Sean's familiarity with the Cure for Boils potion didn't breed complacency.
Snape, a potions master revered in the wizarding world, wove subtle insights into his lessons—insights Sean was determined to catch.
Combining his grandfather Gideon's meticulous notes, the Magical Drafts and Potions textbook, and Snape's cryptic asides, Sean soaked up every detail, his mind buzzing with the interplay of theory and practice.
The second half of Potions class shifted to practical work.
Students paired up, each duo facing a gleaming crucible and a neatly arranged set of ingredients: snake fangs, dried nettles, porcupine quills.
Sean, partnered with Blaise, approached the task with precision, though his experience was purely theoretical. Memories of cooking in his past life helped him gauge the flame beneath the crucible, but brewing potions demanded a finesse he was still mastering.
Gurgle… The liquid in their crucible thickened as Sean added ground snake fangs, the potion shifting to a sickly yellow-green.
With a few careful stirs, it cleared to a vibrant emerald. One final step remained: adding the porcupine quills. Timing was critical—too soon, and the potion could destabilize.
Blaise watched, impressed, as Sean measured each ingredient with surgical care. "Glad I'm with you," he muttered, glancing around.
Snape's sharp tongue had lashed nearly everyone during the brewing, sparing only Sean and Draco Malfoy. Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom bore the brunt—Harry for Snape's personal vendetta, Neville for his clumsy errors.
But Miles Bulstrode, Sean's cousin, wasn't far behind.
Miles, still stinging from his earlier blunder in class, seemed to draw Snape's ire like a magnet. His mediocre potion skills and prior mistake made him an easy target.
Without Harry and Neville absorbing most of Snape's wrath, Miles might've been verbally shredded.
Miles, desperate to redeem himself, rushed his potion. Ignoring the need to let the ingredients meld, he tossed in the porcupine quills without pausing the flame.
The crucible erupted with a pop like a firecracker, spewing a viscous, yellow-green sludge. The liquid splattered Miles, instantly sprouting angry red boils across his skin. His bloated form wobbled, pain twisting his face as he screamed, tears and snot streaming.
"Idiot!" Snape stormed over in three strides, wand flicking.
The spilled potion vanished from the floor and tables. He eyed Miles' boils and the stray welts on nearby students. "Those injured, take Bulstrode to the hospital wing! For a Slytherin to make such a basic error in my class—unprecedented!"
Pansy Parkinson and Goyle, nursing minor boils, hauled Miles out, Pansy's face curling with disgust. Snape turned to the class, his voice a low growl.
"Bulstrode neglected to remove the crucible from the flame before adding porcupine quills—a fatal mistake for the Cure for Boils. I expect no one else to be so careless!"
His gaze snapped to Harry. "Potter, you were smirking at Bulstrode's misfortune. For your lack of decorum, one point from Gryffindor!"
"That's not fair, Harry wasn't laughing at Miles , we were just…" Ron protested.
"Weasley! One point from Gryffindor for insolence!" Snape cut in.
Harry opened his mouth, but Ron tugged him back, whispering, "Don't. Snape's got it out for you and Gryffindor. You'll only lose more points."
As the Gryffindors simmered, Sean gave his potion a final stir. A puff of white steam rose, revealing a translucent, light green liquid. He poured it into a vial, the last drop falling as Snape swept over. The professor sniffed the potion, a rare glint of approval in his eyes.
"A competent Cure for Boils. Five points to Slytherin."
Sean nodded, tallying his gains: twenty points from this class, plus five from Transfiguration. Half of his fifty-point debt was erased. Snape's favoritism was undeniable, and Sean wasn't complaining.
As other students finished, the class wound down.
Perhaps spooked by Miles' disaster, even Neville avoided catastrophe, though his potion resembled murky pond water. The students fled the dungeon's oppressive air, Draco included, eager to escape Snape's domain.
Sean lingered, packing his supplies, when Snape's voice stopped him.
"Sean, I share some blame for your fifty-point deduction. I hadn't anticipated you'd join Slytherin. Today's points reflect your skill—and a small amends. Don't expect such generosity often."
Snape didn't wait for a reply. His robes billowed like a dark tide as he strode out, vanishing into the dungeon's shadows.
Sean exchanged a glance with Blaise, who raised an eyebrow. With a shrug, Sean shouldered his bag, already plotting his next chance to tip Slytherin's hourglass in his favor.
-------------------------------------------------
"Very good, very good, one point for Slytherin!" Professor Flitwick's high-pitched voice rang out, his small frame bouncing with delight atop a stack of books.
Sean lowered his wand, the feather before him drifting gently to the desk like a leaf caught in a breeze.
In the Charms classroom, bathed in warm sunlight filtering through high windows, he'd been the first to master Wingardium Leviosa, guiding the feather with steady precision. Professor Flitwick, Ravenclaw's head and a Charms maestro, clapped his hands, his approval genuine but measured—a single point, the standard reward for excellence.
Unlike Professors McGonagall and Snape, who'd tipped the hourglass generously for Sean's standout performances, Flitwick played no favorites. McGonagall had rewarded Sean's partial success in Transfiguration—where only he and Hermione nudged a match toward a needle's shape—while Snape's points in Potions carried a hint of amends for Sean's earlier deduction.
Flitwick, though, saw Sean as just another capable student, his point awards as impartial as a charmed scale.
Sean didn't mind.
Every grain of sand in Slytherin's hourglass brought him closer to erasing his fifty-point debt. He flicked his wand idly, the feather twitching, and let his mind wander. Transfiguration and Potions were his strong suits, where cunning and precision shone. Charms, too, played to his strengths—Wingardium Leviosa felt almost intuitive.
But History of Magic, with its droning lectures, and Herbology, with its finicky plants, were lost causes. Astronomy's late-night star-charting muddled his focus, and Ravenclaw's bookish lot snatched most points in those classes anyway.
Defense Against the Dark Arts was the wildcard.
Sean could've competed there, but the professor—Quirrell, with his stuttering facade and shifty eyes, honed by tales from his past life, screamed to avoid Quirrell's notice.
The man was no teacher; he was a puzzle with missing pieces, and Sean wasn't keen to solve it. He kept his head down in that class, letting Ravenclaws hoard the points.
-----------------------------
Author's Note:
Still here? Nice. That means you probably liked the chapter. So why not do the holy trinity of Webnovel support —
Add to Library ✔️
Vote Power Stone ✔️
Summon Good Karma ✔️
Let's climb those rankings together. See you in the next chapter!