"What exactly did you say to Professor McGonagall to get her to buy that quill of yours?"
Shirley leaned closer to Adam, her eyes brimming with curiosity as she whispered the question.
"Nothing much," Adam replied, flipping open his textbook to a page about wormwood properties. "I just told her that if you leave the quill on a letter for a while, it can mimic the handwriting and style, drafting a new letter in the user's own voice."
He sighed softly. "Maybe Professor McGonagall has a letter she never got to receive…"
"But let's keep that between us," he added. "It's just a guess. Everyone has their regrets, don't they?"
Shirley nodded, half-understanding, then whispered again, "So, what's your regret?"
Adam thought for a moment before answering quietly, "Not getting a letter delivered by an owl?"
"Okay, maybe I should've told Lilith to hurry up to the Ministry that day so you could've gotten it," Shirley said, catching a faint trace of sadness in his eyes. She tried to comfort him.
Adam shook his head. "It was a long time ago. Where I'm from, kids could wait until their twenties and never see a Hogwarts owl."
Shirley reached out and touched his forehead, muttering, "Maybe we should swing by the Hospital Wing. Betty says Madam Pomfrey's not only kind but a brilliant healer. Even professors go to her."
"I think Mr. Adam Morgan is perfectly clear-headed!"
A cold, drawling voice cut through from behind them. They turned to see Snape's pale, sallow face, likely the result of years brewing potions in the dungeons. His greasy hair gleamed under the torchlight, and his long black cloak billowed slightly. When he noticed Adam's gaze lingering on his lower legs, his expression darkened further.
"Hufflepuff, three points deducted!" Snape snapped.
"Sorry, Professor Snape, but class hasn't started yet, has it?"
Adam raised his hand, blinking innocently, his voice carrying clearly to everyone in the room.
Snape's face twitched, but seeing Adam's perfectly polite raised hand, he paused, his lips tightening. After a moment, he spoke again.
"I'm merely reminding you to review your textbook instead of fiddling with that so-called quill of yours. I believe I've told you this before."
"Thank you, Professor, for looking out for me last time," Adam said politely, then paused. "But this time, maybe ask something a bit tougher? And go easy on the points—wouldn't want the Slytherins getting jealous."
The Slytherin students across the classroom froze, a sense of dread washing over them. They'd recognized Adam yesterday, and despite keeping their distance, his performance had left them shaken. Coupled with stern warnings from their families before arriving at Hogwarts, they were already wary of him.
They'd hoped things would be easier in Slytherin, but now…
It seemed their Head of House knew Adam—really well.
Snape's expression was as if a Murtlap had just leapt into a perfectly brewed cauldron of Felix Felicis.
"Read your books!" he barked, then turned to the Slytherins. "And you lot! Why are you staring at me?"
The Slytherins shrank back, their suspicions confirmed.
Snape stormed to the front of the classroom, his wand flicking to draw the curtains shut. The faint sunlight vanished, leaving only the flickering candlelight. The already chilly, cavernous room grew even more ominous.
Glass jars on the stone shelves glinted blue-green in the candlelight, their contents—animal limbs and other gruesome bits—floating eerily.
"The last Dark wizard camp I saw wasn't even this creepy," Adam whispered to Shirley, who nodded in agreement.
Creak!
The dungeon classroom door swung open, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
Snape's eyes narrowed as he saw who it was. "Hufflepuff, ten points deducted!"
Aiden, clutching his textbook, looked bewildered. Ten points gone on his first day of class.
"What are you standing there for? Sit down and stop wasting Potions time!" Snape glared.
Aiden scurried to a seat in front of Adam, panting heavily as if he'd just run a marathon.
Adam poked his back and whispered, "What happened? I thought you left the Great Hall ages ago."
Aiden, nearly in tears, whispered back, "I was trying to grab a book from the library, but I got stuck on those moving staircases. When I finally found a way down, I accidentally bumped into someone."
He wiped a tear from his eye, still shaken. "If that person hadn't helped me down, I'd probably still be trapped there."
By now, Snape had picked up the roll call, reading names with a hint of gritted teeth when he reached a certain one. Once he confirmed everyone was present, he began, his voice dripping with a kind of reverent fascination.
"…I don't expect your feeble minds to appreciate the delicate art of a simmering cauldron…"
"Unless you're completely hopeless, you'll learn how to harvest fame, brew glory, and even bottle death itself," Adam muttered, mimicking Snape's next lines under his breath, much to Shirley's astonishment.
"How do you know all this?" she whispered.
"Cedric told me yesterday," Adam replied. "He said Snape's opening speech is the same every year…"
He trailed off, sitting up straight as he felt Snape's icy glare.
"Adam!" Snape snapped, slamming a book onto the blackboard behind him.
"Tell the class about brewing the Cure for Boils potion…"
Adam's face lit up with a smile. Every first-year's first Potions lesson was about the simple Cure for Boils potion.
He'd already quizzed the older Hufflepuffs about Snape's usual questions—like whether to add armadillo bile or toad venom first, only for Snape to throw out an answer not even in the textbook. Or how many cuts to make on a venomous lizard claw—vertical or horizontal—for the best effect.
But those were trick questions, often based on knowledge not in the textbook.
The older students had shared Snape's secret techniques, even digging out a notebook from their dorm with perfect answers to every question about the Cure for Boils potion.
It had left Cedric, the top Hufflepuff student, in awe, marveling at how clever their house could be.
The older student who'd shared the notes had sheepishly admitted it was the result of a month and a half of Snape's scolding and scrubbing twenty cauldrons in the dungeon classroom.
Snape paused, his voice drawling, "How much bezoar powder is needed for Felix Felicis? And when adding it, do you stir clockwise or counterclockwise? How many stirs affect the potion's color?"