Chapter 21
Chapter 21
Professor Binns’s History of Magic was every bit as sleep-inducing as promised.
Suer suspected the ghost’s voice possessed the power to knock a person unconscious in one second. During their first lesson, only one or two Ravenclaws remained awake. Everyone else fell.
Professor Binns’s announcement that class was over worked like the counter-curse. The moment he stopped speaking, everyone woke.
That afternoon in Charms, the first-years began a basic spell: the Levitation Charm.
Filius Flitwick vividly demonstrated what happened when an incantation was mispronounced. He deliberately substituted an “f” sound for an “s.”
A maddened buffalo appeared in the classroom, pawed the floor with a heavy bellow, and charged him with bloodshot eyes.
The children screamed.
Professor Flitwick flicked his wand, and the buffalo vanished.
“Unless you believe you can survive beneath a buffalo’s hooves, I recommend great care when pronouncing incantations.”
The demonstration permanently impressed upon them the fate of an unfortunate wizard named Baruffio, who had sent himself to meet Merlin with one simple Levitation Charm.
They spent the first half of class practicing the words and wand movement.
For the second, Professor Flitwick distributed a white feather to each student.
“Remember: the subtle movement of the wrist and the correct incantation are equally important.”
He descended from the platform in quick little steps.
“Oh! Very good.”
Professor Flitwick stopped beside Suer and studied the feather floating gently above his desk.
“Mr. Bones, did you study before term?”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Was an adult wizard present while you practiced?”
Curiosity entered Flitwick’s eyes.
“No, Professor.”
“Mm…”
He paused, a trace of puzzlement flashing through his bright eyes.
“I do not advise young wizards to practice alone without adult supervision. It is far too dangerous.”
“Nevertheless, your performance has exceeded my expectations. Therefore… fifteen points to Hufflepuff!”
Every face turned toward Suer. Justin practically drooled with envy.
After class, Suer became the treasure of the Hufflepuff first-years. They surrounded him, eagerly asking for advice.
He told them everything he could. In truth, Hermione had only forced him to practice several spells and read a tiny mountain of textbooks in advance.
He could hardly say he succeeded because he was smarter than they were. Anyone who said such things deserved to have a sack thrown over his head on the way to the lavatory.
Astronomy met on Wednesday night atop Hogwarts’s highest tower. They used telescopes to observe planetary paths and learned the names and meanings of different stars.
“If you intend to choose Divination in your third year, remember everything I tell you,” Professor Aurora Sinistra advised.
Thursday’s Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson became a joke.
“I think I could fry myself in oil now. I’d smell delicious,” Justin quipped.
Apart from several Muggle-born students, no one understood.
“You do know garlic is used for cooking?” Justin asked with an exaggerated expression.
The others finally laughed, though a faint layer of awkwardness remained.
He could hardly be blamed. Quirrell’s classroom reeked of garlic. He claimed it warded off a vampire he had encountered in Romania, whom he feared might return for him.
As for the turban that fascinated the students, Quirrell said an African prince had given it to him in gratitude for protection from a troublesome zombie.
Most students treated these tales as entertainment. Whether they were true was a matter of opinion.
Suer certainly did not believe them. He knew exactly what lay beneath Quirrell’s turban.
Dumbledore had already set an excellent trap. Suer preferred to watch from the side, intervening only to keep Hermione out of it.
What would happen to Harry and Ron’s famous trio without Hermione?
Why should he care?
Dumbledore would control events from the shadows.
After their third Herbology class of the week, Friday arrived. That afternoon came the subject everyone had heard described as a young wizard’s nightmare:
Potions.
“I do not expect you truly to understand the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron, its pale fumes carrying a delicate fragrance. Nor will you appreciate the subtle power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses…”
Professor Snape slammed open the dungeon door. The oppressive force surrounding him made every child hold their breath.
Here was another teacher whose command of a room rivaled Professor McGonagall’s.
Snape strode to the front, his pure black cloak snapping behind him. He faced the children with a rigid expression and swept them with a dark, brooding gaze.
“I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stop death–provided you are not the usual collection of dunderheads I am forced to endure.”
“Now put away those antiquated Potions textbooks. In my classroom, you need only follow my instructions.”
Suer did not know whether Snape had maximized his Potions skill.
His vicious tongue was unquestionably at maximum level.
He particularly enjoyed appearing silently behind a student and watching over their shoulder with a sinister stare.
“Mr. Boot, I believe my instruction was perfectly clear.”
Snape bent and pinched some ground dried nettles between his fingers.
“The nettles should have the texture of flour. If you do not know what flour looks like, I suggest asking the house-elves in the Hogwarts kitchens for a thorough lesson.”
Almost everyone received criticism.
Snape’s method for brewing the Cure for Boils differed substantially from the procedures and ingredient preparation described in their textbook.
Following his instructions, Suer prepared to place the porcupine quills into the cauldron after removing it from the flame.
A cold presence appeared behind him, accompanied by the faint sound of breathing.
Justin went pale and began to tremble.
Suer hesitated for one instant, then decisively added the quills.
Pink smoke rose from the cauldron. Suer watched the potion’s colour intently as it rapidly turned pale blue.
He was about to relax when a bare hand seized the still-bubbling cauldron.
Good God. Fingers of iron.
Expressionless, Snape lifted the scalding vessel, held it beneath his nose, and inhaled gently. Then he looked at Suer with an unreadable expression.
“The cauldron had not reached the required temperature before the horned slugs were added. The potion’s effectiveness has been significantly reduced.”
“Barely usable.”
With a quiet scoff, Snape set the cauldron down and delivered his final judgment.
“One point to Hufflepuff.”