Snape’s office was dim, cramped, and carried a strange, lingering smell.
Shelves ran along all four walls, stacked with hundreds, maybe thousands, of potion ingredients.
Will’s eyes lit up despite himself.
None of these ingredients came cheap.
Snape, it turned out, was sitting on a small fortune.
If Will could get his hands on even a fraction of it, or better yet, learn directly under him, his Potions skill would climb fast.
Snape sat behind his desk, gaze flat and unreadable, fixed on Will.
“A Blasting Curse, in the common room.
Impressive.
Seems Mr.
Behrens has become quite the accomplished wizard, dismantling his classmates with such ease.
Hardly seems fair to waste that kind of talent on Hogwarts.
Perhaps the Wizengamot could use someone like you.”
Will met his stare without flinching.
“Don’t look at me with those dead, empty eyes, Mr.
Behrens.
If you can’t explain why you left a classmate in that condition, you’ll be spending your Christmas holiday elbow-deep in Flobberworm slime.”
Without a real justification, Will was clearly staring down a long stretch of detention.
Snape studied him carefully, waiting to see what excuse would surface.
Few things irritated him more than a student who bullied his classmates.
Will’s fists tightened, but he offered no defense.
He held Snape’s gaze instead, voice low and rough with something close to anger.
“If you think a Mudblood like me deserves to be ganged up on by his housemates.
If you think I should’ve hidden behind a girl and let them humiliate me without a word.
If you think Muggle-borns are meant to be shut out by pure-bloods, then treated as beneath them.
Then I’ve got nothing to explain.
Not the first night, when I got jumped for no reason.
Not today, when I finally defended myself.
I only ask that you leave Sylvia out of this.
She had nothing to do with any of it.”
He spoke with the kind of righteous conviction that made him sound exactly like what he technically was: a student who’d fought back against being bullied.
Which, as it happened, was the truth.
His voice stayed sharp, and he showed no sign of remorse.
Snape could tell, immediately, that Will felt no guilt whatsoever.
He said nothing for a long moment after Will finished.
Something in Will’s words had clearly struck a nerve, memories of a similar pure-blood cruelty from Snape’s own years at Hogwarts, resurfacing uninvited.
A few minutes later, a notification surfaced.
[Someone empathizes with you.
Charm Experience +3]
Will watched Snape’s expression twitch faintly, his tone finally losing its edge.
“Injuring a classmate earns you one week of detention, starting tomorrow.
You’ll assist me with sorting potion ingredients.”
His answer had landed precisely where he’d aimed it, straight at whatever old wound Snape still carried.
The Half-Blood Prince’s story never had a happy ending, after all.
Besides, sorting potion ingredients hardly counted as punishment.
That kind of work paid out in experience too.
…
Will had barely stepped out of Snape’s office when he found Sylvia waiting outside.
“Did Professor Snape do anything to you?” Worry was written plainly across her face.
“What exactly could he do to me?” Will shrugged.
“Relax, it’s a week of detention.
Nothing more.
Snape’s actually decent, once you get past the theatrics.”
“If you’d never crossed Yaxley and the rest in the first place, you wouldn’t have this to worry about.
They’re all in the hospital wing now.
You should expect some pushback from their families.” Sylvia still looked uneasy.
“I’ll be fine.
Nobody’s going to try anything while I’m still at Hogwarts.”
Sylvia went quiet for a moment, studying him carefully from head to toe.
“What?” Will shifted, oddly uncomfortable under her gaze.
“Nothing.
I just think you’re probably right.” Something in her posture eased, visibly relieved, though Will couldn’t quite tell why.
…
By Thursday, nobody was bothering Will anymore, though Defense Against the Dark Arts had turned into something of a lost cause.
He’d realized he wasn’t gaining a single point of experience from Quirrell’s lessons.
Every other class fed him something, knowledge, experience, some small return.
Quirrell’s stuttering delivery, straight from the textbook with nothing added, left him with nothing at all, no matter how many times he reread the material afterward.
Will suspected Quirrell was holding something back deliberately.
He’d asked around about the man before.
Quirrell had a reputation for genuinely sharp theoretical knowledge, solid enough that this level of performance made no sense.
Even accounting for whatever influence Voldemort held over him, it seemed unlikely his ability had dropped low enough to botch a straightforward reading of the textbook.
Will settled for hunting down his own material instead.
On Friday, he arrived early for Potions.
He wandered the room, examining the various animal specimens lining the shelves, ingredients, all of them, though he couldn’t help wondering who exactly ended up consuming the finished product.
Snape appeared behind him without warning.
“You seem rather curious about those.
Perhaps I should let you dissect one yourself.”
“Really?
Thank you, Professor.” Will’s excitement was genuine.
Opportunities like this didn’t come often.
Something flickered at the corner of Snape’s mouth.
He’d meant the offer to unsettle the boy, most first-years balked at the idea of dissecting anything, let alone something still fresh.
This one clearly didn’t rattle easily.
Will knew full well the attempt hadn’t worked as intended, but he wasn’t about to jeopardize his house’s points over it.
“You’ll be sampling your own potion later, Behrens.
I’d suggest reading ahead,” Snape said flatly, turning back toward the front of the room. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
Class began shortly after, Snape working methodically through the attendance list.
“Potter…
ah.
Our new little celebrity.”
Will already knew what was coming.
“Potter.
Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
A classic opener.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Let’s try again.
Where, Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?”
“And can you tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”
Harry, predictably, had no answer for any of it, which only soured Snape’s mood further.
His eyes swept the room, passing straight over Hermione’s raised hand, and landed on Will, standing beside Sylvia.
“Mr.
Behrens.
Perhaps you can enlighten our famous new celebrity.”
“Asphodel and wormwood together create the Draught of Living Death.
A bezoar comes from the stomach of a goat, typically.
And monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, more commonly known as aconite.”
As he answered, Will briefly considered elaborating on the deeper significance behind each question, then decided against it.
Snape would probably have him killed for it.
“Correct.
It seems fame doesn’t count for everything after all, and diligent study still has its rewards.
Five points to Slytherin.” A thin, satisfied smile crossed Snape’s face.
The class moved quickly into brewing.
Will had already experimented with a Boil Cure at home, so the process came easily to him.
He guided Sylvia through it as he worked.
“Those snake fangs need to be finer.
Add the slugs now, and remember to…”
“Take the cauldron off the flame, right?
I remember.” Sylvia handled it without needing further help, adding the porcupine quills before stirring clockwise as instructed.
By the time their potion turned the correct shade of blue, Will sensed someone approaching from behind.
Snape inspected their cauldron briefly.
“Fortunate for you, Behrens, you clearly won’t need to drink anything unpleasant today.”
Then, louder, to the room.
“First successful potion goes to Slytherin.
Five points.”
That was when everything went wrong.
Neville’s cauldron let out a hiss, thick green fumes curling upward, the mixture warping and bubbling over the rim.
The potion sprayed outward in a wide arc, heading straight for Will.