"Not bad. Next year, I will nominate you to be a Slytherin Prefect." Snape nodded, his dark eyes fixed on Alan, searching for a reaction.
Alan was caught off guard—not by the nomination itself, but by the timing. Prefect appointments were typically finalized after end-of-term exams. Each Head of House submitted their choices to the Headmaster, and while the Headmaster rarely interfered with House politics, the official letters weren't dispatched until the summer holidays. With more than two months left in the spring term, it seemed remarkably early to be discussing it.
Moreover, a Prefect's role involved managing the House, conducting night patrols, and enforcing the curfew. Alan, however, was like a phantom within the castle—rarely seen and often untraceable. He hadn't even bothered to learn the names of half the students in his own House. For someone who preferred the shadows of research to the spotlight of leadership, the position felt like a burden.
"You've decided this early?" Alan asked, shifting in his seat to express his lack of enthusiasm. "I'm usually quite occupied. I'm not sure I have the spare time required to manage House affairs."
"I am aware," Snape replied indifferently. "I've heard your nickname—the Ghost of Slytherin. If I hadn't run into Vivian today, I doubt I would have found you at all."
"Then why nominate me?" Alan tilted his head, genuinely confused by Snape's logic.
"What is your assessment of Slytherin at this moment?" Snape countered, ignoring the question.
"The House is peaceful enough. Everyone keeps to themselves. There are occasional frictions with Gryffindor, but nothing beyond the usual," Alan said. He rarely spent time in the common room; his routine involved returning after the halls were empty, often not seeing another student for days.
"Slytherin has lost two hundred points this month alone due to conflicts with Gryffindor. You call that 'minor friction'?" Snape snorted, his dissatisfaction evident. "You don't even know the current House standings, do you?"
Alan remained silent. He hadn't checked the giant hourglasses in months. He only knew that he personally hadn't lost any points—mostly because the faculty couldn't penalize what they couldn't catch. However, he now understood Snape's intent: the Head of House wanted him to act as an enforcer.
"If the discipline is lacking, why not handle it directly? You're the Head of House; a few well-placed orders or a talk with the current Prefects should suffice," Alan suggested.
"Do you think I haven't tried?" Snape glared at him. "My responsibilities extend beyond these walls, and I cannot spend every waking hour policing teenagers. Besides, words alone will not fix this. Slytherin has been undisciplined for too long. The faction previously led by Yaxley set a poisonous example—they cared only for their own agendas and abandoned any sense of collective honor."
Snape was stretched thin. Dumbledore demanded his constant attention at school, while the movements of the Death Eaters required his vigilance outside. Even with Yaxley in Azkaban, the damage to the House remained. Slytherin was fractured, split by a deep distrust between the pure-blood and half-blood factions.
Alan knew he was partially to blame for that rift. He had spent the previous year subtly fueling the fires, encouraging Vivian to speak out against the pure-bloods while letting others believe they could bully their way to the top. He had watched from the periphery as the tension escalated, waiting for Yaxley to overplay his hand.
"So, you want me to step in and rectify the House?" Alan asked, reading the grim set of Snape's jaw.
"Only for a year or two. Until the external situation stabilizes and I can devote more time to internal discipline. My only requirement is that we win the House Cup. I will not tolerate Slytherin watching from the dungeons while others lift the trophy every year."
Snape's pride in his House was deep-seated. When he was a student, Slytherin had been a dominant force; now, they were perpetually locked in a bitter struggle for third place with Gryffindor.
"If I do this, will it clear the debt from the bet I lost to you?" Alan asked, seeking a concrete benefit.
"If you wish it to. But as a Slytherin, do you truly possess no sense of honor? No sense of responsibility toward your own?" Snape's voice rose, his irritation flashing.
Honor? Responsibility?
The words echoed in Alan's mind. His old honor had been tied to the protection of a homeland that no longer existed; his duty had been to an officer who was long gone. In this world, he felt no such ties. He was a man without a commander, drifting through a period of profound isolation. It was the reason he lacked motivation for anything that didn't involve his own survival or his personal craft.
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