paused, a strange, almost hesitant look on his face. "For now, perhaps a temporary respite is in order. We could… go to Hogsmeade."
Echo looked up, bewildered. "Hogsmeade?"
"Yes, Hogsmeade, you dolt," Snape drawled, a hint of impatience returning to his tone. "The wizarding village just outside the school grounds. It is a privilege afforded to third-year students and above, but given your… unique circumstances and the Headmaster's ongoing leniency, I believe I can procure the necessary permissions for you. We could acquire a butterbeer. I believe we both deserve a break from this… intellectual grind."
A butterbeer? Echo had never heard of it. He'd barely heard of Hogsmeade. He'd arrived at Hogwarts by himself, escorted only by a grumpy house-elf, and had spent most of his time either in the castle, the forest, or Snape's quarters. The idea of a wizarding village, bustling with people, was completely foreign.
"I… I've never been to Hogsmeade. Except for that one time at the beginning of the year," Echo admitted, feeling a fresh wave of his usual awkwardness. "And… what's a butterbeer?"
Snape stared at him, his dark eyes wide with incredulity. His jaw actually dropped a fraction. He looked at Echo as if he had just announced he was a sentient turnip. "You… you have never been to Hogsmeade? You don't know what butterbeer is?" he repeated slowly, as if Echo had just uttered a string of ancient, forgotten curses. "Good heavens, Echo. Sometimes, I truly despair for your existence outside of a padded cell. You are even more devoid of common knowledge than a house-elf's shoe."
"And I assume you have no means of procuring such a beverage? No Galleons? No Sickles? Are you entirely bereft of financial literacy as well as social graces?" Snape continued, his voice dripping with his usual disdain, though a hint of genuine bewilderment lingered in his eyes.
Echo blinked. "Money? Oh. Yeah, I have money." He fumbled in his robe pocket, pulling out a handful of gleaming Galleons and Sickles. "Dumbledore gives me a small allowance every week for treats and extra school supplies. But I never really… use it. So I just give it to Sniffles." He gestured vaguely at his pocket, where the Niffler was, no doubt, still contemplating its next shiny acquisition.
Snape's eyebrow shot up. "You… you give your allowance to your Niffler?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "And how much, precisely, has this… peculiar financial arrangement yielded, Mr. Echo?" A strange glint, almost predatory, entered Snape's dark eyes. Echo had seen that look before, usually when Snape was dissecting a particularly rare potion ingredient.
"Oh, I don't know," Echo mused, trying to recall. "A few months' worth, I guess? Since I met him. Sniffles usually just keeps it in his nest."
Snape straightened, a flicker of genuine curiosity, rare and unsettling, crossing his features. "His nest, you say?" He strode towards the door to their shared bedroom, a newfound urgency in his step. "Show me this… nest."
Echo, slightly confused by Snape's sudden interest, followed him into the dimly lit room they both shared with two other boys. Snape knelt by Echo's bed, peering underneath. Sniffles, sensing the intrusion, poked his head out from beneath the dust ruffle, chirping indignantly and attempting to nip at Snape's fingers.
"Out of the way, you thieving menace," Snape muttered, swatting at the Niffler, who retreated with a disgruntled squeak.
He then reached under the bed and, with a grunt of effort, pulled out a surprisingly large, meticulously constructed nest woven from discarded socks, stray threads, and what appeared to be several purloined handkerchiefs. And nestled within it, glittering in the faint light, was a truly astonishing amount of money. Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, neatly stacked and arranged, gleamed from within the fluffy confines of the nest. There were at least a dozen overflowing piles of gold Galleons, alongside smaller, but equally impressive, hoards of silver Sickles and bronze Knuts. It was far more than a "small allowance" would accumulate in a few months. It was a small fortune.
Snape stared at the glittering pile, his eyes wide. "Good heavens," he whispered, a hint of genuine shock in his voice. "The creature has been… enriching itself." He looked at Echo, then back at the money, a new, complex expression on his face. "You truly are an anomaly, Echo. A walking, breathing magnet for the absurd."
He carefully extracted a few Galleons from the nest, and to Sniffles's indignant squeak, he pocketed them. "Consider this… a professional fee," Snape muttered, a faint, almost mischievous glint in his eyes. "For enduring your singular lack of worldly wisdom."
Echo didn't argue. He was still processing the idea of Snape wanting to go to Hogsmeade.
"Now," Snape said, straightening up, the money tucked away in his own robes. "Go and prepare yourself. And try not to look like you've just emerged from a forgotten crypt. We shall leave within the hour. I'll talk to Dumbledore about letting us stay past curfew for tonight."
Echo nodded, a strange mix of disbelief and anticipation stirring within him. Hogsmeade. A butterbeer. With Snape. The world, it seemed, was full of surprises.
They made their way through the castle, Echo's mind buzzing with a strange mix of apprehension and excitement. The idea of leaving the school grounds, even for a short while, felt illicit and thrilling. Snape, for his part, maintained his usual air of detached disdain, but Echo noticed a subtle quickness to his stride, an almost imperceptible eagerness. Dumbledore, as promised, had granted permission, and they slipped out of the castle just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.
The path to Hogsmeade was well-worn, leading them past the sprawling Quidditch pitch and through a cluster of ancient, gnarled trees. As they drew closer, Echo began to hear it—a low murmur of voices, the clinking of glasses, and a faint, inviting warmth emanating from the cluster of buildings ahead. Hogsmeade. It wasn't a grand, imposing sight like Hogwarts, but a charming collection of crooked, snow-dusted cottages and shops, their windows glowing with soft, welcoming light. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and something sweet, like treacle.
"The Three Broomsticks," Snape announced, gesturing with a curt nod towards a particularly inviting-looking inn, its wooden sign creaking gently in the evening breeze. "It is… adequate."
They stepped inside, and a cacophony of sound and warmth immediately enveloped Echo. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, mulled wine, and something else, something sweet and frothy. The inn was bustling, packed with students from all houses, older than Echo, laughing and talking loudly. The roar of conversation was almost deafening, but it was a cheerful, comforting noise. Echo felt a momentary flash of awkwardness, a familiar tightening in his chest as he realized he was the only first-year and undoubtedly the only Slytherin present with a fourth-year student. But the sheer novelty of the experience quickly overwhelmed it.
Snape, with surprising efficiency, navigated them through the crowd to a small, secluded table in a shadowed corner. He imperiously waved his hand, and a flustered waitress hurried over. "Two butterbeers," Snape stated, his voice a low command. "And ensure they are… precisely chilled."
The waitress scurried away, and Echo looked around, wide-eyed. He saw students he recognized from the Great Hall, a few seventh-years with their heads bent conspiratorially, a group of Ravenclaws debating something fiercely, and even a few Hufflepuffs singing off-key. He then noticed, across the room, at a large, central table, the Marauders. James Potter was holding court, his loud laugh echoing, while Sirius Black had his arm slung around a giggling girl. Remus Lupin was engrossed in a book, occasionally looking up to offer a dry comment. Peter Pettigrew was, as usual, attempting to look inconspicuous while stuffing his face with something fried.
Echo felt a flicker of the earlier resentment, but it was quickly doused by the overwhelming sense of being an observer, an unseen presence. He was here, in their world, but not of it, and for once, that felt liberating rather than isolating. Just then, the waitress returned, placing two tall, frothy mugs on their table. The butterbeer was a pale amber, topped with a thick, creamy head that smelled deliciously of caramel and something vaguely alcoholic, though Echo knew it wasn't.
"Try it," Snape commanded, picking up his own mug and taking a delicate sip.
Echo hesitated, then picked up his mug. The ceramic was cool against his hands. He took a tentative sip. The taste was astonishing. It was sweet, but not cloyingly so, with a rich, buttery flavor and a subtle tang that lingered on his tongue. It was warm and comforting, and something in its fizz made his nose tingle.
"It's…it's good," Echo managed, his eyes wide. He took another, larger gulp, the creamy foam leaving a mustache above his lip.
Snape watched him, a flicker of something almost akin to… satisfaction in his eyes. "Indeed. A passable diversion. Though I prefer firewhisky."
Echo continued to drink, savoring each mouthful. He felt a warmth spreading through him, chasing away the lingering coldness of his earlier humiliation. He looked at Snape, who was now meticulously wiping a smudge from his robes, his usual scowl firmly back in place.
"Thank you, Snape," Echo said, genuinely. "This is… nice."
Snape merely grunted in response, but Echo thought he saw the barest hint of a softening around the corners of his mouth. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the distant chatter of the pub providing a strangely soothing backdrop. Echo, no longer feeling the need to scrutinize his surroundings, found himself simply enjoying the unusual warmth, the sweet taste of the butterbeer, and the quiet, almost companionable presence of his unusual mentor.
Then, a sudden, piercing laugh cut through the din. James Potter had clearly just told a particularly outrageous joke. Echo glanced over. The Marauders were roaring with laughter, completely oblivious to him. A strange thought crossed his mind. He was here, in their world, but they didn't even know he was watching. He had drunk his butterbeer, and it had been good. He hadn't reacted to their presence, hadn't given them the satisfaction of his discomfort. He had simply… existed. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Echo's lips. Snape was right. Control. Reserve. They thought they were tormenting him. Let them think it. He had a secret. He had Wick, and Hagrid, and a formidable power that was entirely his own. And now, he had butterbeer.
Echo took another sip of his butterbeer, the foam clinging to his upper lip. Snape was right; he shouldn't give the Marauders the satisfaction of a reaction. But the thought still pricked at him. "Why are you even talking to Lilly? You two aren't even friends." James's words echoed in his mind. He'd defended Snape without thinking, a reflexive act of loyalty, and in doing so, he'd revealed a crack in his carefully constructed facade of indifference. And James had seized on it, twisting it, trying to undermine his connection to Snape and, by extension, his own burgeoning sense of belonging.
He glanced over at the Marauders again. James was still holding court, his arm still casually draped around Lilly Evans's shoulder. Lilly. Fiery red hair, emerald green eyes. The girl who had looked at him with curiosity, then indignation when he'd pulled her hair. The girl who seemed to have a playful, easy camaraderie with Snape.
You two aren't even friends.
A strange idea, audacious and perhaps a little mischievous, began to form in Echo's mind. What if he did become friends with Lilly? Not just a casual acquaintance, but a genuine friend. It would be entirely on his terms. It would be a subtle, utterly unexpected move. It wouldn't be a dramatic display of power like awakening a gargoyle, but it would be a quiet, strategic shift in the dynamics. And it would, undoubtedly, annoy James Potter beyond measure.
He looked at Snape, who was now meticulously examining the frothy head of his butterbeer as if it held the secrets of the universe. Snape wouldn't object. In fact, he might even grudgingly approve. Snape cared about Lilly; that much was clear. And if Echo were to foster a genuine friendship with her, it might even serve to isolate James and his cronies further, proving that their antics held no sway over Echo's choices.
A new kind of determination settled in Echo's chest, colder and more calculating than before. He wouldn't just ignore the Marauders; he would redefine the game. He would forge connections outside their sphere of influence, in places they wouldn't expect. He finished his butterbeer, the sweet, warm taste a strangely fitting accompaniment to his newfound resolve. This was going to be interesting.