“That’s enough!
You’re just lucky!
If—if *He* were still here, a lowborn Mudblood like you wouldn’t be standing around at Hogwarts spouting off!” the ringleader snarled, trying desperately to crush Jarel’s momentum.
Jarel didn’t flinch in the slightest.
His counter came swift and sharp.
“There are no ‘ifs.’ Voldemort is gone.
If you don’t believe me, why don’t you lift your feet and march up to the Headmaster’s office on the eighth floor to ask?”
The four boys shuddered at once, terror flashing in their eyes—whether because Jarel had dared speak the name aloud, or because they feared Professor Dumbledore finding out.
One of them stammered awkwardly, “You…
you actually dared say His name out loud!
Aren’t you afraid…”
Jarel chuckled in amusement.
“Afraid of what?
That he’ll crawl back from Merlin’s side to beat me up?
Or…”
He raised his eyelids, his voice dropping into a low, sharp warning.
“Are you planning to follow him steadfastly and recruit Death Eaters right under Professor Dumbledore’s nose?”
The moment those words left his mouth, the boys turned pale with fright.
They stumbled back a few steps, their tight grips on their wands slacking.
*Just cowardly, incompetent children throwing tantrums over their falling pure-blood status,* Jarel thought.
*Even if Voldemort were alive, he wouldn’t bother bestowing a Dark Mark on trash like this.*
Perhaps stung by the blatant disgust in Jarel’s eyes, the ringleader suddenly snapped, “Enough!
Don’t forget what we came here to do.
High and mighty matters aren’t for us to worry about—just do what we’re supposed to!”
Jarel almost laughed aloud.
The grand declaration sounded absurdly pompous coming out of a teenager’s mouth.
Seeing the four regain their composure and open their mouths to chant incantations, Jarel feigned panic.
He hastily reached inside his robes for his wand.
But before his hand even brushed the wood, a dozen fireballs burst into midair, shooting toward the opposing group with a sharp *whoosh*.
The scorching heat radiated by the fireballs was undeniable.
Caught completely off guard, the four wizards shrieked in terror.
Forgetting all about Jarel, they scrambled frantically to dodge the fireballs and swat out the flames catching on their robes.
“Ahhh!
What is that?!
Who set the fire?!”
“Get out of the way!
Don’t block me!”
“*Aguamenti!
Aguamenti!*”
Clinton, your water hit me!”
“Stop whining!
Tell me, is the fire out or not?!”
“Wait…
where did that Prentiss kid go?”
The Slytherins finally extinguished the fireballs in utter chaos, their faces and clothes smeared with soot and water.
The ringleader fared worst of all: half his hair was singed off, leaving him looking like a drowned rat, pathetic and pitiful.
By the time they came to their senses, Jarel was long gone.
Enraged, the ringleader kicked the stone wall, only to end up clutching his throbbed toes and howling in pain.
***
Having slipped away early, Jarel arrived at the Potions Master’s office impeccably neat and dry.
He offered a polite greeting to the animated snake sculpture on the door before knocking.
With a soft creak, the door swung open of its own accord.
Jarel stepped inside.
Professor Snape was grading assignments.
He cast a cool glance at Jarel and issued a terse instruction: “The table by the wall.
A bucket of slugs.
Have them processed before your detention ends.”
Pausing, he raised his head slightly, his tone carrying a faint warning.
“You know the standards I expect.
If I catch you slacking off…”
Though Snape left the sentence unfinished, Jarel understood his meaning perfectly.
He nodded and walked over.
Standing by the table, Jarel didn’t begin immediately.
Instead, he scanned the workspace.
Picking up a piece of parchment left seemingly at random next to the wooden bucket, Jarel quickly realized what was required: first, extract the slug mucus; second, slice the bodies into thin pieces to be dried for preservation.
Reading through the instructions, Jarel couldn’t help but inwardly criticize the setup.
There were plenty of ways to process slugs, yet Professor Snape hadn’t offered a single word of guidance.
The instruction sheet was ragged and tossed aside as if begging to be mistaken for trash.
Such irresponsible direction—wasn’t he worried a detained student might ruin a whole bucket of ingredients?
On second thought, enlightenment struck.
*This must be a test.* Snape wanted to see just how much natural talent Jarel had for Potions, and whether he was worth cultivating.
At that thought, Jarel felt a surge of excitement and eagerly began inspecting the potion-processing tools.
Professor Snape—who had set the trap precisely to observe whether Jarel possessed Dark Lord potential—noticed the shift in the boy’s mood and unconsciously knit his brows.
In his half-year as a professor, he had never seen a student look so thrilled while prepping ingredients during detention.
*Did I make the test too easy?* The thought crossed Snape’s mind.
The next moment, Snape looked down at the eye-searing, error-ridden Potions essays written by his students.
He let out a heavy, angry snort through his nose, once again regretting his decision to take a teaching position at Hogwarts. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
*Utter rubbish!* Snape furiously penned a large red ‘T’ on the parchment, returning his focus entirely to grading and ignoring Jarel.
*If he does well, I benefit; if he does poorly, I simply add more detention.
Either way, I lose nothing.*
Hearing Snape’s cold snort, Jarel stole a quick glance and saw the professor absorbed in grading.
He pulled his attention back, determined to focus on the materials.
*If I do well, I gain knowledge; if I mess up, it’s just a few more days of detention.
No loss.*
Jarel actually didn’t mind repetitive preparation work.
It reminded him of prepping ingredients for cooking in his past life.
Simple, repetitive tasks were tiring, but oddly relaxing.
Especially when you kept your head down, chopped away, and then looked up to see a basket brimming with neatly sliced vegetables—it gave a real sense of accomplishment.
If this were back in China, forty years in the future, Jarel would have registered an account to livestream it.
People online would literally tune in by the thousands just to watch someone chop vegetables for pigs, begging for a taste!
If he livestreamed brewing potions…
hehe.
While his thoughts wandered, his hands never stopped moving.
First, he pulled out a large basin, filled it with water and salt, put on his dragon-hide gloves, and tossed several handfuls of slugs inside to purge their impurities.
Next, he wiped the worktable clean and laid out his tools from left to right: the large basin, a clean water basin, an absorbent soft cloth, a cutting board, a small silver knife, an empty basin, and empty glass vials.
The empty basin and vials were washed and heat-dried beforehand, ready to hold the sliced slugs and extracted mucus, respectively.
When the time was right, Jarel scooped the slugs out of the saltwater, rinsed them, dried them off, and placed them onto the board.
Extracting slug mucus was simple: normally, one would cast a Squeezing Charm, causing the slug’s body to flatten from back to front as mucus poured out from its mouth.
Once emptied, the body could be sliced and packed into containers, completing the honorable service of one adorable slug!
Just as he was about to roll up his sleeves and get to work, Jarel froze.
*Wait…
how do you cast a Squeezing Charm again?
I don’t know it.*
Turning around, Jarel decisively asked Professor Snape.
Snape looked up from the mountain of homework, his face brimming with annoyance, black eyes flashing with mock scorn.
“Did I say you were permitted to use magic?
Use that troll-sized brain of yours for once.
Mucus extracted via a Squeezing Charm lacks purity and yields far less.
Have some mercy and use your noble hands to assist your Potions master!”
Drenched in verbal venom, Jarel trudged back to his table.
After standing dazed for a few seconds, he let out a quiet sigh and picked up a small wooden stick from the tool kit.
Behind him, Snape heard the sigh, a faint trace of vindication and satisfaction flickering across his face.
Jarel was thoroughly engrossed in his task, losing all track of time.
Suddenly, a knock sounded at the office door, followed by an elegant male voice calling from outside.
Jarel’s hands paused—the voice sounded remarkably like one of the Slytherin students who had cornered him earlier.