To be honest, for Devereux, the most hated course was Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Why? Because Professor Quirrell always filled the classroom with the pungent stench of garlic.
His second least favorite class was undoubtedly Potions.
Which is ironic, considering his skill far surpassed his peers.
Normally, that would be reason enough for him to enjoy it—after all, he could show off a little.
And with the future potential to unlock the [Slytherin Heir] entry, Potions should have been a chance to shine.
Maybe even grow stronger.
But Professor Snape never gave him that chance.
In fact, in class, Snape treated Devereux like he didn't even exist.
His attention was focused solely on one person.
"Potter! If I add powdered asphodel root to an infusion of wormwood, what will I get?"
That's right.
It was Friday, Devereux's first week at Hogwarts.
The first class of the day: Potions.
And what was unfolding in front of him was the classic three-question moment every Hogwarts student feared.
He glanced over at Hermione, who had her hand raised so high it might as well touch the ceiling.
Devereux couldn't help but smile wryly and shake his head.
Better not to interrupt their little world.
Meanwhile, Neville—who sat beside him—looked petrified under Snape's pressure.
He had buried his head under the table as if hiding from a predator, desperately hoping he wouldn't be next.
Taking pity on him, Devereux had chosen to sit beside him today.
Thanks to his rising reputation, no one really questioned why a Slytherin would sit with a Gryffindor.
None of the Slytherins dared to criticize him for his choices anymore.
What surprised Devereux, however, was Malfoy's absence from the drama.
He and his two cronies sat in a quiet corner of the classroom, their eyes dull and unfocused.
No one wanted to sit near them—neither Slytherin nor Gryffindor.
Apparently, the incident during the flying lesson the day before had hit Malfoy hard.
Even upper-year Slytherins had started grumbling about him.
This morning, Devereux had noticed that the hourglass representing Slytherin's house points was completely empty.
An unprecedented humiliation.
In the common room last night, whispers had already begun:
"Looks like Slytherin's seven-year House Cup streak is coming to an end."
But Devereux, as a time-traveler, already knew the truth.
Dumbledore had basically pre-ordered Gryffindor's victory seven years in advance.
So he didn't really care about the House Cup.
Unlike the other students, he held no resentment toward Malfoy.
He just hoped the boy would stay quiet.
And thankfully, Malfoy seemed to be doing exactly that.
With that gloomy expression on his face, he looked utterly crushed.
Perfect.
Back at the front of the room, Snape's disdainful voice continued to ring out.
"Tsk, tsk... It seems that fame doesn't equal knowledge," he sneered, walking past Hermione without acknowledging her.
His eyes locked onto Harry.
"Let's try again, Potter. If I asked you to find me a bezoar, where would you go?"
"I... I don't know, Professor."
Snape narrowed his eyes.
"I suppose you didn't bother to read your textbooks before coming to school, did you, Potter?"
He launched into a string of answers, his words slicing through the classroom air like knives.
Everyone he looked at shrank away in terror—except Devereux, who watched in bored silence, resting his chin in his palm.
To him, these questions were child's play.
He'd mastered this material six months ago—even before his system had activated.
Now, with the [Potions Spirit Body] entry, these basics were even easier.
Unfortunately, Snape had no interest in him.
Even when Harry retorted and lost points, it had no bearing on Devereux.
He was invisible in Snape's eyes.
Eventually, class shifted to the practical part—Devereux's favorite.
He had cleaned his potion equipment earlier this week after discovering that the kit Snape had given him was still sticky from being stored inside Eyre's stomach.
It had taken two days to clean and dry.
As a result, he hadn't touched potions in a week.
But now?
Now was the time for fun.
Snape grouped them in pairs and assigned a simple potion: one to treat scabies.
Naturally, Devereux partnered with Neville.
Neville, to be honest, was terribly clumsy.
Even with Devereux's guidance, he almost mixed up the ingredient order multiple times.
Snape's looming presence didn't help.
Yet under Devereux's careful guidance, they became the only pair not scolded by Snape.
Even Malfoy—usually Snape's golden boy—received a light reprimand for being distracted.
Despite Neville's fumbles, Devereux's innate potion instincts—combined with a touch of metaphysical blessing—allowed him to finish the task using only two-thirds of the materials.
While others were still weighing dried nettles, Devereux had already brewed a clear, steaming, pale green potion.
Students from nearby tables turned and stared in disbelief.
"Oh my god! It hasn't even been three minutes—Alexander's already done?"
"No way! I haven't even crushed the snake fangs yet! And he's finished decocting it? Are we really in the same year?"
"I bet Devereux is from some pure-blood French family—he must've received top-tier magical training since childhood!"
"Yes! And he's so gentle and polite—definitely a noble!"
Their whispers reached Devereux's ears, and he found them amusing.
Noble?
He'd just gone through nine years of standard education.
He simply knew how to behave without spewing nonsense.
Still, they weren't wrong about one thing: he had received top-tier potion instruction since childhood.
Even if the teacher had been Snape himself—and the experience a little tragic.
"Enough," came Snape's low, sharp voice, louder than a whisper but quieter than a shout.
"But enough to silence the room.
"Or do some of you believe you've already mastered potion-making?"
He glanced sharply around, silencing the murmurs.
Then he walked slowly toward Devereux and Neville's workstation.
He stared at the potion.
Crystal clear, no impurities, the color exactly right.
He didn't speak.
Devereux knew that look.
Snape was scanning for flaws—any flaw.
Desperately.
But with a potion this simple, Devereux wouldn't make mistakes.
Not now.
"Tsk," came a tiny sound from Snape, barely audible.
Devereux smirked.
"Very standard," Snape muttered. "Even a perfect result. Mr. Alexander, Slytherin gets five points for your performance."
Without waiting for a response, Snape turned and walked back to the podium.
And then—
Devereux stood up.
"Professor Snape," he said calmly, "five points is too few."
FOR MORE CHAPTER
patreon.com/Jackssparrow