Outside, the sun shone dazzlingly, but inside the Potions classroom, the air remained oppressively humid. A slight breeze stirred the heavy curtains covering the windows, and the dim, greenish light that managed to penetrate the gloom rippled like murky water across Harry's cold face as he stared up at his least favorite professor.
"No," Harry said icily.
Ever since Sirius had cleared his name and reunited properly with Harry as his godfather, ever since Harry had learned the full truth about his parents' school years, Harry had understood exactly why Snape was so persistently, almost obsessively keen on targeting him specifically in Potions class.
When Snape had been at Hogwarts as a student himself, back in the 1970s, he and Harry's father James, along with Sirius and their group of Marauders had been at each other's throats constantly. Each side had despised the other with passionate vengeance.
"No?" Snape repeated softly.
The Potions classroom fell into its usual oppressive, uncomfortable silence—that particular silence that fell whenever Snape was building toward something particularly unpleasant.
No young wizard dared to speak or even shift in their seats, though Harry could feel Hermione and Ron on sides of him shooting him urgent, meaningful looks, silently pleading with him not to provoke Snape further.
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Potter—" Snape announced with evident satisfaction, his hollow black eyes focused on Harry with disgust and something that might have been vindictive pleasure. "For letting your undisciplined mind wander aimlessly in my class."
Snape paused, then continued in an even softer, more sinister voice, "A word of friendly advice, Potter—if you waste materials again with your foolish operations in my class today, by the time this lesson ends, you'll find that Gryffindor may very well have lost every single one of its points. Every. Single. One."
Harry wanted to say that Snape was obviously bluffing, making empty threats that surely he wouldn't actually dare deduct all of Gryffindor's accumulated points from him alone for simple mistakes.
Surely Professor McGonagall would intervene and override such an absurd, unfair punishment. But a quick glimpse of Hermione's deeply furrowed brow and unusually thoughtful, troubled expression made Harry momentarily distracted from his defiant thoughts.
By the time Harry refocused his attention on the front of the classroom, shaking off his confusion, Snape had already turned away dismissively and returned to the wooden.
He was now scrawling in his sharp, angular handwriting on the blackboard behind him, the chalk was scratching loudly in the quiet room, writing out the potion formula they would need to attempt brewing today: the Wit-Sharpening Potion.
"You will work in groups of four to complete this potion—" Snape announced coldly without turning around, still writing ingredients and instructions on the board.
His black robes swirled around him like bat wings.
His cold gaze swept across the classroom once he'd finished writing, pausing with malicious intent on Harry and Neville, his expression twisted into something resembling an anticipatory smile.
"Four students per batch, no exceptions. Each group will submit their completed, properly brewed potion for evaluation at the end of this double period. Any group that fails to complete the assignment will have the honor of collecting fresh leech mucus in the Forbidden Forest after dark."
A mutual shudder ran through the classroom at this threat. Nobody wanted to venture into the Forbidden Forest at night, even with supervision.
Soon after Snape's ominous announcement, Hermione rose quickly from her seat and fetched the necessary ingredients for the Wit-Sharpening Potion from the student supply cabinet at the side of the room.
Under her direction, once she'd returned to their workspace, they divided the preparatory work: Ron was assigned the responsibility of slicing the ginger root. Neville took on the job of crushing the dried scarab beetles into fine powder using a mortar and pestle.
Harry was tasked with diluting the potent armadillo bile with distilled water to the proper consistency. Meanwhile, Hermione herself squinted through the dim light as she meticulously noted down the precise brewing steps and critical precautions that Snape had written in his cramped handwriting on the blackboard.
"That's a fresh punishment from Snape's arsenal of horrors—" Ron muttered nervously once they'd all settled into their assigned tasks.
The classroom had filled with the busy sounds of pounding pestles grinding against stone mortars, the chopping of knives against cutting boards, and the scratch of quills on parchment as students took notes.
Ron quickly glanced nervously over his shoulder toward Snape, who was now pacing slowly through the classroom in his black cloak like a crow. Ron's face had gone pale as he continued, "Making students collect disgusting leech mucus in the Forbidden Forest at night—where did he get such a brilliant new idea?"
"It's not really that difficult—" Neville commented pragmatically as he worked diligently at grinding the scarab beetles in smooth, circular motions.
"Not if you've had the pleasure of processing slimy frog entrails for Snape before, like I have. Multiple times, unfortunately. But when did he start copying Professor Lupin's teaching methods by having students work in teams? He's never done that before."
"I think it's primarily to save materials and conserve supplies," Hermione said softly, her expression somber and expressionless as she lit the small brass alcohol lamp with her wand and set up their cauldron over the flickering flame, adjusting its height with the metal stand.
"When I was getting the ingredients from the supply cabinet just now, I took a look around at what was available. Professor Snape doesn't have nearly enough scarab beetles in stock for every young wizard in all his classes to have their own individual portion—you understand what that means, right?
Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw still need to have their Potions classes this week as well, so that's why he's making four people share and complete one batch together—"
Hermione looked meaningfully at the stunned Harry.
"Since first year, Harry, when has Professor Snape ever warned you specifically in class not to waste materials?"
Harry's mouth fell open slightly as his mind raced, following Hermione's line of reasoning to reflect back on the four long years of bizarre criticisms, unfair treatment, and relentless targeting he'd endured in Potions class at Hogwarts.
He carefully reviewed his memories, examining them with new mindfulness, and realized with growing alarm that the truth was exactly as Hermione said.
Snape had never once expressed concern about wasted materials.
"What are you actually saying?" Harry asked slowly.
He recalled the kind house-elves who had brought him that enormous supply of emergency food just last night. Then he thought about this morning's considerably downgraded, sparse breakfast, and the deeply sad, troubled expression on Professor McGonagall's face as she'd looked down at the young wizards in the Great Hall.
A suspicion was forming in his mind.
"Hogwarts is running out of money,"
Hermione said calmly.
She poured Harry's diluted armadillo bile into the cauldron first with a steady hand, watching it splash into the empty pewter vessel, then began stirring it carefully clockwise with her wand, counting under her breath.
With the crucial third task of the Triwizard Tournament rapidly approaching, she absolutely didn't want to waste precious time and energy dealing with collecting disgusting leeches in the Forbidden Forest.
After stirring exactly ten times clockwise at precisely the right speed, Hermione held out her hand expectantly to Ron for the ginger root slices, her palm extended and waiting.
After a moment without any response or movement, she looked up from monitoring the cauldron with a frown of annoyance to find all three of her companions staring at her with identical expressions of shock and disbelief.
"Hogwarts is out of money?" Ron repeated in a strangled voice, clearly struggling to process this revelation.
From his stunned expression, it seemed this was genuinely the first time in his entire life he'd even realized that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry even needed money.
Hermione made an irritated sound of exasperation and reached across herself to pick up the unevenly cut, rather haphazard ginger root slices from Ron's cutting board. She tossed them into the bubbling cauldron and carefully observed the changing bubbling pattern and color of the armadillo bile.
"What's so hard to understand about this basic economic reality, Ron?" Hermione sighed heavily, her breath making the orange-red flame of the alcohol lamp flicker.
"Think about it logically for once. At this school, professors need regular salaries to live on—they don't work for free. Nearly a thousand young wizards need to eat three meals every single day, which means purchasing or producing enormous quantities of food.
There are countless consumable materials needed for magical courses in every subject. Plus, there's the constant maintenance and repair of this ancient castle. Every single one of those things costs money, actual gold galleons. Hagrid's vegetable garden can only grow giant pumpkins, not gold coins, unfortunately."
Hermione paused to check the potion's progress, then added urgently, "Oh, Neville, don't stop working—I need significantly more scarab beetle powder for the next step."
Perhaps because absolutely no one in the class wanted to spend their evening dealing with disgusting leeches in the dangerous Forbidden Forest, or perhaps because this was their first real experience working together collaboratively in Potions class and the novelty motivated them, most students throughout the dungeon classroom were working with unusual enthusiasm and focus.
The typical chatter and fooling around was absent.
However, even Snape's usual favorite student, Draco seemed rather absent-minded and distracted today. He'd carelessly knocked over and spilled half of the beetle powder that Nott had worked so hard to create.
The three boys gathered around Hermione fell into thoughtful, troubled silence, not because all their questions had been satisfactorily answered or their confusion cleared up, but because they were genuinely shocked and somewhat ashamed that they'd never seriously considered or realized this problem before now.
Hogwarts needs money to function. Of course it does.
Harry's previously frozen thoughts began to turn again, grinding slowly back into motion like rusty gears.
He recalled that moment when he'd first learned about the existence of the wizarding world and Hogwarts School from Hagrid. Back then, when Hagrid had first mentioned Hogwarts, Harry had immediately worried about not being able to afford tuition, not having the money to attend this magical school. He'd been genuinely concerned about the cost.
But that entirely reasonable concern had been quickly washed away at seeing the enormous pile of gold galleons his parents had left for him in his Gringotts vault.
Now, thinking back with this new perspective and actually examining his experiences, Harry suddenly realized that Hogwarts didn't actually charge students any fees.
The school required them to purchase their wands, robes, cauldrons, telescopes, and even all the textbooks and supplies they used for classes—Hogwarts provided a detailed list of required items each year, and students or their families purchased these materials themselves from Diagon Alley shops.
But they never paid Hogwarts directly. They didn't give the school a single bronze Knut in fees.
Yet their collective expenses clearly weren't small at all.
As Hermione had pointed out, nearly a thousand young wizards needed to eat meals every single day of the school year. When they practiced magic in their various classes, they consumed and often destroyed many expensive magical materials and components.
Even though Harry wasn't particularly clear on the actual market value of most magical ingredients and supplies, it absolutely wouldn't be a small sum.
It must be astronomical.
"Where does Hogwarts actually get its money from, then?" Ron asked slowly, his face having gone pale as the implications crossed his mind. He seemed to have figured out the problem too.
His parents struggled enough financially just supporting him, his brothers, and his sister at school with their Ministry salaries, and he had to use hand-me-down robes, wands, and textbooks for many things because new items were too expensive.
But Hogwarts had to somehow support nearly a thousand children simultaneously, providing for all their needs—just thinking about how much money that must cost, the sheer scale of the expense, made Ron's scalp tingle with anxiety!
"Oh!" A sharp, pained cry suddenly erupted from the Slytherin side of the classroom before Hermione could give an answer to Ron's question.
All the young wizards' heads spun simultaneously toward the sound of distress. They looked over with curiosity to find that the anguished scream had come from Pansy Parkinson, who was now clutching her right hand to her chest and whimpering.
Her hand had been badly scalded by splashing boiling potion, the skin was already rising in a mass of painful-looking boils and blisters that were swelling. She was looking pitifully, tearfully at the culprit—Draco Malfoy.
"You will escort Miss Parkinson to the hospital wing upstairs immediately, Malfoy—" Snape said sharply, his voice cutting through Pansy's continued whimpering. His left eyebrow twitched twice in irritation at the disruption.
He strode over with quick, angry steps and waved his wand curtly to vanish the mildly exploding, ruined potion that was still bubbling dangerously on their desk. Then he fixed his cold gaze on the sullen-looking Draco.
"Additionally, after school ends today, you'll both need to accompany me to the Forbidden Forest."
Draco was clearly shocked that Snape would actually be so unexpectedly impartial and strict as to make even him go to the Forbidden Forest to catch disgusting leeches as punishment. This was unprecedented treatment.
But Pansy's pain and the red burns on her hand left Draco no time to puzzle over Snape's uncharacteristic fairness or protest the punishment.
He could only grab his school bag irritably from where it hung on his chair, kick aside his stool, and move to support the still-whimpering Pansy carefully by her uninjured arm as they left the classroom together.
"I understand now, it's the Board of Governors—"
Neville, who had been watching Malfoy and Pansy leave, suddenly said. Harry and Ron both looked at Neville and saw his eyes blazing with fury as he stared at Malfoy's retreating back.
"If the Board of Governors has suspended funding for Hogwarts..."
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