Potions
The first Defense Against the Dark Arts class of the year began with the same quiet buzz of curiosity that hung over the entire school. Harry entered the familiar classroom his mood already sinking low, weighed down by the knowledge of what awaited them.
He already knew what to expect.
Umbridge.
An overgrown pink toad with delusions of relevance, a simpering mask of saccharine sweetness barely concealing a core of venomous prejudice and bureaucratic authoritarianism. And now—this walking affront to all that was a good taste was his teacher, she was going to inflict her presence upon him every week.
He shuddered at the thought, gods(wait should a campione still pray) above give me the strength to not kill her in front of witnesses.
Really the only reason he was here was because he wanted to, he knew that if most people had his power they would just leave and go wherever but he didn't have anywhere he wanted to go, he didn't really have that much of a dream before he became a Campione so he didn't really know what to do. That's why he was sticking to what he had, his friends, his life and just add freedom and fun to it.
It was like when the order came to pick him up, some would say he was obeying them and following them around after showing off, but what did they want him to do, he followed because Grimmauld was were he wanted to go, his friends were there even if he was angry at them, his godfather was there, he wanted to leave his relative.
Did people want him to shout and be stubborn and say I won't, throwing a tantrum like a child, he made it clear he didn't care and that he was only going because he wanted to and at the end, he made it clear that it was none of their business whatever was going on with him so what more should he do.
Now he was here in Hogwarts because his friends were here, and ever since he remembered, he had developed a curiosity and fascination for magic and wanted to learn more. Like hell, he was going to just abandon all those books in the library. He was going to learn, master, and develop magic like an Op-Anime protagonist. That was his right as a Transgressor.
Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the song of nothing short of screechs of the damned souls of Hell.
"Good morning, children!" she chirped, her voice a saccharine, sugar-syrup tone that grated on Harry's enhanced hearing, making his teeth ache. She stood at the front of the classroom, hands clasped at her stomach as if she were a fake grandma from a cursed fairy tale, her smile fixed and entirely insincere.
"Wands away, if you please. You won't be needing them. Books out. Open to page Seventy five, if you please."
Harry didn't even try to hide the disdain in his eyes as he sat down at his desk. Instead of the Ministry-approved text, he pulled out The Weave of Reality, the advanced magical theory tome he'd received from the Mage Association.
With a subtle, almost imperceptible surge of his Authority, Oneiric Manifestation, he cloaked the book with a perfect, seamless illusion. What everyone else saw was a pristine, brand-new copy of the Ministry-issued defense text, Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard, its dull cover radiating bureaucratic blandness. What he saw, however, was layered magical theory, advanced research of decades on magical fields.
He was not wasting his precious time on this farce, not when there were gods to hunt and greater mysteries to unravel.
And nothing would stop him from that one goal he had decided from the moment he woke up as a campione and he will accomplish it.
Across the room, Hermione, ever the diligent and rule-abiding student, raised her hand, her expression one of confusion. Of course, she did. Harry almost rolled his eyes, knowing precisely what was coming.
"Yes," Umbridge smiled, a fake, sickly sweet expression that instantly signaled she had already decided Hermione was a problem, an obstacle to her authority.
"Professor Umbridge," Hermione began, her voice polite but imbued with a firm logic, "I noticed that your curriculum outline for Defense Against the Dark Arts doesn't include any practical spell work. Isn't that essential for our O.W.L. year? We need to practice our defensive spells to pass our examinations."
Umbridge's smile twitched, a tiny ripple of irritation crossing her features, betraying her carefully constructed composure. "Miss Granger," she said, her voice still syrupy, "I will remind you that questions must be asked after raising your hand, and in the proper tone."
Hermione blinked, genuinely perplexed. "But I did raise my hand, Professor. And I believe my tone was perfectly respectful. My question is simply about the necessity of practical application for our O.W.L.s."
"Yes, but your tone was awfully... confrontational, Miss Granger, for one so young, and your questions quite presumptuous." Umbridge interrupted smoothly, her voice gaining a sugary edge of condescension. "Now, now. There's no need to wave wands about. Reading and theoretical understanding are more than sufficient to pass your examinations and prepare you for a safe, Ministry-approved future. We do not want to encourage… dangerous habits or unnecessary aggression amongst our students."
"But—" Hermione tried again, her frustration mounting, unwilling to let the point go. "Don't we need to practice casting spells to pass our fifth-year exams? The O.W.L.s require practical demonstrations, actual dueling, not just theory!"
"Miss Granger," Umbridge interrupted smoothly, her voice now dangerously sweet, laced with steel, "I have been teaching, or rather, governing educational policy, far longer than. Let's not question the Ministry's standards, shall we? You will learn what we deem necessary for your own safety and the safety of the wizarding public." Her eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle warning.
Ron, unable to contain himself, mumbled under his breath, loud enough for Umbridge to hear. "What if we get attacked? What if something actually happens, like last year?"
Umbridge paused, her smile freezing on her face. She clearly wanted to ignore him, to dismiss his impertinence. But she didn't get the chance. The seed of doubt, however small, had been planted in the minds of some students.
"We won't be attacked, Mr. Weasley," she said finally, her voice still sickly sweet, but with a brittle, forced undertone. "The school is perfectly safe. The Ministry has assured it. There are no dark forces afoot. Regardless of what anyone says." as her eyes landed on him.
Okay, now she was picking a fight with him.
That was her mistake. He turned his head lazily toward her, a smile playing on his lips, a shadow of the wolf's grin. He decided to bite.
"Are we Safe?" he said mildly, his voice casual, almost conversational, yet it cut through the air like a razor, drawing all attention.
"Of course, They are no dangers despite what lies have been spread about".
"Right and what of the dementor attack 2 years ago" he started, seeming to catch her off guard, he was not expecting that. She opened her mouth but he cut her off. "And don't forget the dangerous Vampires and Werewolves that you yourself have said were a danger multiple times in the past to the daily prophet or was that a lie."
His tone was laced with heavy, undeniable sarcasm. She blinked at him, her toad-like eyes glaring at him as she started to turn red with anger. He was enjoying every moment.
"What if one of us ends up attacked again?" Harry continued. "Are we supposed to just sit back and wait for an Auror to show up in three to five business days while we die? Should we just accept death because the Ministry thinks practicing defensive spells is 'dangerous'?"
"Mr. Potter—" Umbridge began, her face already turning a splotchy red, her composure rapidly fraying.
"No, no," Harry interrupted, his tone casual, bored as if explaining a simple, undeniable concept to a particularly dense child. "Let's go further. Let's say Malfoy here"—he waved towards the Slytherin side with an exaggerated, dismissive gesture that made Draco scowl, furious at being singled out— "gets cornered by, I don't know, a vampire. A big, thirsty one, perhaps looking for a pure-blood snack in the middle of the night."
The class stirred, a ripple of nervous laughter and shock passing through the students, captivated by Harry's audacity. Malfoy narrowed his eyes, outraged and pale, but remained silent, unsure how to respond.
"Would you take responsibility then, Professor?" Harry asked sweetly, his voice a mocking echo of her own saccharine tone, pouring honeyed sarcasm into every word. "Would you tell Lucius Malfoy that his fragile, innocent boy was left helpless and drained because the Ministry thought spell-casting was too risky in school? You wouldn't want poor Draco to be completely useless when surrounded by actual threats, now would you? Especially given how... delicate he was in third year, wouldn't you say?"
He emphasized the word 'delicate' with an exaggerated lisp, mimicking Snape, referencing Malfoy's humiliating act during the hippogriff lesson with Hagrid and making his voice sound like he was playing a snobby pure-blood.
Laughter broke out, a sudden, explosive wave of it, even from a few Slytherins who couldn't help but appreciate the public humiliation of their prince, or perhaps, the subtle truth in Harry's words. Umbridge's face went from pink to red to a blotchy shade of enraged, alarming purple, her eyes bulging with fury.
"You will NOT undermine me in my class, Mr. Potter!" she screeched, her voice losing all pretense of sweetness, rising to a shrill, furious pitch that made the windows rattle slightly. "You are disrupting order! You are deliberately trying to mislead the students with alarmist fantasies! This is a controlled learning environment!"
"Disrupting?" Harry asked, genuinely confused, his eyebrows raised innocently, though his eyes gleamed with mischief. God, Jacob really liked causing mischief. "I'm having a discussion, Professor. About the practical implications of your curriculum. A very lively discussion, wouldn't you agree?"
"That's it! Detention, Mr. Potter. Tonight. My office. And fifty points from Gryffindor for insubordination and insolence!" she shrieked, her jowls trembling with rage, her pink bow almost vibrating off her head.
Harry hummed a low, dismissive sound that conveyed utter indifference. He opened The Weave of Reality more fully and started reading—ignoring her completely, his attention utterly elsewhere, satisfied with the chaos he had wrought. He had won. He had made his point.
She blinked, her eyes wide, utterly flabbergasted by his blatant disregard, his open dismissal. "Did you hear me, Mr. Potter? I said detention!" she demanded, her voice shrill.
"I did," he said, without looking up from his book, his voice perfectly calm.
She puffed like a balloon about to explode, her face an astonishing shade of crimson, but he didn't look up again, completely dismissing her from his reality. She interpreted his calm as submission as if he had been cowed into obedience, the mere threat of detention silencing him.
She couldn't have been more wrong. He was done with the conversation, and he was not even going to bother with the detention. He was not going, plain and simple. What was she going to do?
By the time Defense Against the Dark Arts ended, Harry was almost relaxed, the release of his pent-up frustration proving surprisingly cathartic. He had humiliated Umbridge, made his point to the class about the Ministry's dangerous incompetence, and managed to continue his studies without interruption. Until he remembered the next class on his schedule.
Potions.
With Snape.
On the same day as Umbridge.
A special kind of hell. A double dose of pedagogical torture, back-to-back, a gauntlet designed to test the limits of his newfound patience and self-control.
The moment they walked into the dungeons, the cold, damp air immediately hit them, heavy with the familiar, pungent smell of rotting seaweed and a cloying, almost palpable self-righteousness that seemed to emanate directly from the Potions Master's office. The flickering gas lights in the stone corridors seemed to dim, like they, too, feared the approaching darkness that always accompanied Professor Snape's presence.
Snape entered the classroom with his usual dramatic flourish, robes billowing like a giant bat, his expression a permanent sneer. He was like a man personally offended by the very existence of teenagers, his greasy hair swinging with the force of his entrance. He swept to the front of the class, his pale face a mask of disdain, his eyes already searching for someone to torment.
"Sit," he snapped, his voice a low, venomous sneer that promised pain.
They already were.
"Today's lesson will be on the proper preparation of the Draught of Peace," he drawled, his eyes sweeping over the class, lingering with particular malice on the Gryffindor table, his lips curling in distaste. "I expect no idiocy. You'll find the recipe on the board. Try not to cause permanent damage to yourselves, your cauldrons, or, Merlin forbid, my classroom."
Snape began his usual round of existence-is-a-punishable-offense glares, patrolling the desks like a predatory bat, his presence a dark cloud. He paused longer at Harry's table, leaning in slightly, his dark eyes daring him to breathe wrong, to twitch, to make any mistake, to give him any excuse for a deduction of points or a cutting remark.
This overgrown child really was nothing more than a bully, Harry thought. He didn't understand how people could defend him in his past life, how they could romanticize his sacrifices, painting him as a tragic hero.
Like all he ever did was start trouble, but people would say, 'Ah, he sacrificed himself for Harry and all!' Bull, he didn't sacrifice anything, it was just being unlucky that Voldemort wanted the Elder Wand and thought Snape was its master, an accidental death, not a noble act of selflessness.
This man made children's lives difficult and took pleasure in it, reveling in their discomfort and fear, a petty tyrant in his own dungeon. He was always the one starting problems with Harry, and people could say that James and his friends were the reason he's like that, that Snape was a victim of bullying, but Harry would love to remind people that while James Potter was a bully too, that didn't mean Snape just sat and took it—he gave as good, if not better than what he received, a vicious cycle fueled by his own insecurities.
So no, Harry didn't like the greasy-haired, human-bat bastard at all, nor did he respect him.
Harry didn't flinch. He didn't twitch. He just stared straight back, his emerald eyes holding a cold, unwavering defiance that matched Snape's own, daring him to go further, to escalate.
Snape sneered, a flicker of raw irritation in his eyes at Harry's stubborn refusal to react, and moved on, his robes swirling dramatically, his patience clearly wearing thin.
In another life, maybe Harry would've tried to keep his head down, tried to be careful with the Bat, hoping for a moment of peace in the hostile classroom.
But not now.
Not after everything.
Especially knowing everything that happened and will happen to an extent.
He didn't fear Snape. He had faced down Voldemort and deities, a bitter, lonely, petty professor held no terror from him. And he certainly didn't respect him.
For all the claims of sacrifice and bravery, the romanticized narrative of his past life, Snape was still just an emotionally stunted man-child with greasy hair and the personality of a wet crypt. His alleged 'love' for Lily, Harry knew, was twisted and possessive, not a pure, selfless affection, and it certainly didn't excuse his abhorrent behavior.
They say he was a good person deep down but for going to Dumbledore to save Lily but people for that he had asked Voldermort to spare Lily for his not even caring about her husband and more importantly her child, he went to dumbles to keep her safe not him or James only lily. What did people think he would have done to her if Voldemort had spared her and brought her to him.
No doubt he would have been like does hentai bastard that would lock her up maybe force himself on her and call it love or some shit. It disgusted him and made it more the reason that he would kill him in future.
By the end of Potions, Harry felt like he'd survived a full psychological warfare, his mind weary from the sheer effort of ignoring Snape's constant barbs, the cutting remarks, and the silent torment, but his core remained unshaken, his resolve hardened. This man was a dead man living on borrowed time.
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