Professor Snape swept into the dungeon classroom like a shadow with a grudge, his cloak snapping behind him.
The second he reached the front table, he flicked open his roll parchnt.
"Attendance," he said flatly. "Potter."
"Here."
"Granger."
"Present."
"Greengrass."
"Here."
"Cassius—"
Silence.
Snape's brow twitched.
An absent Snape was an unacceptable Snape.
His gaze slid toward Daphne.
She didn't even look up from her cauldron.
"He has his match today, Professor."
Snape blinked once.
Then, very calmly, he set down the roll parchnt.
"Of course he does," he said dryly, as though it had been on the top of his mind all along. "Very well. His absence is excused."
Ron muttered under his breath, "If I skipped class for anything, McGonagall would use my head as a bludger."
Hearing the remark, Professor snape was quick to snipe back snatching away 10 points from Griffindor for insulting a teacher.
The class reluctantly turned back to slicing roots, Ron nursing his bad luck, and Snape drifting around the room like a wrathful bat conducting silent judgnt.
All the while an eagle eyed viewer could almost see a smile threatening to take over the professors face.
~
Cassius on the other hand stood beneath the looming titan-archway of his first national match since joining the British quidditch team, his breath visible in the crisp, late-autumn air.
He wore his new uniform: white robes lined with crimson arcs and the golden lion insignia of the British National Team emblazoned on his chest.
The sight of it still felt unreal.
Thirteen years old.
Starting Seeker for the National Team.
And holding in one hand the brand-new Aeriusbolt Supre, the cutting-edge broom engineered exclusively from the Arcanum research society specifically for him, and him alone.
Its core throbbed faintly beneath his fingers the broom itself was eager to show what it could do for its destined rider.
A photographer waved him forward. "Snape—front and center!"
Cassius stepped into position between veteran players so more than twice his age.
So still looked skeptical that a literal kid could do anything to turn the tide of the season.
Others?
Hopeful, perhaps young blood was just what they'd need to secure the World Cup this year.
The cara flashed.
"Brilliant! Now to the pitch—five minutes!"
Running through the facility quickly to reach the arena entrance.
Cassius mounted the Aeriusbolt Supre and kicked off lightly—
SWISH—
The broom surged upward like a living streak of lightning, stabilizing instantly with near-sentient smoothness.
He hovered above the pitch, taking in the crowd: thousands waving banners, chanting, stomping, roaring.
Britain vs. Australia.
Historic rivalry.
Fastest players in the Southern Hemisphere.
So of the most brutal Beaters alive.
This wouldn't be easy.
It would be fun.
~
The whistle blew—
FWEEEEET—!
—And Cassius launched.
The acceleration hit like a hamr.
Wind shrieked past his ears.
The stadium blurred into streaks of color.
He heard the distant echo of the comntator's shocked voice:
"AND CASSIUS SNAPE IS OFF LIKE—GOOD RLIN, THAT CHILD IS A COT!"
Players scrambled to form formations.
Bludgers shot through the air like cannonballs.
The Quaffle zipped back and forth in a red blur as both teams traded rapid-fire goals.
But Cassius wasn't watching that.
He wasn't hunting the Australian Seeker.
He was scanning, as his broom raced laps around the pitch, his senses were hard at work trying to feel out the magical aura of the snitch.
The air shifted—just slightly—on his left.
Cassius snapped his head toward the disturbance.
There.
A flicker.
A faint glimr catching sunlight near the northern stands.
Found you.
He leaned forward.
The Aeriusbolt Supre responded like it had been waiting all match to show off.
Cassius vanished from his previous position.
One blink later, he was a silver-white streak cutting across half the field—
The Australian Seeker cursed and dove after him, having thought the young man was simply showing off on the world stage rather than actually competing.
But Cassius was already moving again.
Down.
Up.
Through the player formation.
Skimming a bludger so closely it clipped the end of his sleeve.
He didn't care.
His world narrowed to a single point of gold flitting between the wind currents.
He reached.
Fingers out—
Closer—
Closer—
The Snitch darted up sharply.
Cassius pulled harder.
The broom roared.
The air scread.
And then—
SNAP
His fingers closed around cool tal.
The stadium went silent for half a heartbeat—
Then detonated in noise.
"HE'S GOT IT—HE'S GOT IT—SNAPE HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH IN SIXTY-THREE SECONDS!"
"THE FASTEST INTERNATIONAL MATCH IN RECORDED HISTORY!"
"BRITAIN WINS! 150-0"
When he reached the ground still clutching his prize.
Players sward him.
Shouting.
Laughing.
Grabbing his shoulders, hoisting him upward.
Cassius simply held up the Snitch, calm and composed, heart still pounding from the chase.
anwhile in the arena stands towards the furthest back corner.
A man in all black stood there.
Hood up.
Face hidden.
He clapped.
Slow.
Precise.
Intentional.
The man's lips moved faintly, barely visible.
That's my boy.
Recognition if only for a mont.
And then the man was gone—vanished in the swirl of the celebrating crowd.
No one in attendance having born witness to the fact a hogwarts professor had played hookey to attend the match.
~
Professor Snape POV
The morning class was the sa as always, dullards with troll brains, Weasley almost managing to match Mr. Finnigin for most incompetent potion maker of his year.
Though the draconis ladies who work with his son... they were shaping up quite well, but no where near his sons level, not that anyone would be.
It honestly took everything he had to maintain his composure during class knowing full well the reason for Cassius's absence.
But now he regretted nothing.
Having practically demanded the use of one of the schools ti turners from Dumbledore before disapparating from the school for the first ti in a decade only to attend a qudditch match.
Quidditch of all things, but well even if the sport was lacking, he never tired of watching his own flesh and blood trounce the robes off all the arrogant and self-centered players, all while he held himself up high with dignity and grace.
And this match was no different.
Cassius was like a breath of fresh air to the stale sport.
He'd burst onto the scene only to imdiately shut down the opposition cleanly and efficiently.
And while his performance left the fans wanting more, as his father Severus could not be more proud, as with his potions there was precision, no wasted movents and even after completion no bragging or mocking of those who failed.
A true Snape, a proper heir to the Prince bloodline.
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