McGonagall stood before Dumbledore's desk, both hands braced against its surface, her knuckles white. Her robe collar was buttoned tightly, her hair meticulously tied back, yet a stray lock stood up at her temple, as though someone had impatiently flicked it aside. She looked at Dumbledore, her lips pressed into a thin line. After a few seconds, she turned and fixed her gaze on Severus Snape.
"Severus, I am not making accusations out of thin air. Your students—the children of Slytherin House—used this sort of tone when they loudly discussed the Petrification Incident in the corridors: 'It's not pure-bloods who are dying anyway,' and, 'Mudbloods deserve to die.'" Her voice was not loud, but it was hard, hard enough to sound like fingernails scraping stone. "I would say that was precisely the mindset they had when selling those Petrification protection potions. Cold, cruel, and steeped in pure-blood superiority. I propose that those students who openly made improper remarks about the Chamber of Secrets must be severely punished! Slytherin House must pay the price for such an attitude!"
Her fingers tapped the desktop once. The sound was not heavy, but in the silent office, it struck like a hammer against wood.
Snape did not immediately argue back. He stood beside the fireplace, his black robes resembling a slow-moving mass of storm clouds in the firelight. His fingers were tucked into his pockets, and he leaned slightly backward against the edge of the mantelpiece.
There was no expression on his face, but his eyes were alive. Those black eyes moved slowly over McGonagall's face, again and again, like a blunt, unsharpened blade pressed to the skin—painful, but not fatal.
"Heh heh heh..." His voice squeezed out from deep in his throat, low and slick, like a snake flicking its tongue. "What a