Chapter 48: Potter, You're Acting Strange
Friday was the only day Slytherin and Gryffindor shared every class. Hermione had been preparing for it all week, determined to earn more points than Dudley in Potions. She had almost worn out her first-year textbook from reading it over and over.
The Potions classroom was in a dungeon, colder and damper than the castle above. Dudley didn't think brewing here made potions better. He preferred normal temperatures for better heat control. It was probably just Professor Snape's preference.
Glass jars lined the walls, filled with preserved creatures. Some were rare or even banned in the wizarding world. Dudley couldn't help feeling envious. Snape really lived up to his title as Potions Master—every visible specimen was a rare treasure.
Rumor said Snape had a private storeroom for ingredients. If Dudley could ever rob that place, he wouldn't lack supplies for years. But then, Snape would probably hunt him to the ends of the earth.
"Dudley, mate…" Harry whispered as he came over before class.
The day before, he'd said Hagrid had invited them to his hut that afternoon. Hagrid wasn't a bad person by nature. If he hadn't offended Uncle Vernon first, Dudley wouldn't have fought him. After Dudley forgave him, Harry did too, since Hagrid had been close to his parents.
Still, if Dudley hadn't forgiven him, Harry wouldn't have either. Even now, Harry's relationship with Hagrid was distant. Everything depended on Dudley—if he refused, Harry would too.
Dudley had agreed readily. Hagrid's hut was near the Forbidden Forest's edge—a place that fascinated him. Anyone who loved herbs and potions would feel the same. Dangerous, yes, but rich in resources.
As for Hagrid himself, Dudley described him as "simple-minded to a terrifying degree." It wasn't praise or insult, just fact.
He reminded Dudley of a certain pure-hearted "Black Tornado." At least Hagrid wasn't bloodthirsty. Otherwise, living in Voldemort's time, he might have earned the title of a "Dark Lord of the Physical Arts."
He was the first person to truly make Dudley wary.
With one minute left before class, Professor Snape entered. His hollow eyes, hooked nose, greasy hair, and black robes made him look like a storybook villain. Few students ever liked him at first sight.
Snape stepped to the podium and began roll call. When he reached Harry's name, he paused.
"Oh, look who we have—Harry Potter, the famous one," he drawled.
The sarcastic tone made several students snicker. Malfoy and his cronies were among them. But when Dudley's cold gaze swept across the room, Slytherin fell silent. Only a few Gryffindors kept laughing.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," Snape said, and the room quieted at once. His authority rivaled Dudley's own.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving here. Many of you won't believe this is magic at all. I do not expect you to appreciate the gentle simmering of a cauldron or the delicate fumes that stir the senses. I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stop death itself—but only if you are not the usual batch of dunderheads I must teach."
Potions could do many things magic could not. Most wouldn't understand that—but Dudley did.
He had already witnessed the wonders of potions.
Even if he could never cast a single spell, relying on potions alone, his achievements might not fall behind any other wizard.
But Dudley noticed that when Professor Snape spoke, his gaze would occasionally and deliberately drift toward Harry.
Was he thinking of my poor aunt?
"Potter!" Snape suddenly raised his voice. "If I added powdered asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, what would I get?"
"I don't know, sir," Harry answered honestly. He didn't even know what asphodel or wormwood were.
Snape's gaze shifted from Harry's green eyes to his face, curling his lip in disdain.
"Tsk, tsk… it seems fame doesn't mean everything."
Another sarcastic remark. Another round of laughter—but this time, not a single Slytherin joined in. All the laughter came from Gryffindor.
"Let's try again. Potter, if I asked you to bring me a bezoar, where would you look for it?"
As he spoke, Snape's eyes fixed once more on Harry's. Deep in those cold eyes, perhaps there was a trace of hope.
Unfortunately, Harry's answer disappointed him again.
"I don't know, sir."
Harry shook his head. He truly didn't know.
"I suppose you didn't bother opening a single book before term began, did you, Potter?"
Snape's tone grew even colder. His expression was full of contempt, but in the depths of his eyes lay deep disappointment.
That person was gone—never to return—and her child had inherited none of her gifts.
"Potter, one last question. Tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane."
Aconite?
At that word, Harry's eyes lit up. This one he knew—Dudley had explained it to him before.
"They're both used for making poisons, sir."
The answer made Snape freeze for a moment.
"Monkshood and wolfsbane are both species of the aconite family," Harry continued rapidly.
"They're tall, slender, and highly toxic perennial herbs. The roots are especially poisonous, with black outer skin and bright flowers. Its sap can be applied to arrows to create deadly weapons or used as execution poison.
Its flower meaning is 'malice.' Once poisoned, your heartbeat slows, then the body goes numb. After that, the heart races, consciousness fades, and finally death follows."
Harry spoke like a machine gun, words spilling out in a rush, eyes shining with excitement. Finally, there was a question he could answer.
But to every Slytherin in the room, that excitement meant something else entirely.
He'd been timid and clueless about every other question, yet the moment poison and death were mentioned, he grew animated and thrilled.
Potter, you're acting strange.
(End of Chapter)
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