Harry nodded in agreement, then watched Ivan continue feeding Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans to Scabbers without pause.
“Ivan, if you keep that up Scabbers is going to explode.” Hermione, who had been about to press the earlier point, turned to look as well.
The thin, matted rat from a few days ago had changed.
After the chaotic night Ron had scrubbed him thoroughly, and the constant feeding since then had already added a noticeable layer of fat.
“This is normal,” Ivan insisted, offering another bean.
“He was half-starved before.
He needs the extra meals.
Besides, it’s part of the apology.” Scabbers glared at him with clear resentment and tried to shove the hand away with his tiny paws.
When the force proved useless he finally bit into the bean.
Food was still food.
Resistance was pointless.
Ivan watched the small surrender with quiet amusement.
Pettigrew had survived more than a decade of hiding.
Mental resilience, at least, was not one of his weak points.
One night of being chased by his worst nightmare in a dream, and by morning he was eating again without hesitation.
That also suggested the rat had no idea what the Fear Curse actually was.
He probably assumed some ordinary spell had simply twisted a pleasant dream into a nightmare.
An eleven-year-old first-year had no reason to know events from eleven years ago, and even less reason to know that Sirius Black’s Animagus form was a large black dog.
“What if he gets too fat?” Ron asked, watching the special attention with growing concern.
“He doesn’t deliver post.
A little extra weight will keep him from running off.” Privately Ivan thought it would be interesting to see how well a spherical Scabbers managed when Crookshanks and Sirius eventually came looking.
Without Pettigrew, Voldemort’s return would have been far more difficult.
They continued talking as they descended toward the dungeons.
The moment they stepped into the classroom, the rumours about Snape being a former dark wizard suddenly felt more plausible.
The room was small and deliberately oppressive.
Glass jars lined the walls, filled with blue-green liquids in which the outlines of animal parts floated.
Combined with the underground location, the space looked more like a dark wizard’s private laboratory than a school classroom.
“Find seats quickly,” Ron muttered.
“We need to be careful this lesson.” George’s warning no longer sounded exaggerated.
Ron herded Ivan, Harry, and Hermione into places as far from the front as possible, determined not to give Snape an easy reason to deduct points.
Ivan already knew it would not matter.
Even if they sat perfectly still for the entire double period, Snape would invent a reason.
The heavy door slammed open with a crack that echoed off the stone walls.
A thin figure swept inside, pale skin almost hidden by the long black robes.
Cold eyes swept the students and paused, just for a fraction of a second, on Harry.
The hooked nose completed the impression of a large, human-shaped bat.
Snape reached the front, flicked his wand, and every curtain in the room drew itself shut.
Daylight vanished.
The classroom sank into gloom.
Ivan noticed the tight lines around Snape’s mouth ease the moment the light faded.
The Potions Master picked up the roll and surveyed the now-silent first-years.
“I will be taking register.
I hope none of you will attempt to vanish on my time.” Even the usual troublemakers sat perfectly still.
Only Draco Malfoy, surrounded by his usual companions, still wore a thin smile.
“Neville Longbottom.” “Ivan Hals.” “Harry Potter.” When he reached Harry’s name, the flat voice gained a slight edge.
“Ah.
I almost forgot.” Snape’s expression remained blank, but the words carried clear mockery.
“Our new celebrity.” Every head turned.
Draco and his two shadows laughed under their breath.
Harry shifted uncomfortably under the sudden attention.
He did not yet realise this was only the opening move.
Snape looked away from him and addressed the entire class.
“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making.
As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic.
I do not expect you to truly appreciate the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you are not as great a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.” He paused, then fixed Harry with a direct stare.
“Potter.
What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” Harry’s mind went blank.
He had never heard of either ingredient.
He shot a desperate glance at Ron, who looked equally lost.
Hermione’s hand shot into the air.
Snape ignored it completely.
Ivan was too far away to speak aloud without drawing attention.
He mouthed the words as clearly as he could: Draught of Living Death.
Sleeping potion.
Harry, pinned by Snape’s gaze, did not dare look properly in his direction.
He could not make out the silent shapes of the words.
After a long, painful silence he managed a strained answer.
“I don’t know, Professor.” Ivan rested his forehead against one hand.
He had done what he could.
Even if he had whispered the answer beforehand, Snape would simply have chosen a different question.
The man had an unlimited supply of ways to single Harry out.