Dinner at Hogwarts was usually a chaotic affair—too much noise, too much food being thrown, and too many students barely dodging Filch’s wrath as they skidded into the Great Hall at the last second. But tonight, something different was brewing. A tension that rippled through the Slytherin table and echoed into the surrounding seats.
Severus Snape, fourteen years old, hair hanging in his face as he methodically sliced his roast beef, had just made the grave mistake of saying no.
“Oi, Snape,” Anton Travers had said, slouching across from him, arms folded lazily. “Be a good little Mudblood and do my Potions essay.”
For a moment, Severus thought he’d misheard.
Then the Great Hall froze.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, forks clattered onto plates, and several heads turned toward the Slytherin table with varying expressions of shock and horror. From the Gryffindor table, Lily Evans went stiff, green eyes wide. Further down, the Marauders—James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew—had all ceased their usual chatter, their expressions ranging from stunned to confused.
The word had never been directed at Snape before.
For years, he’d been assumed to be another haughty pureblood, a product of the same Slytherin elitism that made life miserable for Muggle-borns. But now?
Now, everything had changed.
“Travers!” A sharp voice cut through the murmurs.
Professor McGonagall was already rising from her seat at the High Table, her lips pressed into a thin, furious line. Beside her, Professor Slughorn looked equally outraged, though there was also something uncomfortable in his gaze—like he’d always known what some of his students were like, but had never had to confront it so openly.
Even Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes had gone hard.
Travers, either too cocky or too stupid to realize the danger he was in, just grinned. “What?” he said, unbothered. “I thought we were just saying things as they are.”
Lily inhaled sharply, her fists clenching on the table. James Potter’s chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood, and even Remus—usually the level-headed one—was staring at Travers like he was debating hexing him right then and there.
But it was Severus who moved first.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a small pin—the kind used to fasten loose threads. He examined it for a second, tilting it under the candlelight, before jabbing it into his own fingertip.
A drop of blood welled up. Then another.
Travers frowned, looking confused. “What the hell are you—”
Before anyone could react, Severus squeezed his finger, letting the blood pool into his palm. Then, with all the grace of a Muggle mother wiping jam off a toddler’s face, he smeared it across Travers’ cheek.
A collective gasp swept through the hall.
Travers jerked back, chair screeching, hands flying to his face. “WHAT THE—”
Severus tilted his head, eyes cold.
“You got mud on your face,” he said smoothly, voice cutting through the stunned silence like a knife. Then, without hesitation, he quoted,
“You big disgrace—somebody ought to put you back in your place.”
James choked. Sirius made a wild, strangled noise, like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just stand there in awe. Peter actually fell backwards off the bench.
Meanwhile, the Muggle-born students—who had absolutely recognized the lyric—were losing their minds.
At the Ravenclaw table, two girls were clutching onto each other, barely suppressing shrieks of laughter. A Hufflepuff fifth-year was wheezing, shaking his head in absolute disbelief.
Lily clamped a hand over her mouth, shoulders trembling.
But the Slytherins? The Slytherins were livid.
Bellatrix Lestrange looked like she wanted to murder something. Lucius Malfoy had gone so pale that his eyebrows were the only visible feature left on his face. Several other purebloods were already muttering, faces twisted in disgust.
But Severus wasn’t finished.
While Travers still sat there, stunned and bloodstained, Severus leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something lower, silkier, deadlier.
“You know what’s funny?” he murmured. “You, Anton Travers, heir of the great Travers family, retaking two of your OWLs because you failed them last year.”
Travers stiffened.
“Meanwhile, I—the dirty, lowly ‘Mudblood’—am sitting my OWLs a year early.”
A fresh ripple of whispers shot through the hall. Travers’ face darkened.
“But let’s think about that, shall we?” Severus continued, tapping a finger against his chin. “If blood really dictated superiority, surely someone of your noble background would have at least managed to pass the first time.” He smiled. “And yet… here we are.”
Travers looked murderous.
The Gryffindor table exploded.
James was howling with laughter, doubled over against Sirius, who was actually crying. Remus, covering his mouth with his sleeve, was shaking with silent laughter. Even some of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had given up and were just openly cackling at the absolute annihilation that had just occurred in real time.
But it was the Muggle-borns who looked the most affected.
Because they had spent years at Hogwarts—years—hearing that slur, enduring it, gritting their teeth, ducking their heads.
But now?
Now they had just watched as one of their own had turned it into a joke. Had refused to shrink away, refused to cry, refused to bend under it.
Something changed in the air. A shift. A quiet, fierce kind of pride.
Severus turned away without another word, calmly wiping his bloodied hand with a napkin as he stood up from the table. He didn’t bother looking back at Travers, who was still frozen in sheer, unadulterated humiliation.
As he strode toward the doors, past the teachers who still seemed too stunned to react, a single, slow clap echoed through the hall.
Then another.
Then a wave of applause.
It was a mockery, a public, resounding acknowledgment of Travers’ humiliation.
And as the sound grew, as the snickers, laughter, and knowing smirks spread across the faces of every single Muggle-born in the room, Severus Snape smirked.
Mic. Drop.