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Slytherin’s first class was held jointly with Ravenclaw.
Jiang Fengyue forced himself to maintain a presentable composure as he walked in and took a seat at the very back.
The Dark Lord settled beside him, perfectly at ease.
Crabbe and Goyle, suddenly bereft of their usual partner, looked at each other in dawning horror, the two of them paired together for Potions was a disaster waiting to happen, and promptly shuffled off to beg help from the Ravenclaws.
Jiang Fengyue set out his cauldron and arranged the stirring rod, narrow vials, and ladle in neat order.
Slughorn was already at the lectern, beaming as he talked through the week’s potion.
Those restless, roving eyes landed on Jiang Fengyue and crinkled further with pleasure; he waved for him to go first at the ingredient table.
By the time Jiang Fengyue returned with enough materials for two, he noticed what they were actually making: Amortentia.
Slughorn had instructed that all completed or semi-completed batches be bottled and handed in at the end of class.
He followed the steps on the blackboard, adding each ingredient to the silver cauldron in sequence.
When it reached a boil, he poured in the gnome wax and two tablespoons of goblin oil, then set it to a low simmer.
The liquid turned blue.
Jiang Fengyue let out a quiet breath of relief.
Just the last step left: add the ground moonstone and stir clockwise 10 times.
But the more he stirred, the more wrong it felt.
The near-boiling liquid began to emit dull, rhythmic thumps, THUMP, THUMP, like something gathering itself to erupt.
The cauldron was about to blow.
Then another hand closed over his on the stirring rod.
Jiang Fengyue tilted his head.
The Dark Lord had moved to stand directly behind him and was now calmly guiding his hand, tracing slow, gentle circles along the inner wall of the cauldron until the liquid quieted.
Voldemort reached past him and poured in a measure of beetle juice, then led his hand through 10 counterclockwise rotations without a word.
“Your stirring technique was wrong.
The moonstone powder went in too early — beetle juice is the only thing that can neutralize and reverse it.” He said it coolly, watching the liquid in the cauldron ease from agitation into a brilliant, glowing pink.
The Amortentia was done.
“Well.” Jiang Fengyue looked at it with genuine appreciation.
“The great Dark Lord.”
Voldemort gave him a faint look, then reached over and tapped the potion notes on his desk.
“Write that down, Mr.
Malfoy.
Jiang Fengyue paused.
“Hogwarts regulations only require six subjects.”
“You will choose twelve.” No room for debate.
“Yes, my lord.” The response was automatic, though he had already planned to take twelve, not that he was going to mention that.
“If I don’t manage all twelve, would my lord consider going easy on me?” Jiang Fengyue tilted his head and leaned toward him, smiling.
“According to the school histories I’ve read, no student since Hogwarts was founded has ever achieved twelve O’s.”
“One has.”
Jiang Fengyue’s eyes went wide.
“Who?”
“Me.”
“…”
He tugged the corner of his mouth into a smile that didn’t make it anywhere near his eyes.
Who else but you, you freak.
Voldemort returned to his side of the table without hurry, spooning the last of the Amortentia into a narrow vial and screwing the stopper tight.
His slender fingers turned the bottle slowly, tracing the glass, but his gaze never left Jiang Fengyue.
A low, quiet laugh.
“In that case, Mr.
Malfoy — so that you may reach this standard, which no one but myself has ever achieved — I will personally oversee your extracurricular instruction.”
“My supreme honor,” Jiang Fengyue said, drawing the words out, his smile going sly.
Private tutoring from the Dark Lord.
The kind of arrangement that normally cost people their lives to even request.
Secured.
He hummed a tuneless little melody to himself, carefully decanting the Amortentia into a glass bottle, watching the liquid through the crystal.
His gaze drifted to the Dark Lord beside him without meaning to, then pulled back.
That morning’s comment.
Bewitched.
It had been satisfying when he said it, the retaliatory pleasure had been real.
But he’d paid for it, same as always.
The Dark Lord hadn’t even needed to lift a finger.
Just the raw overflow of his magic, a pressure so vast it had pinned Jiang Fengyue to the floor for 2 solid hours. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
The magic in his own body had churned against the weight of it, churned until it boiled, like ten thousand ants eating him alive from the inside out.
He stared at the pink Amortentia.
A cold, sharp scent drifted up and caught him off guard.
This was what real power smelled like.
Boundless.
Pure.
The kind of strength that had no equal anywhere in the world.
He couldn’t help but admire it.
Such a being.
One who held life and death in his hands, who looked at all living things the way others looked at insects, who had crushed him, who had made his very soul feel like it was burning.
A pity he wasn’t Jiang Fengyue’s.
A pity that power wasn’t his to claim.
Then truly…
…he should die.
A rounded silhouette appeared at their table.
Professor Slughorn beamed down at the two perfect vials of Amortentia, eyes crinkling nearly shut with delight.
“Absolutely perfect.
Ten points each to the first pair to finish, Lucius and, ah, ‘Argus.’ Now then, children, you may smell it, if you like.
Just remember: do not drink it.”
Jiang Fengyue sealed the last of his Amortentia and picked up the vial, lifting it carefully for a cautious sniff.
A cold, sharp scent flooded his nose at once.
Icy metal.
Dry dust.
Beneath those, something faintly raw, and deeper still, the lingering warmth of dying embers.
He turned his head.
Beside him, the Dark Lord was turning the glass bottle in his fingers, but he hadn’t raised it to smell.
He only watched the crystalline pink liquid inside, still and cold, his lashes throwing shadows.
Deep in his eyes, something dark turned slowly, an indistinct vortex, unreadable and vast.
Jiang Fengyue asked, careful to keep his tone light.
“What do you smell, my lord?”
➤ Next: The Serpent in the Soul