“I had no idea you were this terrible at Potions?!”
Draco snatched the clearly oversized handful of dried nettles right out of Flins’s hand.
Frowning, he dropped the correct amount into the cauldron and crossed his arms, staring at Flins.
Flins glanced at the handsome, deep green brew in Draco’s cauldron and let out a heartfelt sigh:
“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Young Master Draco.
Without you, I truly wouldn’t know what to do.”
“Quit your fake flattery,” Draco glared at him, his tone sharp, though his hands never stopped moving.
He pushed a portion of his own finely crushed snake fangs in front of Flins.
“And stop calling me Young Master.”
“When a person is so eager to help his classmate, what is so odd about calling him ‘young master’?”
Flins looked down at the fine, even powder of snake fangs and let out a sincere sigh.
“I think we can add the porcupine quills now,” Flins added.
Draco froze.
From the row behind them, Theodore, who was halfway through his own potion, suddenly looked up and chimed in:
“Why?
Snape didn’t say to do that, and it will ruin the potion.”
“Call it intuition, perhaps, along with a tiny flash of inspiration.”
The moment Flins finished speaking, thick, acidic green smoke poured out with a loud, hissing noise.
Neville Longbottom’s cauldron was bubbling over with boiling green froth.
It spilled across the desk and dripped off the edges in thick, slimy pools.
Red, swollen boils broke out all over his arms and legs.
The Gryffindors around him scrambled back in panic.
Screams and shouts tangled together in total chaos.
“Idiot!”
Professor Snape roared, sweeping forward from behind the platform.
With a wave of his wand, the spilled potion vanished from the floor.
“I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire, didn’t you?”
Hearing this, Flins slowly shifted his eyes to the barely passing potion in his own cauldron, then slowly looked up at his three roommates.
Blaise was staring at him in complete, wordless disbelief.
Theodore quietly turned back around without an expression, continuing to stir his own cauldron.
“…A close call.
How wonderful,” Flins muttered softly under his breath, looking down at his cauldron.
Draco kept chattering away beside him:
“How can a Slytherin be terrible at Potions?
Look how many times you tried to ‘innovate’ this lesson!
And you clearly memorized the correct steps for brewing it!”
“Memorizing the steps and actually making it are not the same thing.”
Flins looked troubled as he stared at the murky color in his cauldron, sighing, “Even with you guiding every single step correctly, isn’t my potion still on the brink of failure anyway?”
Draco looked at Flins’s cauldron, then at his own flawless brew, and quietly began flipping through his Potions textbook page by page.
Fortunately, compared to Neville’s melted cauldron, Flins managed to finish his potion in the end.
Though the finished color was far from pretty and the clarity was just so-so, it at least did not smoke or explode.
He received an “A” for Acceptable—just barely passing.
And that was only thanks to Draco constantly correcting him through the entire class.
When it was turned in, Professor Snape picked up the vial, examined it for two seconds, and drawled in a slow voice:
“Ah, our Mr.
Flins should truly thank his good friend for the assistance.
Let us hope he has such luck during his exams.”
As he spoke, his harsh gaze swept over Flins’s shoulder, fixing firmly on Draco standing beside him.
Draco shrank his neck back instinctively, pulled his chin in, and wilted into quiet submission.
“Of course, sir,” Flins gave a respectful nod.
“Thank you for the reminder.”
The moment the bell rang, Draco bolted out the door like a bat was chasing him.
Before Flins could turn to call after him, he had already vanished into the hallway.
“Kyryll.”
A familiar voice came from behind.
Flins closed his textbook and turned to see Harry and Ron standing in the aisle, both looking rather worn out.
“Hi, Harry, Ron,” Flins gave a slight nod.
“Long time no see.”
“Yeah, it really feels like forever—even though it’s only the first week of term.”
Ron sighed weakly, his gaze lingering on the Potions textbook in Flins’s hands.
“Did Snape criticize you too?
It’s terrifying…
you’re in his own house, after all.”
Flins could not help sighing along with him, his tone carrying a rare note of genuine helplessness:
“This subject does not suit me.”
Harry hesitated for a moment, then asked:
“Kyryll…
you seem to get along pretty well with the Slytherins?”
“Oh, them?”
Flins looked back at the Slytherins preparing to leave.
“We get along quite well.
At least they helped me through this Potions class.”
“Yeah, we saw you standing with them several times—they haven’t picked on you, have they?
After all, your parents were killed by You-Know-Who’s followers…
and Malfoy, his family is one of them.”
Ron spoke bluntly, though his blue eyes carried genuine concern.
Flins had already picked up his bag to leave, but hearing this, he sat back down, set his book back on the table, and put on a thoughtful face.
“In fact, they have helped me a great deal,”
he said in a calm, measured voice.
“For example, in today’s Potions class, if Draco hadn’t kept an eye on me the whole time, I probably would have received a ‘D’.”
He paused, the corners of his mouth curving slightly: “And from what I have seen so far, they mostly seem to want to be on good terms with me.”
Ron let out an exaggerated gasp:
“Merlin’s dirty socks!
It’s hard to imagine Slytherins being friendly!”
With that, he mimicked the Slytherin students, tossing his chin up, pointing his nose at the ceiling, and making a haughty face.
Harry did not laugh along.
He asked, “But we’re still good friends, right?”
Seeing Harry’s earnest look, Flins’s tone softened naturally:
“Of course we are.
I even invited you to my house, didn’t I, Harry?”
Harry’s expression relaxed noticeably.
He shot a quick glance at Ron, then turned back to Flins:
“Then later…
do you want to come with Ron and me to visit Hagrid?”
At the mention of Hagrid, the gloom that had hung over Harry and Ron blew away like dust, and both of their eyes lit up.
“Hagrid?”
Flins thought for a moment and recalled the giant man who had met them at the station.
“The person who took us across the lake by boat?
Of course.”
The three of them packed up their things, walked out of the dungeons together, and headed up the stone stairs.
Flins walked beside Harry and Ron, listening to them chatter about the week’s events, occasionally dropping a word or two into the conversation.