Chapter 101: Snape

After half an hour of negotiation, the three reached an agreement.

Fred and George offered Silven a price he couldn’t refuse—anything lower would be tantamount to working for free—but they had conditions.

All goods Silven sold at Hogwarts, except wands, must be exclusively distributed by Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes until they graduated.

Silven understood their thinking: Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was still newly founded, they’d only made a few small gadgets, and only a handful of Gryffindors had bought them.

Silven was their first major customer; between securing startup capital and gaining fame, they decisively chose the latter.

Though startup capital was important, they hoped this wand sticker campaign would quickly make the name “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes” appear in the common rooms of the other three houses.

Combined with future collaborations, the long-term benefits outweighed direct cash payments.

Still, Silven agreed without hesitation—it was precisely why he had sought out the Weasley twins in the first place; they were perfectly aligned.

But when he told them the sticker prices, Fred and George froze.

“How much?”

“Two Galleons?”

Fred pointed at the topmost Lockhart gold sticker, thinking he’d misheard—he’d guessed it was expensive, but not this expensive.

Could stickers priced at two Galleons each even sell?

“Oh, that one’s just for show—don’t worry about it,” Silven waved his hand.

“What about Dumbledore’s silver sticker?” George asked.

“Five Sickles,” Silven said. “Department Heads are two Sickles.”

Both exhaled in relief.

That price was normal—same as the wand shop’s—otherwise they truly doubted they could sell them at all.

“Leave it to us,” Fred said confidently.

George raised an eyebrow. “Just prepare a big enough bag to hold all the silver Sickles!”

Both were confident; Silven trusted them completely.

Because they’d just struck the deal, when Silven pulled out all the prepared stickers, someone sharp-eyed noticed.

Immediately, six McGonagall stickers sold on the spot, and they called over even more people.

Two Sickles wasn’t especially cheap, but it was the start of term, Halloween hadn’t even arrived yet, and everyone’s pocket money was plentiful—they could afford it.

“I’m starting to regret this,” Fred, surrounded by the crowd, felt a sharp pang in his chest.

“Me too,” George said.

That night, they sold sixty-five McGonagall stickers, six Dumbledore stickers, and one Sprout sticker.

Total: 162 silver Sickles.

This was just one night’s earnings from Gryffindor alone—if expanded to all four houses… the Weasley twins’ eyes were already shaped like silver Sickles.

And they knew well: the image-developing fluid on these stickers only lasted a limited time; after that, the figures would stop moving entirely, forcing buyers to purchase new ones—another revenue stream.

Honestly, both were a little envious.

The next morning, as Silven entered the common room, he found Fred staring at him with bloodshot eyes.

“What do you want?” Silven instinctively stepped back.

“Nothing, nothing,” Fred immediately switched expressions, feigning indifference. “I just wanted to ask—do your stickers have any special qualities?”

“Of course,” Silven said. “I used a special pine resin adhesive—it doesn’t interfere with normal wand use.”

Wand… Fred snapped back to full awareness.

Right—he’d forgotten about wands. Anything stuck to a wand—magic tape, painted images, anything—always slightly affected its handling, making it less responsive.

But Silven’s stickers had no such flaw—they had zero impact on performance.

Fine. No need to think further. They couldn’t replicate this. They’d woken up for nothing.

Without another word, Fred turned and walked away, under Silven’s puzzled gaze.

“Weird,” Silven shrugged, deciding to head to the Great Hall for breakfast, then return yesterday’s library books.

But as he opened the common room’s entrance door, his foot paused mid-step and retracted.

“Harry? Ron?”

Silven stared at the two lying on the corridor floor. “You… slept here all night?”

“Not all night—they only got here ten minutes ago!” came Mrs. Norris’s voice. “And they didn’t even give the password—just collapsed on the floor.”

“I’ll tell you this: sleeping in the corridors is forbidden. But since you didn’t give the password, I can’t let you in.”

“You changed the password,” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible.

Silven noticed their faces were nearly colorless—as if climbing back to the eighth floor had drained every ounce of strength.

And Mrs. Norris had indeed changed the password this morning; they’d been in Snape’s office the whole time, so they hadn’t heard.

“Forget it—come in first,” Silven asked. “Need help?”

“Better not,” Harry said. He and Ron struggled to their feet, swaying as they shuffled into the common room.

“Want something to eat?” Silven gestured to the biscuits on the nearby table.

They were leftovers from last night, brought by the Weasley twins from the kitchen.

Logically, with Harry and Ron this weak, they should eat—but when they saw the biscuits, they both instinctively clapped hands over their mouths.

“Gah…”

Instantly, their faces turned even paler.

Eventually, Silven found half a bottle of pumpkin fizz; they barely drank a little.

“What exactly happened in Snape’s office?” Silven sat down in a nearby armchair, unable to resist asking.

“You couldn’t imagine…” Ron gripped the pumpkin fizz bottle tightly, his face etched with utter despair.

“He made me squeeze leech juice—by hand… an entire barrel… gah!”

Before he finished speaking, he vomited up the little pumpkin fizz he’d swallowed.

“Hmm… that…,” Silven’s lip twitched. “It’s really a hardship for Snape to gather two full barrels of leeches in such a short time.”

“No—one barrel,” Harry’s eyes were hollow, his pale lips trembling. “He made me process… ferret-ferret slime… also by hand.”

“….”

Silven silently stood up and moved to an armchair farther away.

Though he knew it was impolite, Silven was genuinely glad he hadn’t touched them.

“Ferret-ferrets, leeches, slugs—Snape is clearly doing this on purpose.”

“He’s obviously… doing it on purpose…” Ron spoke in broken phrases—he’d vomited countless times tonight; he had no energy left to curse.

“I envy Hermione… detention was polishing silver…”

Silven brought them more water.

“Don’t think like that—you can look at the bright side,” Silven tried to comfort them.

“Like what?” Harry stared blankly at Silven, his voice distant.

“Like…” Silven thought hard. “Ah—how about this: Snape didn’t make you collect rat spleens or spider eyes. Doesn’t that make you feel better?”

“I’d rather drop out!” Ron declared firmly—no joke; he truly would quit.

Harry hesitated, inner turmoil raging—as if a needle swung endlessly between his aunt and uncle and the rats and spiders.

But whether due to psychology or not, after hearing Silven’s words, they genuinely felt slightly better—sitting there, sipping water slowly from their cups.

“I’ll go get you something from the Great Hall.”

“Thanks, but I really can’t eat,” Harry shook his head vigorously.

He’d vomited all night; his stomach felt clenched in an invisible fist, yet even so, he had no desire to eat.

Ron felt the same—better to starve than eat and vomit again.

Soon, more people arrived in the common room. Like Silven, they first asked about Harry and Ron’s night, then, upon learning the truth, quietly moved far away.

It wasn’t coldness—it had nothing to do with that; it was purely an instinctive reaction.

Ginny tried several times to approach but failed; when she looked at Harry now, her eyes held a flicker of conflict—because at one moment, Harry’s image in her mind had transformed into a giant ferret-ferret wearing a school robe.

The little witch was now firmly reinforcing her will, striving to restore Harry’s original image.

(End of Chapter)