CHAPTER 20

The professor spun on her heel and marched to the podium. Students scrambled to figure out seating—those thrown by the shuffle, lost for a spot, shot silent pleas her way. Like a seasoned conductor, she sorted them with quick gestures and glances. House mixing was minimal, really. And frankly, I noted, we're a slim crew—under thirty, with seats to spare.

The brunette beside me was visibly ticked. Her sharp, jerky tugs at her textbook, notebook, and parchment scroll screamed it. Lucky the inkwell was already on the table—her moves would've flung ink everywhere otherwise. Beyond that, the table held cauldrons, cutting boards, silver and wooden tools on a canvas mat, plus wooden and glass stirrers for potions.

"Hector Granger," I said, introducing myself—only to catch a crisp, blue-eyed glare.

Silence. She let out a faint sigh.

"Daphne Greengrass," she replied. "Stay out of my way and follow my lead. We'll be fine."

"Hm. Bet this'll thrill you—I've never brewed a potion," I said.

Oh, what a glare! But it showed she'd already pieced that together—my nudge just cranked her annoyance up a notch.

"So," the professor began, hushing the room instantly, "I trust summer taught you to think with your heads, not just stuff them. You've noticed tweaks, then. By some murky yet gettable whim of the Headmaster, you're one class now. He reckons two years showed you the fallout of dodging rules—or worse, pranks. That's you especially, Longbottom, Weasley, Goldstein."

Snape's heavy stare pinned the trio; they flinched. Ron Weasley, I pegged, just bobbed his red mop like a wind-up toy.

"If, Merlin forbid," Snape pressed, flicking his gaze between them, "you even try something dumb—or flub simple steps from idiocy—trust me, it won't end at scrubbing cauldrons. Potter!"

His bark jolted the bespectacled kid, nearly dropping whatever he held.

"Minus one from Gryffindor," Snape snapped.

"For what, Professor Snape? I didn't do anything!" Potter yelped.

"For loafing in my class," he shot back.

Professor Snape—name locked—swept his eyes over us.

"Here's the treat," he said dryly. "No more chopping tricks or random Ministry potion drills. This year, we sort potions by effect. First up: sedatives, sleeping draughts, antidotes. Today's job—brew a basic Sleeping Potion and Awakening Potion."

"Two in one go?" Weasley grumbled. "That's rubbish."

"Minus one from Gryffindor, Weasley, for yapping out of turn," Snape retorted. "Recipes on the board, stuff's in the pantry—move."

With a hand flick, chalk scribbled recipes on the board. I clocked tweaks from the textbook right off.

"Sit—I'll grab it," Daphne ordered, not waiting for a peep. "You'll just botch it."

She bolted for the pantry door; most trailed her. Back quick, she dumped two ingredient batches on the table and dove in—sorting bowls in her own riddle, eyeballing the textbook recipe. I couldn't resist flagging the mismatch.

"Board's got a different recipe," I whispered, snagging her focus.

"I know," she said curtly. "Snape always tweaks 'em. I check for shifts."

"First-year stuff," I noted.

Her piercing stare hit me—she'd shaken off Snape's bait.

"Two years back," she said. "Guess he's swapped it for a test."

We worked quiet after that. Opted to brew one at a time—time was tight if we kept it clean. Split the prep: I mashed and diced the gunk; she weighed it, mixing herb bases for sleeping potions and antidotes.

What'd I pick up brewing? Nada. Well, the ingredients' magic meshes with the base, morphing into a set-effect substance—material bits shifting in ways chemistry'd scoff at. Still, from what I've read, Potions edges closest to science here—fixed tables of ingredient interplay, reaction ratios, mix order, heat levels. Stirring or wand-waving just pumps neutral magic to juice it.

We hit the deadline dead-on—not many did. Snape green-lit half the potions; the rest, shaky brainchilds of wannabe whizzes, got nixed flat. We vialed samples, tagged 'em, and bailed with clear consciences. My Hufflepuff posse snagged me right out.

"Next's History of Magic," Zacharias read off the schedule as our six-pack trekked the castle halls. "Safe to skip."

"What's up?" I asked, sensibly.

"Not a real class," Hannah brushed off, then explained. "Ghost teacher—no roll, parrots the book word-for-word. Just read it."

"So, what's the move?" I pressed.

"Justin says you need spell practice?" Zacharias jumped in, ruffling his blond mop. "Let's hit an empty room."

So we did, crashing a second-floor spot by the main tower. The unused digs were drab—dusty tables and benches, a beat-up chalkboard, bare stone walls, grimy windows. That's it.

---

**Support and read two weeks [20 chapters] ahead of WN at:-patreon.com/FanficWorld**