He Took a Four-Month Leave!!

Ron spoke loudly, brimming with confidence.

Back in first and second year, Harry used to say he might not be able to beat Malfoy in a duel.

But now? He could easily win—if not for that one careless mistake—

"You seem a little off," Hermione put down her book and scooted her chair closer to Harry. "Did you not find anything when you went?"

There were still other students in the common room, so Harry lowered his voice. "Not exactly nothing. There was a little surprise—enough to solve some problems."

Hermione nodded and leaned in further.

The fireplace crackled softly again as they returned to their reading. Ron, having finished applying his salve, hunched over his desk and resumed his homework.

Occasionally, a few sparks would jump from the fire, which Crookshanks would chase playfully. The cat had lost interest in the Sorting Hat now—it no longer talked or moved, making it useless as a scratching post.

—

The Christmas holiday was an incredibly busy time for Harry.

Every day, he was off to another lesson.

But it was productive.

Professor McGonagall was stricter than ever—though still not as harsh as Harry was on himself. Professor Sprout began teaching him how to handle even more dangerous magical plants—the kind that made biting cabbages look tame.

Professor Flitwick, obsessed with understanding the mechanics of his hand-sign magic, was desperately trying to unravel its secrets. Even if he couldn't use it himself, he was determined to develop more hand-sign spells for Harry to use.

Professor Moody had never conducted "extracurricular detentions" before and seemed somewhat out of his element.

He wasn't quite as skilled as the Heads of House, so instead, he shared everything he knew about fighting Dark wizards—real-world combat experience.

That was extremely useful.

Harry paid close attention and even had Hermione and Ron join him.

After all, this knowledge wasn't technically beyond their curriculum—it was just within their grasp.

But of all his lessons, only one was second in usefulness to Dumbledore's—his detentions with Snape.

—

The "Blizzard Potion" Harry had been longing for was finally complete.

Based on Felix Felicis, it used fire ash snake eggs, phoenix blood, and unicorn blood as its core ingredients—extracting their purest essence to create a potion.

The effects were terrifying.

Snape tested it on a white mouse.

Then, he released Crookshanks, Hedwig, and Bows into the room.

All three hunted it together.

For fifteen minutes, they couldn't catch it.

And the only reason it stopped at fifteen minutes was that, after the potion wore off, the mouse went completely brain-dead—staring blankly into space like a vegetable.

A truly terrifying potion.

Snape hesitated for a long time before letting Harry try it.

He monitored him closely throughout the test.

Once it wore off, and he confirmed that Harry's only side effects were a slightly elevated heart rate and a tense facial expression—not permanent brain damage—he finally relaxed.

—

And that wasn't the only surprise.

There was also "Swallow."

If there was one type of potion that witchers valued above all else, it was regeneration potions—Swallow and Goldfinch.

Because, at the end of the day, you only have one life.

Swallow was a potion that allowed wounds to heal continuously over time—even during combat.

It prevented reopened wounds unless the injury was struck again, ensuring sustained healing.

Snape, being the brilliant Potions Master he was—

Not only recreated Swallow's effects, but also combined it with Goldfinch.

Using phoenix tears, mandrake extract, and unicorn blood, he brewed a golden potion under a full moon at midnight, completing it by noon the next day.

It was perfect for Harry.

But for anyone else—

It was still poison.

Snape tested it on a white mouse, slicing it open.

Then, he fed it a single drop of Swallow.

Within ten minutes, its organs and flesh rapidly regenerated.

But the potion didn't stop there.

It continued working.

New flesh kept growing.

After half an hour, when the effects finally subsided—

The mouse had turned into a fist-sized ball of meat rolling around the table, squeaking happily.

Once again, a potion that only worked for Harry.

—

"Right now, you have three extremely powerful potions," Snape told him after one lesson, staring at the bottles on the table.

"With your current body, you can take two at most within an hour."

"I know," Harry nodded.

Snape sneered, waving his empty sleeve. "Potter, I've tolerated you for one full day. Now, kindly leave so I can—"

"Professor, I have another request," Harry interrupted.

Snape froze.

Harry reached into the Sorting Hat, pulling out a parchment.

He placed it on the table.

"A potion formula. But I'm not sure if it's viable. I need you to check it."

Snape took it, glanced at it—

And his entire expression changed.

His sharp gaze turned murderous.

With barely controlled rage, he hissed, "Potter! If you don't want your brain, give it to Dumbledore instead of WASTING IT LIKE THIS!"

"What are you trying to do?"

"Kill yourself before the Dark Lord even gets the chance?"

"Or has your brain finally rotted, like every other Potter in your family?"

He slammed the parchment back onto the table.

The formula was completely insane.

It called for dragon heart, dragon blood, dragon eyes—

No extraction.

No purification.

Just boiling them whole.

It even included Acromantula venom.

The toxicity alone was greater than all three of Harry's other potions combined.

Harry's voice remained calm. "Professor, I know my limits."

"Dragon parts of this quality shouldn't go to waste."

Snape's tone was icy. "This is wasting them."

"This is the only way to maximize their properties," Harry insisted.

Witchers had two types of brews.

Potions—low toxicity, short duration (30–40 minutes).

Decoctions—high toxicity, long duration (measured in days).

What Harry had given Snape was a decoction formula.

But unlike his previous decoctions, he couldn't use the same ingredients from his world here.

So, he had to adapt.

Snape took a deep breath, resisting the urge to pull out his wand.

"Potter will always be a Potter," he muttered.

"Thank you, Professor." Harry caught the hidden meaning, nodded, and turned to leave.

Snape pulled out his wand, flicking it—

A chair flew across the room, blocking the door.

"Professor?" Harry turned back.

"The ingredients." Snape's voice was deathly cold.

"Leave them. No matter how great a Potions Master is, they can't make anything without materials."

"Professor, you could've just said that," Harry flicked his wand.

Jars and bottles floated out of the Sorting Hat, landing on the table.

"Don't worry—I'm not stupid enough to drink something I don't fully understand."

Snape scoffed. "Potter, I see no proof of your wisdom."

Harry reached for the door but hesitated. "Oh, right—Professor, what about Karkaroff?"

"No news," Snape's expression darkened.

He scowled.

"That coward. That corpse of a man still walking around. He still hasn't decided."

Snape clenched his jaw.

"And another thing," he growled.

"Do you remember Corban Yaxley?"

Harry nodded.

Snape's eyes narrowed.

"I suspect him."

"He's working at the Ministry—but I can't reach him!"

"FOUR MONTHS!" Snape nearly shouted.

"He took a four-month leave!!"

"And somehow, his entire department is still running smoothly?!"

Harry frowned.

Something was definitely wrong.

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Powerstones?

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