Once he confirmed that Elaine’s footsteps had faded into the distance, Mason climbed out of bed.
Slipping into his slippers, he clipped his Beginner’s Journal to his belt and crept out of the dormitory.
Crouching behind the railing, Mason looked toward the common room door.
It hadn’t closed completely yet—there was still time.
Hastening to the door, he wedged his soft-soled slipper into the gap, pressed his body against the wall, and poked his head out.
*He hasn’t left yet!*
Mason reflexively pulled back, only to realize he had merely seen a back.
Once he calmed down and steadied his breathing, he peeked outside again.
*Gone?*
At the far end of the corridor, the shadow of a cat grew and shrank under the swinging light of a lantern, gradually approaching the spot where Elaine had been standing.
It was Mrs.
Norris, the cat belonging to Filch, the caretaker.
“Slowly now, my sweet…
I know no one can hide from your eyes—”
Filch followed close behind, his raspy voice echoing through the corridor.
“Hmph.” Filch raised his lantern high.
Though the corridor was so empty there wasn’t even a mouse in sight, he never doubted Mrs.
Norris’s ability or judgment.
His gravelly voice let out a sinister chuckle as he added, “You won’t get away next time.”
Filch ambled off, leaving Mrs.
Norris lurking on the spot for a bit longer.
The moment silence returned to the corridor, a shadow re-emerged from the darkness.
Thanks to his sharp eyesight, Mason clearly saw the air rippling like water in the distance.
The figure was none other than Elaine under his cloak.
*An Invisibility Cloak?
Is that in his hands?
Wait, no, this one doesn’t seem as powerful as the Harry family heirloom.*
Elaine’s pace was hardly faster than an old man with a cane.
Whenever he took a slightly larger step, the cloak’s effectiveness dropped, degrading from a semi-transparent ghostlike state to a clearly visible outline.
Mason followed Elaine as far as the mouth of the long corridor.
With no cover inside to hide him, he had to give up the pursuit.
Luckily, there were only two paths beyond the long corridor: one led to the girls’ bathroom, and the other was a shortcut to the Great Hall.
If Mason wanted to, he could set an ambush for Elaine next time.
Time to head back to the dorm.
Back in bed, Mason waited while silently counting.
He reached at least seven thousand before hearing the faint creak of the door.
The rest of the night passed in silence.
Eight a.m.
classes are definitely harmful to a growing child—a sleep-deprived Mason decided to speak up for the cause.
A medicinal smell wafted from his mouth as he spoke to Mason.
“Didn’t sleep well last night?”
*You dirty pay-to-win player, sneaking tonic powder!*
“I dreamed about that old bat hissing at me.
I’ve been stuck in detention with him the past two days, after all!
Now I see why Fred and George warned us to watch out for him…
By the way, where were you last night?
I woke up a few times and didn’t see you.”
*The probability that your next line is ‘using the bathroom’ is one thousand percent!*
“I think there was something wrong with yesterday’s cheese.
I had to run to the bathroom several times.
Sorry, the door must have woken you up.”
Elaine took another sip of his tonic mix, taking the chance to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead before adding,
“I’ll have to visit the hospital wing later…”
“No worries, we’re brothers.”
Mason waved off the apology.
The five of them entered the classroom one after another.
Seamus and Elaine paired up, while Harry and Ron did the same, leaving Mason behind.
Across the room, Hermione, who had saved a seat in advance with a piece of parchment, glanced at Mason as if saying:
*What are you looking at me for?
Hurry up and sit down, the professor is coming.*
*Got it, sister, relying on you this class.*
“…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren’t as big a pack of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”
“Doesn’t look like you managed to stop it either…” Mason muttered.
Hermione ignored him, absorbed in flipping through her textbook.
Every Gryffindor senior she had asked had solemnly warned her not to draw attention to herself in Snape’s class, as he discriminated against every Gryffindor equally.
Miss Beaver was unconvinced.
She wanted to prove herself with pure ability and shatter Snape’s prejudice.
“Jones!” Snape snapped, suddenly calling out Mason’s surname, though his cold eyes remained fixed on Harry’s face.
“What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
Mason sat up straight, spacing out.
Snape picking on the Savior was an iconic scene he’d seen online plenty of times before transmigrating.
What was the answer again?
Whatever, wasn’t his problem anyway—he’d just treat it like an unskippable cutscene.
Silence descended on the classroom, broken only by Miss Beaver frantically elbowing Mason’s shoulder.
She was met with Mason’s innocent, bewildered stare.
“Draught of Living Death, it’s the Draught of Living Death!” She was going frantic.
Surely Mason wasn’t planning to openly defy Snape just because he’d been put in detention twice?
“I—I don’t know, sir.”
“Clearly, fame isn’t everything…” Snape sneered.
Potter, arrogant Potter—not even bothering to stand straight at a time like this.
Just as sickening as his father.
“Improper attitude.
Three points from Gryffin—”
“Professor, you called on Mason—”
“?”
Snape’s hollow gaze—deep enough to swallow two Naraku worms—shifted immediately.
Oh, it was Neville, sitting on the right.
Even as forgetful as he was, Neville knew whose name Snape had called.
“I should have thought that speaking only when called upon is something every modest wizard ought to learn, yet I am thoroughly disappointed every time.”
“What are you still sitting there for, Jones!”
As if embarrassed into anger, Snape was forced to shift his target, swinging his gaze to Mason.
“The Draught of Living Death.” Snapping back to reality, Mason stood up immediately.
Terrified he might do something foolish, Hermione gripped his sleeve tightly.
“Attempting to disguise your ignorance is a pitiful and contemptible trick.” Snape glanced at Hermione, then at her copy of *Magical Drafts and Potions*, covered in notes, and her left hand clutching something beneath the desk.
With a sneer, he asked again:
“Where is the best place to begin harvesting mature Dragonhide Grass?”
*I actually know this one!*
Mason knew he probably couldn’t afford the cost of refining Blazing Essence from dragon materials, so after classes over the past few days, he had spent his spare time studying Dragonhide Grass—or rather, plants that grew in habitats frequented by dragons.
“Two inches above the ground, so another half-harvest can grow before it dies off.”
Snape raised an eyebrow.
Beside Mason, Hermione was still furiously flipping through her book.
Unfortunately, this was extracurricular material—destined not to be in her textbook.
“How do you stimulate a Flobberworm to secrete more mucus?”
“By using a charm or glue to bind either end of its body.”
“And its mucus is commonly used as…?”
“A thickening agent in potions.”
“What precaution must be taken when handling Bubotuber pus?”
“Wear dragon-hide gloves…
probably?”
“Sit down.” Snape’s anger subsided slightly.
His calling out Mason’s name earlier had been purely out of habit, having spent the last two days using Mason as free labor to prep potion ingredients under the guise of detention.
A quick sweep of his eyes brought Harry and Ron’s slacking expressions back into view, relighting the unspent temper within him.
“Well?
Why aren’t you all writing this down?”
Hermione had released her left hand at some point.
On her desk lay a slip of cut paper with a crudely drawn hand giving a thumbs-up.
*We’re safe.
For now.*