The gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office looked distinctly unimpressed to be woken up at half past five in the morning. It slowly slid aside with a grinding crunch of heavy stone, revealing the spiraling wooden staircase beyond.
Harry mounted the steps, letting the magic of the stairs carry him upward. He reached the heavy oak door, raised his knuckle, and gave three firm, deliberate knocks.
A muffled, startled cough sounded from inside, followed by the clatter of a glass jar hitting a wooden desk.
"Come in!" a voice called out. It sounded surprisingly high-pitched, garbled, and thoroughly disoriented.
Harry turned the brass handle and pushed the door open, stepping into the circular office. The grand room was bathed in the soft, pale gloom of pre-dawn twilight. The various silver instruments resting on spindly tables hummed lazily, and Fawkes sat on his golden perch with his head tucked tightly under his wing, fast asleep.
Standing near the center of the room, completely frozen in mid-motion, was Albus Dumbledore.
The Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot was wearing a bright sky-blue nightgown covered in embroidered golden stars, paired with a floppy nightcap that drooped over his left ear. In his left hand, he held a tall glass of water. In his right hand was a toothbrush, capped with a massive blob of bright turquoise paste. His cheeks were puffed out, and white minty foam was visibly spilling from the corners of his lips.
Harry stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the most powerful wizard of the age. Then his eyes drifted to the star-patterned nightgown. Then back to the toothbrush.
For three agonizing seconds, absolute silence stretched across the office.
"You are human?!" Harry blurted out, the deadpan sentence slipping past his lips before his brain could even intercept it.
Dumbledore's eyes widened behind his half-moon spectacles. He attempted to inhale, instantly sucked in a mouthful of mint foam, and burst into a fit of sudden, violent coughing. He clutched his chest, spinning toward his desk to rapidly gargle and spit into a small silver basin.
Fawkes let out a startled, annoyed squawk at the noise, opening one golden eye to glare at his master before going right back to sleep.
"My word," Dumbledore gasped, wiping his chin with a velvet napkin while tears of laughter gathered at the corners of his eyes. He straightened up, adjusting his drooping nightcap with a broad, thoroughly amused grin. "Good morning to you as well, Harry. I must admit, in all my decades in this castle, that is the most unique greeting I have ever received."
Harry shook his head, a genuine smile breaking across his face as the lingering awe of the Headmaster dissolved into plain hilarity. "I apologize for the intrusion, Professor. But I honestly expected you to sleep in full robes, floating three inches above a pile of ancient manuscripts."
"A common misconception, I assure you," Dumbledore chuckled, waving his hand to send the toothbrush floating back to his private quarters. He ambled barefoot over to his large armchair, pulling a small silver tin from his nightgown pocket with a flick of his wrist. "Though I do find that sky-blue silk aids immensely in dreaming about sweets. Lemon drop?"
"No, thank you, sir," Harry said, taking the seat Dumbledore vaguely gestured toward. "Honestly, I came by because I have a bit of a complaint. Though I suppose it comes with a solution."
Dumbledore popped a yellow candy into his mouth, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses as he settled into the massive armchair, pulling the blue velvet blanket over his lap to warm his toes. "A complaint so early in the term? Do tell. Is Gryffindor Tower drafty, or has the sausage selection at breakfast disappointed you?"
"It is Professor Binns," Harry said deadpan. "He is a health hazard."
Dumbledore let out a soft, delighted hum, leaning back into his chair. "Ah. Poor Professor Binns. I take it his lecture failed to keep you on the edge of your seat?"
"Sir, he does not just make us sleep, he practically sends the entire room into a coma," Harry replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "The man just drones on about ancient goblin revolutions until everyone passes out. Why haven't you replaced him yet?"
Dumbledore gave a long, dramatic sigh, though the cheerful crinkles around his eyes never faded. "Because, my dear boy, finding a living replacement willing to take up the post has proven surprisingly difficult. Over the years, I have extended invitations to several historical scholars and chroniclers. Unfortunately, most academics refuse to give up their field research or private archives simply to explain medieval tax laws to sleepy teenagers."
Dumbledore pointed a crooked finger at Harry, his grin widening. "Besides, how does one even fire a ghost who hasn't noticed he is dead for two hundred years? I should have to break the news to him first, and I fear the shock might make him faint."
Harry laughed softly. "Well, I do have someone in mind who actually enjoys the subject, sir. And my dad can personally attest to his teaching capabilities."
Dumbledore tilted his head, a subtle, curious glint entering his eyes at the comfortable way Harry spoke of Vernon. "Your father? And who might this mystery candidate be?"
"Remus Lupin," Harry replied smoothly. "Dad told me that back when they were at Hogwarts, Remus was the only reason any of them passed their history exams. He used to tutor Dad, James, Sirius, and Peter late into the night."
Dumbledore paused mid-chew, his half-moon spectacles catching the soft pre-dawn light as he leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees.
"Remus," Dumbledore murmured softly, his tone shifting from lighthearted banter into something far more contemplative. "I must admit, Harry, that is a name I did not expect to hear from your lips this morning. Remus is indeed an exceptionally gifted wizard. In truth, I have often thought of him for Defense Against the Dark Arts, should the post ever become vacant. But History of Magic? I was unaware he possessed a particular passion for it."
"From what Dad tells me, he genuinely loves it," Harry explained, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "He has a knack for taking dry historical events and turning them into actual stories. He does not just list dates and treaties, sir. Plus, with how difficult Ministry laws make it for him to find steady work given his condition, a proper teaching position here would do him a world of good."
Dumbledore listened quietly, his expression softening into deep, quiet reflection. He rubbed his silver beard slowly, his eyes drifting toward the quiet, dark windows of the tower as he weighed the suggestion.
"Remus was always a brilliant student," Dumbledore murmured, almost to himself. "Quiet, deeply observant, and remarkably patient. What you say about his student days does ring true. Minerva mentioned more than once how impressive his theoretical essays were."
"Then it seems like an obvious fit, Professor," Harry noted calmly.
Dumbledore turned his attention back to Harry, offering a warm, measured smile. "Perhaps. Though persuading a school board to fund a new salary for a subject currently taught for free is a trickier piece of magic than you might think, Harry. And I should certainly have to ask Remus if he even wishes to trade his quiet life for a castle full of energetic children."
Dumbledore adjusted his drooping nightcap, his eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. "However, your point regarding poor Binns is well taken. It has been some time since I last looked into our history curriculum, and perhaps I have let a ghost run the show for far too long simply because it was quiet."
"So you will consider it?" Harry asked, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
"I shall write to Remus before the week is out to gauge his interest," Dumbledore promised, his voice filled with gentle warmth. "I make no grand promises, mind you, as these things move at their own pace. But you have certainly given an old headmaster something worth thinking about over his morning tea."
"That is all I could ask for, Professor," Harry said, rising smoothly from the plush armchair. He gave the Headmaster a polite, respectful nod. "Thank you for hearing me out. I will leave you to finish your morning routine."
"Have a pleasant Friday, Harry," Dumbledore chuckled, waving a hand in dismissal as he popped another lemon drop into his mouth. "And do try to stay awake through history class today. I should hate for you to miss the goblin rebellions."
"Thankfully I don't have a History class today Professor," Harry smiled as he turned towards the door.
Just as he was about to walk up to it, he turned back over his shoulder, a thoughtful look crossing his face.
"By the way Professor…"
Harry reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a pentagonal blue-and-gold box, and set the Chocolate Frog neatly on the desk. Dumbledore looked down at the box in mild surprise.
"A little something for after breakfast," Harry smirked. "Though if you get your own card, you are legally obligated to sign it for me."
Dumbledore stared at the box, then looked up at Harry with a wide, thoroughly delighted twinkle in his eyes before bursting into a rich, booming laugh that echoed off the stone walls. "A deal I should be honored to accept, my boy. Have a good morning."
The corridors were entirely silent as Harry descended from Dumbledore's tower, his footsteps echoing softly against the worn stone floor. The castle was only just beginning to wake, bathed in the cool, hazy blue light of early morning.
He stepped into the Great Hall, finding it almost completely deserted at ten minutes past six. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the sky outside, showing pale pink clouds stretching over a deep morning violet.
Harry walked over to the Gryffindor table and sat down, watching the long wooden surfaces softly shimmer as the morning breakfast spread materialized. Platters of fried eggs, thick strips of bacon, mounds of sausage, grilled tomatoes, and bowls of porridge settled onto the golden serving dishes.
He poured himself a fresh orange juice, observing the spread with a raised eyebrow. It was rich, warm, and thoroughly traditional. But looking down the vast length of the table, a thought struck him. Hogwarts had been fed the exact same classic British menu since his first day. A kitchen run by a century of house-elves, backed by endless castle magic, certainly possessed the capacity for global cuisine. Nobody had ever bothered to ask for anything different.
Harry took a quiet sip of his coffee, making a mental note to take a trip down to the kitchens later.
Two Slytherin girls walked into the hall, their emerald robes catching the dim morning light, drawing Harry's attention.
It was Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson.
Harry's sharp eyes tracked them instantly, picking up on the subtle tension in Daphne's stride. Her posture was unnaturally rigid, her jaw set in a tight line as if forcing every muscle to comply with an effortless, icy composure. She moved with deliberate, careful slowness, taking shallow breaths while her knuckles showed white against the fabric of her robes. Pansy walked half a step behind her, her usual boastful demeanor replaced by a quiet, watchful anxiety, keeping a close eye on Daphne's balance while scanning the hall to ensure no one else was paying attention.
Harry had just poured a small dollop of spicy mayo onto a crisp lettuce leaf when the familiar sound of raised voices drifted through the wide-open archway of the Great Hall.
He didn't even need to look up to know who it was. Hermione's voice was sharp, fast, and radiating exasperation, while Ron's was pitched in his usual stubborn, defensive register. They bickered all the way down the long aisle between the house tables, their usual morning ritual in full swing.
Harry smiled faintly into his coffee. These two are definitely destined for each other, he thought, shaking his head.
Today, for some reason, Harry's appetite was running on overdrive. He was already downing fried sausages at a alarming pace while simultaneously constructing a massive multi-layered sandwich. He carefully stacked fluffy scrambled eggs, thick strips of crispy bacon, a handful of salad greens, spicy mayo, and a generous layer of sliced pickles over a slice of toasted bread.
Hermione dropped her heavy book bag onto the bench with a loud thud, sliding into the seat directly across from him. Ron dropped down right beside her, scowling deeply.
"What do you think, Harry?" Hermione demanded instantly, leaning forward with her arms crossed.
Harry paused mid-assembly. A half-eaten sausage was still sticking straight out of his mouth as he carefully placed the top slice of bread onto his towering creation. He quickly chewed, gulped the rest of the sausage down, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"About what?" Harry asked.
"Ron here is saying that since we have already sneaked out to the Forbidden Forest, we can also sneak out to Hogsmeade," Hermione said, her voice dripping with disbelief. She gestured wildly at Ron. "And I am telling him that it is incredibly dangerous, considering any of the teachers heading down there for a quick weekend drink could easily spot us."
Harry gave the sandwich a gentle press to keep the pickles from sliding out. "Yeah, they might."
Ron gasped, looking utterly betrayed. "Wait, you are siding with her? But Harry, you can just use magic to keep us hidden! A Disillusionment Charm, a Notice-Me-Not, literally anything!"
Harry looked back and forth between Hermione's triumphant glare and Ron's desperate, hopeful expression. He took a massive bite out of his sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, and pointed a finger between the two of them.
"I am not getting in the middle of this," Harry said clearly. "Sort it out yourselves."
Hermione barely took a breath before turning her glare straight back to Ron. "It is not just about the Disillusionment Charm, Ronald. Leaving castle grounds without permission is a direct violation of school rules. We are first-years. If we get caught in Hogsmeade, we could be suspended, or worse, lose a hundred points for Gryffindor before the first month is even over."
"Oh, come off it," Ron scoffed, waving his fork in the air while Harry quietly gathered a basket of fresh bread rolls from the center of the table. "Who is going to catch us? Snape? The man barely leaves the dungeons unless he needs to terrify someone in the corridors. And Flitwick is too busy marking Charms essays to walk all the way down to the village on a Friday morning."
"Professor Snape goes to the apothecary in Hogsmeade to restock rare potion ingredients," Hermione snapped back instantly, pulling out a heavy copy of Hogwarts: A History and slamming it onto the table between them. "It is documented right here. Staff members have free access to the village passages. What if he walks into the exact same shop we are standing in?"
"Then we stand behind a barrel!" Ron countered, leaning over the table. "Besides, you were completely fine breaking rules when we went into the Forest. Why is a village full of sweets and butterbeer where you draw the line? Are you telling me you don't want to see Honeydukes?"
"I didn't have much of a choice in that Forest expedition," Hermione said, her cheeks turning slightly pink. "And Honeydukes is not worth getting expelled over. Harry already has so much treats and sweets, are you not satisfied?"
"It's not about being satisfied, aren't you interested in seeing the magical village that's literally a stroll away?" Ron countered. "You just don't want to admit it sounds fun. You'd rather spend all Saturday in the library reading about medieval cauldron bottoms."
"I do not read about Cauldron bottoms, and if you paid attention in Potions, you wouldn't be on the verge of melting your pewter pot," she retorted, crossing her arms tightly.
"I melted one pot! One! And it was because Seamus dropped a porcupine quill into my mixture while I wasn't looking!"
"Which you should have noticed if you weren't busy drawing Quidditch tactics on your parchment," Hermione sniffed.
"Quidditch is practical strategy!" Ron shouted throwing his hands up. "It builds quick thinking! Which, by the way, is exactly what you need when sneaking past teachers!"
While the debate raged on, shifting effortlessly from village security to cauldron safety standards and back to Quidditch, Harry finished slicing open the rolls, layering each one with crisp bacon, fluffy eggs, sliced sausages, a spread of salted butter, and fresh greens.
While the debate raged on, shifting effortlessly from village security to cauldron safety standards and back to Quidditch, Harry finished slicing open the rolls, layering each one with crisp bacon, fluffy eggs, sliced sausages, a spread of salted butter, and fresh greens.
Soon, six perfectly assembled mini burgers sat neatly in a row on his side of the table. Without breaking his rhythm, Harry reached across and dropped two mini-burgers straight onto Ron's plate, then placed two onto Hermione's plate, keeping the remaining two for himself.
Ron blinked, his mid-sentence rant about broomstick speeds coming to a sudden halt as he looked down at his plate. "Wait. What are these?"
"Mini burgers," Harry said, taking a massive bite out of his own and chewing happily. "And please continue, don't stop on the account of literal breakfast."
Hermione stared at her plate for a second before picking up one of the mini burgers, sniffing it suspiciously, and taking a cautious bite. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise at the taste, but she quickly smoothed her expression back into a serious frown.
"Well," she muttered around a chew, "they are actually quite good."
"Told you," Harry mumbled, swallowing his first burger and picking up the second. "Anyway, what is our schedule looking like today? First class is Potions, right?"
"Double Potions with the Slytherins, actually," Hermione sighed, reaching for her neatly organized timetable.
Harry let out a quiet, theatrical groan. "Great. Can't wait to get treated like a outcast again."
Inwardly, though, Harry wondered if things were finally going to shift between him and Snape. Ever since their quiet, unspoken understanding earlier in the week, he was curious to see if the professor would maintain his icy front in class or if the atmosphere would be slightly less toxic.
Ron, meanwhile, had already demolished both of his mini-burgers in three bites flat and was licking a stray drop of butter off his thumb. "At least we don't have History of Magic today. Binns would have had us all asleep before nine."
"Speaking of Potions," Hermione said, setting her schedule down and leaning forward, her sharp brown eyes locked onto Harry. "Something has been bothering me since before. On our very first day, when Snape questioned you about the Wolfsbane Potion... how on earth did you know about that? I checked every single Potions textbook in the library up to seventh year, and the recipe isn't in any of them."
Harry set down his cup of pumpkin juice, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "It is not a potion they teach in school, Hermione. It is an extremely advanced recipe. They only cover it at the Auror level, usually at the academy."
Ron paused mid-reach for a bacon strip, his mouth slightly open. "You read Auror-level textbooks?"
"I have a photographic memory, Ron," Harry replied calmly, leaning back against the bench. "I already finished the entire Hogwarts curriculum for the next seven years before term started, so I just moved on to higher-level material."
A heavy, stunned silence fell over the table.
Hermione's mouth opened, closed, and opened again, looking utterly scandalized and awestruck all at once. Ron looked like Harry had just announced he was secretly a dragon.
"All of them?" Hermione squeaked, her voice hitting a ridiculously high pitch. "You read all the textbooks for seven years?!"
Harry nodded casually. "Yeah, pretty much all of them. Though I skipped most of the Divination stuff. I don't really have much patience for gazing into tea leaves and pretending to see the future."
"Seven years..." Ron repeated faintly, staring at Harry as if he were an alien species. "Mate, you read seven years of magic before you even turned eleven? How is that even possible?"
"When you don't have to re-read a page twice, it goes by pretty fast," Harry said with a small smirk.
Hermione was visibly vibrating with a mix of academic panic and sheer curiosity. "Wait, so if you've already covered the entire syllabus, why are you even sitting in class? What are you going to do during practicals?"
"Wait, is that why you always look bored in all the classes?" Ron turned to him, his eyes wide as if a massive mystery had suddenly been solved.
Harry gave a helpless little shrug, swirling the last bit of black coffee in his mug. "Well, yeah. Sitting through an hour of someone explaining the theory behind a simple Levitation Charm when you already know the material back to front... it gets a bit repetitive, Ron."
Hermione leaned over her plate, her fingers twitching against her napkin as she processed it all. "So you aren't just memorizing definitions, Harry. You actually understand the underlying theoretical mechanics for all seven years?"
"Pretty much," Harry said, setting his mug down. "Magic is a lot more logical once you see how all the core concepts connect together."
"Seven years..." Ron repeated faintly, staring at Harry as if he were an alien species. "Mate, you read seven years of magic before you even turned eleven? How is that even possible?"
"When you don't have to re-read a page twice, it goes by pretty fast," Harry said with a small smirk.
Hermione was visibly vibrating with a mix of academic panic and sheer curiosity, clearly trying to process how much catching up she would have to do. "Wait, so if you've already covered the entire syllabus, what are you even going to do during practicals?"
"Try not to get bored," Harry chuckled and got up. He gave them a quick, playful wink and slid off the bench.
"See you guys at Potions," Harry said. "I better go and grab my stuff."
He turned and strolled out through the open doors of the Great Hall, leaving Hermione staring blankly at her plate and Ron sitting motionless with a half-eaten slider suspended mid-air.
The damp, chilly subterranean air of the Potions dungeon was thick with the scent of dried roots, crushed beetle eyes, and old stone. Row upon row of black cauldrons sat unlit upon the heavy oak workstations. Today was not a practical brewing session, but a theoretical lecture, though that made the atmosphere in the room no less tense.
At the front of the classroom, towering before the chalkboard in his sweeping black robes, stood Professor Severus Snape. His dark eyes flicked over the seated students like a hawk scanning a barren field for prey. To his left sat the Slytherins, quiet, upright, and attentive. To his right, the Gryffindors sat in varying states of anxiety, with Ron Weasley meticulously trying to blend into the shadows behind a large leatherbound volume.
Harry sat near the middle row, his notebook open, a black ink feather quill resting comfortably between his fingers. He appeared perfectly relaxed, his expression calm and unbothered by the suffocating gloom of the dungeon.
"The Wiggenweld Potion," Snape began, his low, silk-smooth voice carrying effortlessly to every corner of the stone room without him ever raising his volume. "A powerful restorative brew capable of healing minor wounds, reversing magical sleep, and overcoming severe physical exhaustion. While seemingly simple on the surface, its stability relies entirely upon the precise order of volatile ingredients."
Snape turned slowly on his heel, his dark robes swirling around his ankles as his gaze swept across the desks, finally locking onto Harry.
"Potter," Snape said, his voice smooth, cold, and entirely unreadable. "What is the critical step required before introducing the salamander blood to ensure the mixture does not combust?"
The dungeon grew dead silent. Hermione's hand twitched, instinctively rising an inch off her desk before she caught herself and pulled it back, shooting a nervous glance toward Harry. Ron winced slightly, clearly expecting the opening salvo of another relentless interrogation.
Harry did not blink. He set his quill down on the desk with a quiet tap and looked straight into the dark eyes of the Potions Master.
"The brew must first be brought to a rolling simmer for precisely seven minutes, sir," Harry answered smoothly, his tone even and respectful. "And the flame must be lowered to a low heat immediately before adding the salamander blood, drop by drop, while stirring counterclockwise three times."
Silence stretched across the room for two agonizing seconds. Snape stared down at Harry, his dark eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he processed the flawless answer. There was no hesitation in Harry's delivery, no stammering, and no reliance on a memorized sentence pulled straight from a introductory text. It was the response of someone who understood the physical mechanics of the brewing process.
Snape held Harry's gaze for a long moment. He did not scold him for expanding beyond the basic text. He did not search for an obscure technicality to dock points.
"Correct," Snape said softly, his voice devoid of its usual sharp bite. "One point to Gryffindor."
Snape turned back toward the chalkboard without another word, his quill scratching a complex diagram of crushed dittany leaves across the surface.
Beside Harry, Ron gasped so quietly it was barely audible, his eyes wide as saucer plates. Hermione turned her head, staring at Harry in absolute shock as if he had just performed an impossible miracle.
Harry, however, simply picked up his quill and began jotting down a few extra notes. Inwardly, a faint, genuine warmth settled in his chest. One point. It was minor, almost trivial, but coming from Severus Snape to a Gryffindor, it was a seismic shift. Harry realized then that the unspoken understanding they had struck earlier in the week had not been a fluke. The sharp edges of their relationship were softening, and there was a real chance that things between him and the feared Potions Master might actually improve over the course of the year.
"Copy the diagram on the board," Snape commanded, his back still turned to the class. "You will need to understand the structural heat distribution before we move to practical application next week."
For the next twenty minutes, the only sound in the dungeon was the scratching of quills against parchment.
When Snape finally called for the practical portion of the lesson, instructing them to prepare a baseline mock-solution to test heat stability, the classroom erupted into a flurry of activity. Student opened their glass vials, pulled out brass scales, and began chopping ingredients according to the standard instructions written on the chalkboard.
Harry set up his silver cauldron, igniting the small flame beneath it with a quiet flick of intent. He did not open his copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. He did not even look at the instructions Snape had written on the board.
From the shadow of his raised desk at the front of the room, Snape observed the class. His eyes passed over Ron, who was struggling to slice a root without crushing it to pulp, and Hermione, who was measuring her ingredients down to the exact milligram with frantic precision.
Then, Snape's gaze drifted to Harry.
Snape froze. His eyes narrowed into tight slits as he watched the boy work.
Harry was not chopping the boomslang skin into uniform strips as the textbook instructed. Instead, he was using the flat edge of his silver knife to gently crush the skin, extracting the oil onto the wooden chopping board before scraping the essence directly into the warm water. Furthermore, Harry had adjusted his burner, moving the cauldron slightly off-center over the flame to create a subtle thermal gradient across the bottom of the pot.
Snape's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. The technique Harry was using was not documented in any standard Hogwarts textbook. It was a refined, high-level method used to bypass the natural acidity of the skin, preventing the liquid from clouding up during the secondary boil. It was an advanced alteration that required an intimate, intuitive grasp of liquid alchemy.
It was something only a true Potions Master would attempt.
That little monster, Snape thought to himself, his chest tightening with a sudden surge of disbelief.
Snape kept his face entirely expressionless, a mask of cold, unyielding stone. He stepped down from the dais, his black robes billowing out behind him as he glided down the aisle between the rows of cauldrons. The surrounding students stiffened as he approached, but Snape ignored them entirely, coming to a halt directly beside Harry's workstation.
Harry did not flinch as the dark figure towered over him. He calmly set his silver knife aside and waited.
Snape looked down into Harry's cauldron. The liquid inside was already settling into a clear, pale turquoise hue, perfectly stable and radiating a soft, clean steam. It was far purer than any other cauldron in the room, including Hermione's.
"Potter," Snape said, his voice dangerously low, though devoid of real malice. "You are deliberately ignoring the instructions written on the board. The standard procedure calls for sliced boomslang skin added at the third minute."
Harry looked up, meeting the professor's dark eyes with calm confidence. "The textbook instructions are flawed in several places, sir. Following the standard text limits the extraction process, causing the skin's natural acids to react negatively with the heat. It prevents the potion from reaching its full potential, allowing for only about seventy percent efficacy at best."
Snape leaned down slightly, his hands folded behind his back. "Is that so? And whose instructions are you following, then?"
"My own, sir," Harry replied evenly. "I have spent a considerable amount of time brewing and experimenting with different preparation methods at home. Trial and error taught me that crushing the skin to release the oils yields a much purer reaction and creates a perfect Wiggenweld Potion. That is why I am following my own way."
Ron stopped stirring his cauldron entirely, staring at Harry in absolute horror, convinced his friend was about to be banished to the dungeons for eternity for talking back to Snape. Hermione looked ready to faint on the spot.
Snape stared down at Harry for three long, silent seconds. The tension around the desk was so thick it could have been cut with a knife.
Then, Snape let out a low, rough grunt.
He did not dock points. He did not issue a detention. He simply turned on his heel and began walking back toward the front of the classroom.
As his back turned to the students, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of Severus Snape's thin lips. The dark, cynical coldness in his eyes softened just a fraction as he swept down the stone aisle.
Congratulations, Lily, Snape thought quietly to himself, his eyes resting briefly on the dark stone walls of the dungeon. Your son inherited your talent.
The rest of the Friday classes flew by in a blur of shifting parchment, levitation practice, and soft autumn sunlight streaming through the tall stained-glass windows of the upper towers.
By three o'clock in the afternoon, the trio had returned to the warmth of the Gryffindor common room. A crackling fire blazed in the hearth, casting a deep orange glow across the plush red armchairs and worn velvet sofas. Students of all years were scattered around the room, relaxing after a long week or reluctantly pulling out their weekend homework.
Ron flopped heavily onto a plush sofa, letting out a long sigh of relief before leaning forward, staring at Harry with wide, bewildered eyes.
"Mate," Ron whispered, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. "Did you put a spell on Snape this morning? He awarded you a point! A point! I spent the rest of the period expecting him to dock fifty points from us just for breathing the same air as him!"
Hermione sat down neatly in an armchair, though she was nodding in complete agreement. "I have to admit, Harry, I was terrified when you told him his instructions were flawed. I thought he was going to throw us all out."
"He just appreciates proper technique," Harry said smoothly, settling back with a subtle smirk. "I told you, he is not as unreasonable as he seems."
Ron snorted. "He is an absolute bat, Harry, but whatever you did, keep doing it."
As they chatted, the portrait hole swung open, and a group of third-years walked in, laughing loudly while showing off various sweets and small trinkets they had picked up earlier in the week. Seeing them sparked something in Harry's mind.
Harry's eyes brightened. He stood up casually, leaving Ron and Hermione mid-conversation, and strolled over to where Fred and George Weasley were leaning against a table, examining a half-finished prank parchment.
Harry leaned between the two brothers and lowered his voice to a quiet whisper. "Hogsmeade. Ten minutes?"
Fred and George both snapped their heads toward Harry at the exact same time, identical wide, mischievous grins breaking across their faces.
"Now you're speaking our language, little brother," Fred whispered back, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
"Sneaking out of the castle and a trip to Hogsmeade?" George added, clapping a hand over his heart. "Harry, you are officially our favorite first-year. Meet us by the third-floor corridor in ten."
Harry gave them a swift nod and walked back to the sofa where Ron and Hermione were watching him with puzzled expressions.
"Go get dressed," Harry said, looking down at the two of them. "Casual clothes."
Ron blinked, looking up at him. "What for?"
Harry's smirk widened. "We are making a trip."
Ron's eyes widened as the implication hit him like a lightning bolt. A massive, triumphant grin spread across his face. "Oh, yeah!" he cheered, jumping off the sofa so fast he nearly tripped over his own robes, racing up the stairs toward the boys' dormitory without a second thought.
Hermione, however, stayed firmly in her seat, her jaw dropping as she looked around the common room in sheer panic. She leaned in close to Harry, her voice dropping into a frantic, urgent whisper.
"Harry! Where are we going?!"
"To the magical village," Harry replied calmly.
"Harry, that is sneaking away!" Hermione squeaked, her hands clutching the arms of her chair. "We could get caught! We are first-years! What if a teacher spots us? What if Professor McGonagall or Dumbledore sees us?"
Harry reached out, giving her shoulder a reassuring pat, his confidence completely unshakeable.
"Don't worry, Hermione. I will handle it," Harry said smoothly, his eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. "Even if Dumbledore himself walks right past you, he won't recognize a thing."