The September Hogwarts Express carried students, a year older once again, toward the castle. Thirteen-year-old Lin Yanqing sat in his compartment, clearly sensing the emotional undertone coming from the other end of the soul bond—still cold, still carrying a distaste for Spinner's End, yet compared to the previous two years, there was an indescribable... sense of stability. It was the hidden confidence of a ship with fixed coordinates: even while sailing through a storm, it knew where home lay.
Three years had made everything in the castle familiar. At the Sorting Ceremony, another batch of nervous first-years put on that shabby Sorting Hat. Lin Yanqing greeted his classmates beside the Ravenclaw table, his gaze casually sweeping across the Slytherin table—Snape still sat at the very end, wearing that well-fitted black winter robe, which looked somewhat conspicuous in the cool early September weather, though no one dared comment on it. He ignored the surrounding clamor. When his gaze briefly met Lin Yanqing's in midair, he gave no sign, but the other end of the contract sent back a steady ripple, almost like a confirming scan.
He was confirming Lin Yanqing's existence and stability, as if checking whether his wand was still at his side.
Third-year studies began. The courses became noticeably more difficult. Care of Magical Creatures had a new professor—a witch with thick glasses, immense enthusiasm for creatures, and worrying classroom management skills—while Defense Against the Dark Arts began covering the principles behind more aggressive spells. Yet for Lin Yanqing and Snape, the greatest change came from the increasingly precise connection between them.
The aftereffects of that life-and-death intervention over the summer were beginning to show. Snape seemed to have completely abandoned any attempt to fully block or unilaterally control the contract, instead beginning a more systematic form of cooperative management. During Potions class, when intense concentration was required, Lin Yanqing would often receive highly compressed, processed fragments of data regarding subtle heat adjustments or analyses of ingredient properties. It was not thought-sharing so much as handing part of his senses and computational ability to a reliable coprocessor in pursuit of absolute perfection.
Based on those fragments of information, Lin Yanqing would combine them with his own observations and understanding, then send back extremely brief confirmations, additions, or risk warnings. The entire process was silent and remarkably efficient. Their workstations seemed like precision workstations equipped with dual-core processors, and the quality of their potions consistently left Professor Slughorn in amazement.
This deep level of cooperation brought an unexpected side effect—their perception of each other's magical fluctuations and emotional states became extraordinarily sharp. During one Charms class, as Professor Flitwick explained an attack spell that was easy to mishandle, Lin Yanqing sensed half a second in advance, through the contract, Snape's warning irritation at the clumsy and dangerous casting of a Gryffindor student—not one of the Marauders. He almost instinctively shifted half a step aside, neatly avoiding the spell as it veered off course and flashed past where he had been standing.
"Five points from Gryffindor! Mr. Johnson, watch your spell control!" Professor Flitwick squeaked.
The Gryffindor boy named Johnson flushed red and apologized. Snape never looked in this direction, but Lin Yanqing could sense a faint calm from him, something akin to the satisfaction of a nuisance being cleared away.
Yet beneath that calm, the undercurrents grew ever more turbulent. The Marauders—now fourth-years—had spent the summer brooding over their crushing defeat in the previous public confrontation. Their hostility had not faded. Instead, it had become more sinister and targeted. They no longer resorted to open insults or attacks that could easily leave evidence against them, turning instead to subtler psychological tactics.
They began deliberately discussing, in all manner of situations and at volumes just loud enough for Snape to hear, such topics as the awkward position of half-blood wizards in Slytherin or certain people gaining attention through unconventional means. Their words were full of implication and superiority, like venomous snakes gnawing specifically at Snape's most sensitive anxieties about identity and self-respect.
Lin Yanqing could clearly feel that whenever this happened, the chill around Snape would abruptly intensify. Through the contract came a fiercely suppressed rage and humiliation, burning like volcanic lava. But Snape was no longer so easily provoked into losing control. With a colder, almost cruel rationality, he forcibly compressed and sealed away those negative emotions, transforming them into stronger motivation for research and... some dangerous plan that was still taking shape.
Lin Yanqing realized that Snape was preparing something in secret. The research focus he sensed through the contract had begun shifting away from pure contract theory and potions toward magic with powerful defensive, anti-tracking, and even fierce counterattack effects. Snape seemed to be silently forging his own armor and weapons, preparing for an anticipated, more violent conflict.
This situation reached a small peak one weekend in early October.
In the library, Snape was bent over a tome on ancient protective runes. James Potter and Sirius Black happened to be seated at a nearby table, discussing the Quidditch tryouts that had just ended in voices neither too loud nor too soft.
"...If you ask me, some positions aren't something you can hold onto with little tricks or by clinging to someone powerful," James said pointedly, his eyes sweeping in Snape's direction. "Blood and talent are the real admission passes."
Sirius lazily chimed in, "That's right. Mudbloods and half-bloods should know their place, lest they... stir up trouble they shouldn't."
The word "Mudblood" was like a poisoned dagger, viciously stabbing toward the silent Lily Evans—and it also reached Snape's ears with perfect clarity.
Lin Yanqing saw Snape's fingers freeze as he turned a page. His knuckles clenched at once, creasing the edge of the paper. Through the contract came a sharp current of emotion, a blend of anger at his friend being insulted and the immense humiliation of seeing himself reflected in those words, like high-voltage electricity. His breathing grew heavier, and a storm gathered in his black eyes.
Just as Snape seemed on the verge of losing control, Lin Yanqing made a move. He did not look at Snape, nor did he verbally refute the Marauders. He simply picked up the thick copy of Advanced Potion-Making before him, turned to a page, and in a normal, clear voice, as though speaking to himself, read aloud a passage describing a rare potion ingredient:
"...Its properties remain stable and do not deteriorate due to external impurities. Instead, under pressure, it can extract an even purer essence..."
His voice was calm and assured, especially clear in the quiet atmosphere of the library.
The passage seemed to be merely something he was reading, but at that delicate moment, every word was an invisible counterattack against the Marauders' filthy remarks, as well as a reminder to Snape—remain stable and refine yourself.
James and Sirius fell silent abruptly. Their faces darkened as they glared at Lin Yanqing. Lily looked up in surprise, and a complicated glimmer passed through her green eyes as she looked at him.
Snape's taut back loosened almost imperceptibly for a moment. The fingers gripping the page tightly slowly relaxed. The destructive energy surging through the contract, on the verge of erupting, gradually subsided as though guided, transforming into a deeper, colder resolve.
He did not look up or look at anyone. He simply refocused on the tome before him, as though everything that had just happened was nothing more than insignificant noise.
Yet in a verification request he later sent Lin Yanqing regarding the structure of a protective rune, Lin Yanqing clearly caught an extremely subtle emotion unlike his usual pure rationality—something... complex, born of having the source of his anger understood and being given the most appropriate support.
For Severus Snape, that silent support, which did not touch his wounds yet struck directly at the heart of the matter, was far more powerful than any overt defense.
He knew the storm would eventually come. But this time, he was no longer alone. He had a calm, reliable coprocessor—an ally who could give him the most precise support when he was about to be consumed by rage.
And the net they were weaving together to face the coming crisis was silently growing ever denser.
Before you continue