Professor Severus Snape, the Potions Master, was also the head of Slytherin House—and undoubtedly the most biased professor when it came to Gryffindor.
He had never awarded Gryffindor a single point in class. On the contrary, he was far more inclined to take points away.
If Harry performed normally, he could expect to lose five to ten points each class. No wonder he often dreamed of dropping Potions altogether.
Unfortunately, Potions was a core subject, and Harry wouldn't have the option to give it up until sixth year, when he could choose whether to take the advanced class.
So for now, like it or not, he had to drag himself along with Harold down to the dungeons.
The underground classroom never saw the sun. Even in summer, it was cold and damp enough to chill you to the bone.
Veteran students knew to bring a slightly heavier robe on Potions days, changing into it as soon as they entered.
"Oh no, I forgot to bring mine," Hermione muttered in frustration as soon as they reached the stairs.
"You did bring it," said Ron. "I saw you carrying it when we left the common room… wait, Hermione?"
Ron blinked in shock. "Where did you come from?!"
"What are you on about? I've been here the whole time," Hermione said, glancing at him before continuing. "Oh, right—I left it in the washroom after Muggle Studies class earlier."
"What are you talking about now?" Ron asked in confusion. "We've been together the whole time—I never saw you go to the washroom. And Muggle Studies doesn't even start until period three. When did you take that class?"
"N-Nothing," Hermione abruptly shut her mouth. "What I meant was, you must've misremembered—I didn't take my robe when we left the common room."
"…Did I?" Ron blinked again. "Then what are you gonna do for this class?"
"It's fine," Hermione said. "Once we start brewing, we'll light our flames. It won't be so cold then."
She had the right idea—but miscalculated one detail.
The flames used in this lesson were a cool blue fire, similar to the Bluebell Flames spell. They gave off no heat at all. You could even touch them without burning yourself.
But they worked well for potion-making.
"Wolfsbane Potion," Snape intoned from the front of the class, pointing at the words written in large letters on the blackboard with his wand. "That is today's lesson."
"But Professor, Wolfsbane Potion isn't in the third-year curriculum. Are you sure—"
"Thank you for your insight, Miss Know-It-All," Snape drawled. "But believe it or not, you are not the only one who has read a book."
"And in my class, you speak only after raising your hand. Five points from Gryffindor."
Hermione glared furiously at him but said nothing more.
Experience had taught her that arguing with Snape during class was an exercise in futility—it would only result in Gryffindor losing even more points.
Snape returned to the front and continued, "Form into groups of four and follow the procedure I've written. I don't expect any of you to actually complete this potion, but if someone wastes too many ingredients—I'll make them drink their own brew!"
His voice was icier than the dungeon itself, and Neville shivered instinctively.
Everyone knew Neville was the worst in the class at Potions. Odds were, he'd be the one forced to drink it.
Soon enough, they discovered why Snape emphasized not wasting ingredients—and why he'd arranged them into groups of four.
Silver cauldrons, moonstone mortars, silver-bladed knives… the equipment alone was expensive, never mind the ingredients.
Silver dust, moonflower extract, and the hardest to obtain—aconite, also known as wolfsbane.
This plant had to be harvested at full moon and required strict handling and tools. Even a single specimen cost more than a mandrake.
Of course, Snape likely hadn't supplied top-quality wolfsbane.
Harold noticed the leaves and stems were damaged—clearly second-grade stock.
Even so, it cost far more than standard ingredients.
And this was just the Gryffindor-Slytherin class. Including the other two houses and year groups, the total cost would be astronomical.
Snape had shelled out this much gold… just to hint that there was a werewolf in the school?
Heh. Potions masters really were rich and dumb.
Just think—these aconite plants could've been used to craft wand-care elixirs! Extract the juice, blend it with turpentine, dittany dew, and a dozen other ingredients, and you'd have the best wand-nourishing solution on the market.
Soak a wand shaft in that for a week, and you'd never have to worry about termites again.
And Snape was wasting it all on third-years?
They weren't even practicing—they were straight-up wasting.
Harold sneered and glanced at Snape like he was some kind of idiot.
The look made Snape uneasy. He instinctively felt Harold was thinking something impolite.
This fool who used rare potion ingredients to soak wood was even more aggravating than that insufferable Granger girl.
Unfortunately, his potion skills were good, and Snape couldn't find a reason to dock him points.
Just like now—Harold was using a silver knife to slice the wolfsbane root into thin, even segments. Snape watched for a while before turning away in defeat.
Fine. If he couldn't deduct points during class, he'd just save it for after. That would be easier anyway.
Harold had no idea what Snape was thinking. He had already finished preparing the aconite root and added it to the silver cauldron.
Hermione had pre-boiled the glacial spring water, and Harry and Ron were carefully grinding the silver dust and moonflowers.
Thirty minutes later, Ron poured in the moonflower extract, then Harry added the fine silver powder, stirring clockwise six times as instructed.
The cauldron frothed, producing a thick bubbling, and gradually turned a ghostly pearlescent white.
Hermione read aloud from the blackboard: "After adding the silver powder, the potion should turn a pearly white."
"Perfect—we did it right," she whispered.
"Brilliant!" Ron grinned. "Now Snape can't deduct points from us. What's next?"
"Simmer for twelve hours," Hermione said.
"What?" Harry's jaw dropped. "Twelve hours? But class ends in twenty minutes!"
"Well… that's what it says," Hermione muttered.
Everyone looked up—and sure enough, the blackboard read:
[After turning pearly white, simmer over cold flame for twelve hours.]
Definitely hours, not minutes.
"We're not really going to stay here for twelve hours, are we?"
"Of course not—we've got other classes," Harold said.
"Then what about our potion?" Ron looked at his sore hands. "I nearly broke my wrists crushing those moonflowers. We can't just leave it."
"We'll probably pick up the next steps during Thursday's double period," Hermione suggested.
…
(End of Chapter)