Julian wrote the lembas recipe down the moment he woke, careful and precise, then slipped out of Gryffindor Tower earlier than usual.
The corridors were nearly empty. It was only just past dawn, so most students were still asleep, and even Filch had finally dragged himself off to bed after a long night of prowling for troublemakers.
Julian reached the portrait of the fruit bowl, reached out, and lightly tickled the painted pear. The way it giggled every time will never stop being unsettling, he thought, watching as it squirmed and turned into a doorknob. Still, the door swung open to reveal the kitchens, so he stepped through.
Calling the place chaotic would have been wrong. It was busy, yes, but in a strangely ordered way. Hundreds of house elves zoomed about in every direction, preparing food, stirring pots, levitating dishes, and sending platters flying neatly into place. Food shot through the air constantly, but not a crumb was wasted and nothing collided.
He had barely set foot past the threshold when one of the elves darted toward him, eyes round and shining.
"Wats the yong master needz?" the elf asked eagerly, dressed in clean linen rags.
Julian still struggled to tell most of them apart unless they had something distinct about them, and this one really did not.
"Could you please make a few loaves using this recipe for me to eat throughout the day?" Julian asked, offering a polite smile as he handed over the folded parchment.
The elf snatched the paper and vanished on the spot, not so much as pausing to question it.
While he waited, a pair of other elves hurried over and conjured a chair for him so he would not have to stand. He thanked them, and they immediately flushed, fidgeting and looking away as if being thanked was somehow scandalous.
It was both a little disturbing and quietly endearing.
As he waited, Julian discovered something amusing. He was apparently quite famous among the Hogwarts house elves, known in their gossip as "the greatest friend of Harry Potter."
He had to hold back a snort at that. In their eyes he was playing second fiddle to Harry, when in reality, most of the time the opposite felt closer to the truth.
The bread was finished about five minutes before breakfast. Five neatly wrapped loaves were presented to him in cloth bundles, each radiating a faint, comforting warmth.
Julian thanked the elves again, carefully stowed the loaves, and headed up toward the Great Hall to eat with everyone else.
Today's schedule matched last Monday's: Potions and Herbology. He planned to squeeze in some illusion practice during his free period.
...
He paired up with Tracy and Daphne again in Potions, same as usual. That was the arrangement he liked best.
As he glanced at the board, reading over the Cure for Boils recipe written there, a wide grin broke across his face.
Tracy noticed. "What are you grinning about?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Take a closer look at what is written up there. Does anything seem familiar?" Julian asked, still smiling like he knew a secret.
Tracy and Daphne turned to the board again, scanning the ingredients and instructions more carefully this time. At first, nothing stood out. Then, when they mentally walked through the steps, the realization hit, and both of their eyes widened.
"You are joking," Tracy blurted in disbelief.
"Nope," Julian said cheerfully. "Those are the changes I made to the recipe last time."
Having a Potions Master like Snape put his modified version of a brew on the board for the full class was about as close to formal recognition as you could reasonably expect. It was the man's way of acknowledging the quality of someone's work without actually saying it aloud.
As the lesson went on, Julian confirmed a theory he had begun forming about Snape's teaching style.
The man stuck with two recipes for a period of time, drilling them over and over until the students became reasonably familiar with them, before moving on to something new. In theory, it was a good way to build confidence and consistency.
In practice, Snape's mere presence was enough to make half the class nervous and clumsy, which undercut some of the benefit.
He made a few attempts to single out Harry, barking questions and dropping remarks, but quickly realized that the boy did not react the way he expected. Harry simply did not care enough to be rattled, and Snape, for all his pettiness, was not foolish enough to escalate when it was clearly not working.
It probably did not help that Snape could practically feel Julian's stare boring into the back of his head every time he drifted too close to Harry's table.
Julian amused himself by channeling the tiniest trickle of his spirit into his eyes whenever he glared at the man, while recalling Snape's death from the books. There was no visible glow, nothing anyone else could identify as magic, but the effect was viciously effective.
The technique made even the bravest people feel as if something cold and merciless were breathing against the back of their neck, whispering that they were running out of time.
It is only fair he suffers a little for trying to bully a student, Julian thought, smiling pleasantly as Snape shifted uneasily.
...
Herbology, on the other hand, was miserable.
Today's task: trimming whip vines.
Julian tried to follow instructions, but the plants had other ideas. They smacked him repeatedly, lashing out with surprising speed and far too much enthusiasm.
By the time one of the vines slapped him hard enough to make him genuinely see red, he had reached his limit.
Professor Sprout had to intervene when she saw him reaching for his wand with the very real intention of unleashing a miniature firestorm on the smug plant.
The vine actually had the nerve to curl its tendrils in a mockingly cute way after assaulting him, which only made things worse.
It is official. I hate Herbology, Julian thought venomously as he stood there, covered in minor welts, getting a firm scolding from Professor Sprout while glaring at the plant like it had personally insulted his ancestors.