He's cornered on the second floor, coming down late from Charms.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Junior Snape."

Staring at four wands, he has no chance to go for his own.

"Gryffindor lost fifty points today thanks to daddy dearest."

He hates every single one of them, but not as much as he hates Ron, who keeps walking.

Hexes fly.

He dodges.

They come from all directions at once.

"All right?"

He takes the offered hand, stands up, and assesses the damage.

There isn't any.

"Slytherins take care of each other."

Crabbe and Goyle crack their knuckles in agreement.