Third Year: Undercurrents and Conspiracy

The Hogwarts Express in September carried students, a year older, towards the castle. Thirteen-year-old Lin Yanqing sat in the compartment, able to clearly feel the emotional undertone from the other end of the soul bond—still cold, still filled with disdain for Spinner's End, but compared to the previous two years, there was a hint of an ineffable... stability. It was the hidden confidence of a ship that had found its coordinates, knowing its destination even in the midst of a storm.

Three years had made everything in the castle familiar. At the Sorting Ceremony, another batch of nervous first-years donned the worn Sorting Hat. Lin Yanqing greeted his classmates at the Ravenclaw table, his gaze inadvertently sweeping across the Slytherin table—Snape still sat at the far end, wearing that well-fitting black winter robe (somewhat out of place in the mild September weather, but no one dared to comment), oblivious to the surrounding noise. When his eyes briefly met Lin Yanqing's in the air, there was no overt reaction, but a steady fluctuation, akin to a scan for confirmation, came from the other end of their contract.

He was confirming existence and stability. Like confirming his wand was at his side.

The third year of studies began. The difficulty of the courses increased significantly, with Care of Magical Creatures welcoming a new professor (a witch with thick glasses, passionate about creatures but lacking in management skills), and Defense Against the Dark Arts delving into the principles of more offensive spells. However, for Lin Yanqing and Snape, the biggest change came from the increasingly intricate connection between them.

The aftermath of the life-or-death intervention during the summer holiday was becoming apparent. Snape seemed to have completely abandoned any attempt to completely block or unilaterally control the contract, instead embarking on a more systematic, collaborative management. In Potions class, which required intense focus, Lin Yanqing often received highly compressed and processed snippets of data streams regarding minor adjustments to heat or analysis of ingredient properties. This wasn't mind-sharing; it was more like lending a part of his senses and computational power to this reliable co-processor, in pursuit of ultimate perfection.

Lin Yanqing, in turn, would provide extremely brief confirmations, additions, or risk warnings based on these fragments of information, combined with his own observations and understanding. The entire process was silent and highly efficient. Their workstations seemed to have become a precision workstation with a dual-core processor, and the quality of the potions produced consistently amazed Professor Slughorn.

This deep level of work collaboration brought unexpected side effects—their perception of each other's magical fluctuations and emotional states became exceptionally acute. During a Charms class, as Professor Flitwick explained a particularly error-prone offensive spell, Lin Yanqing sensed, half a second in advance through the contract, a preemptive annoyance from Snape, triggered by the clumsy and dangerous casting of a Gryffindor student (not one of the Marauders). Almost instinctively, he shifted half a step to the side, perfectly avoiding the spell's trajectory as it flew past his original position.

"Gryffindor loses five points! Mr. Johnson, watch your spell control!" Professor Flitwick shouted.

The Gryffindor boy named Johnson flushed red and apologized. Snape hadn't looked over the entire time, but Lin Yanqing could feel a faint sense of calm from his side, akin to a troublesome issue being resolved.

However, beneath the calm, the undercurrents grew stronger. The Marauders—now in their fourth year—after a summer of brewing and previous public confrontations ending in defeat, their hostility had not dissipated; instead, it had become more insidious and targeted. They no longer engaged in open insults or attacks that could easily be punished, but instead turned to more covert psychological tactics.

They began, consciously, in various settings, to discuss at a volume just loud enough for Snape to hear, topics about the awkward position of half-bloods in Slytherin, and how some people relied on unconventional means to gain attention. Their words were filled with insinuation and superiority, like vipers, specifically targeting Snape's most sensitive, most cherished identity anxieties and pride, gnawing at them.

Lin Yanqing could clearly feel that whenever this happened, the chill around Snape would suddenly intensify, and through the contract would come a suppressed, volcanic rage and humiliation. But he no longer lost control as easily as before; instead, he used a colder, almost cruel rationality to forcibly compress and seal these negative emotions, transforming them into greater research motivation and... a dangerous plan that was brewing.

Lin Yanqing realized that Snape was preparing something in secret. The research focus he perceived through the contract began to shift from pure contract theory and potions to magic with strong defensive, anti-tracking, and even sharp counter-attack capabilities. He seemed to be silently forging his own armor and weapons, preparing for an anticipated, more intense conflict.

This situation reached a small climax on a weekend in early October.

In the library, Snape was engrossed in a tome on ancient protective runes. James Potter and Sirius Black happened to be sitting at a nearby table, discussing the recently concluded Quidditch tryouts in a voice that was neither too loud nor too soft.

"...To be honest, some positions aren't secured by cleverness or relying on others," James said meaningfully, his gaze sweeping in Snape's direction. "Bloodline and talent are the true passports."

Sirius Black lazily chimed in, "Exactly. Mudbloods and half-bloods are better off knowing their place, lest they... stir up trouble they shouldn't."

The word "mudblood" was like a poisoned dagger, fiercely striking towards Lily Evans, who had been silent, and clearly reaching Snape's ears.

Lin Yanqing saw the fingers of Snape's hand, which was turning a page, suddenly freeze. His knuckles instantly clenched, creasing the edge of the page. Through the contract, a sharp, intense surge of anger over his friend's humiliation and his own reflected deep humiliation, like high-voltage current, transmitted. His breathing became heavy, and a storm gathered in his dark eyes.

Just as Snape seemed on the verge of losing control, Lin Yanqing made a move. He didn't look at Snape, nor did he retort to the Marauders. He simply picked up the thick tome Advanced Potion-Making in front of him, turned to a page, and then, in a normal, clear voice, as if talking to himself, read aloud a passage describing a rare potion ingredient:

"...Its properties are stable; it does not spoil due to external impurities. Instead, under pressure, it can extract a purer essence..."

His voice was calm and firm, particularly clear in the quiet atmosphere of the library.

This passage, seemingly just reading, but at this delicate moment, every word was like an invisible counterattack against the Marauders' foul language, and also a reminder to Snape—maintain stability, refine yourself.

James and Sirius Black's voices abruptly stopped. Both of them glared unpleasantly at Lin Yanqing. Lily looked up in surprise, her gaze falling on Lin Yanqing, a complex glint flashing in her emerald eyes.

Snape's tightly held spine loosened imperceptibly for a moment. The fingers gripping the page slowly relaxed. The destructive energy transmitted through the contract, on the verge of erupting, was guided, slowly suppressed, and transformed into a deeper, colder resolve.

He didn't look up, didn't look at anyone. But he refocused his attention on the tome before him, as if everything that had just happened was merely insignificant noise.

Only, in a subsequent verification request he sent to Lin Yanqing regarding a protective rune structure, Lin Yanqing clearly captured a hint of emotion, extremely subtle and different from the usual pure rationality—it was a... complex feeling of his source of anger being understood and the most appropriate support being given.

For Severus Snape, this silent support, which did not touch his wounds but struck at the core, was far more powerful than any direct defense.

He knew the storm would eventually come. But this time, he was no longer alone. He had a calm, reliable co-processor, an ally who could provide him with the most precise assistance when he was about to be consumed by rage.

And the net they were weaving together to cope with the crisis was, silently, becoming more solid.