On Friday’s schedule, there was a double Potions class.
The professor teaching it was the Head of Slytherin House.
He was also the black-robed professor who had taken Flins shopping in Diagon Alley before term began: Severus Snape.
Interestingly, this double class was shared with Gryffindor.
Almost a week had passed since term started, and Slytherin and Gryffindor actually had very few classes together.
This was likely a well-thought-out arrangement by the school’s professors.
After all, the bad blood between these two houses went far beyond friction on the Quidditch pitch.
Locking a bunch of inherited enemies in the same classroom too often was bound to cause trouble.
Because of this, Flins had only bumped into Harry and the others a handful of times.
Occasionally, he would spot that messy black hair from afar in the corridor, but before he could get close, they would be swept apart by the rushing crowd of students.
One thing, however, was worth celebrating:
The Potions classroom was located in the dungeons, not far at all from the Slytherin common room.
For a group of students who usually had to climb from the basement up to the high towers of the castle for class every day, this was a rare and welcome treat.
Draco seemed especially eager for this class.
From the moment he woke up that morning, he had flipped through Magical Drafts and Potions at least three times, muttering under his breath as if trying to cram the first few chapters right into his brain.
He clearly held an unusual fondness for Professor Snape.
Most likely, the half-smile Snape had shot at Gryffindor during the Start-of-Term feast had made Draco feel a deep sense of connection.
As for Flins’s attitude toward Potions…
For a fighter, it did not seem very friendly.
It reminded him of the times the Traveler had tried to drag him into cooking.
That kindhearted young lady seemed to think “knowing how to cook” was a basic survival skill for walking across Teyvat.
She would warmly invite him again and again, saying, “Just give it a try, it’s really simple.”
Flins had excused himself every time with “Fairies do not need to eat.” Until one time, when she had pestered him so much he had no way out, he reluctantly reheated a piece of smoked fish, casually tossing in some spices he mixed himself.
The final result was dark in color and shriveled in shape.
The Traveler stared at the plate for a long time.
After a long silence, she said in a very polite tone, “Well…
very creative.”
She never asked him to cook again after that.
Flins considered that her greatest show of respect toward him.
…
“Oh, yes,”
Professor Snape spoke in a low, slow voice coated with a thin layer of mockery, “Harry Potter—our new…
celebrity.”
Flins looked up at the platform.
This was the first time he had ever seen an opening line like that.
There was not a trace of warmth in Professor Snape’s voice, and his dark eyes settled on Harry.
Sitting beside Flins, Draco immediately snickered, the corners of his mouth turning up without any attempt to hide it.
Flins glanced over from the corner of his eye and found that Professor Snape did not even give Draco a warning look.
It wasn’t just him—Crabbe and Goyle sitting nearby were laughing along too, and Snape continued to ignore it.
Hmm?
What is going on here?
Flins turned and exchanged a look with Blaise.
Blaise tipped his chin slightly toward the other side of the room.
Flins followed his gaze and met Harry’s green eyes, which held a touch of hurt he had not managed to hide.
Beside him, Ron’s ears were already red with anger.
The lesson continued.
Professor Snape turned and began to introduce the mysteries of Potions in an almost poetic tone:
“…I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes…
you won’t really understand the liquids that creep through human veins…”
He paused, his gaze slowly sweeping from the front of the class back to Harry, before adding in a carrying voice, “But there is one condition—you must not be the usual bunch of dunderheads I usually have to teach.”
Flins looked down at his blank piece of parchment.
He had not taken a single note, and quite happily placed himself in the “dunderhead” category.
He preferred the ghost professor’s History of Magic class.
“Potter!”
Snape’s voice suddenly rose a little.
“What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
Harry, sitting near the back, blinked blankly behind his glasses.
He opened his mouth but made no sound, his fingers rubbing absentmindedly against the edge of his desk.
Looking at that expression, Flins felt a wave of something akin to sympathy rise in his heart—because he didn’t know the answer either.
But Miss Granger, sitting on the other side, had already thrown her hand high into the air.
Professor Snape did not look at her.
“Tut, tut…
fame clearly isn’t everything.”
He tilted his head slightly, the mockery in his voice deepening.
“Let’s try again.
Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”
Draco was already laughing so hard he was practically leaning on Flins, his gray eyes full of gloating joy.
Flins shifted slightly away and thought with a blank face: I have no idea where to find a bezoar, either.
“I don’t know, sir,” Harry mumbled.
The corner of Snape’s mouth twitched, barely noticeable:
“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, eh, Potter?”
Harry’s lips pressed tightly together.
“Well then, one last question—” Snape drew his words out slowly, “Potter, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”
Hermione Granger had already stood up.
“I don’t know.
But I think Hermione knows the answer, why don’t you ask her?”
The room fell silent for half a second.
Quite brave.
A true Gryffindor, Flins thought.
But Snape slowly opened the class list, his quill making a sharp scratch on the parchment:
“A point will be taken from Gryffindor.
For your cheek.”
Only after he said that did he calmly rattle off the answers to the three questions, one by one.