I took my place at the Slytherin table as usual, the familiar low murmur of conversation wrapping around the long stretch of green and silver. Plates filled themselves, goblets shimmered, and for a few precious minutes, Hogwarts felt almost ordinary.
Blake joined me.
The effect was immediate.
Conversations stalled—not abruptly, but noticeably. A few heads turned. A few older students straightened. Some of the first years stared openly before catching themselves.
The Black heir sitting at the Slytherin table was… unexpected.
Introductions followed quickly.
Polite.
Careful.
Measured.
Blake handled them with practiced ease—graceful without being distant, warm without revealing too much. She smiled, nodded, exchanged names. Exactly enough to set the tone.
When the moment felt right and only first years around, I spoke.
"Blake will be joining us for training," I said evenly. "She'll be there at dinner time."
That drew interest—real interest.
No objections.
No questions.
Just quiet recalibration.
I scanned the table and spotted Headboy Fawley a few seats down. Once there was a break in conversation, I leaned closer.
"We'll be practicing in one of the Potions classrooms this evening," I said. "Six o'clock. You're welcome to join us there. After that, I'll show you the actual training hall."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded.
"I'll be there."
That was enough.
Lunch resumed its rhythm, but the undercurrent had shifted again—plans forming, expectations adjusting, pieces moving subtly into place.
We finished lunch without lingering.
One by one, the nine of us rose from the Slytherin table and made our way toward the dungeons. The corridors grew cooler as we descended, the scent of stone and potion residue thickening with every step.
Professor Snape was already in one of the preparation rooms, sleeves rolled up, wand hovering as he adjusted the consistency of a simmering potion. He didn't look up immediately—but he knew we were there.
"What are you doing here, first years?" he asked coolly.
I stepped forward.
"Professor, we'd like to request a Potions classroom," I said. "We want to prepare for tomorrow's lesson."
That earned his attention.
"Ah," Snape said after a pause. "Preparation. Rare. You may use Classroom Three."
He fixed me with a sharp look.
"Have you prepared the ingredients?"
"Yes, Professor. All ordered through owl post."
A faint, approving glint flickered in his eyes—gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Very well," he said. "Everyone—Classroom Three. "
The group moved at once, filing out with a mixture of excitement and restraint.
As the last of them left, I lingered half a step behind.
Lowering my voice, I asked, "Did the meeting happen?"
Snape didn't look at me as he replied.
"Yes."
I waited.
"I managed to put a hold on it," he continued. "However, Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were… insistent."
He finally turned to face me. His usual coldness on his face.
"Mr. Salvius–P," he said evenly, "as your Head of House, it is my responsibility to inform you that your proposal has been postponed."
I didn't react.
"Reason?" I asked.
"Lack of formal structure and codified rules," Snape replied. "You are to submit a complete report—objectives, safeguards, oversight, approved subject matter. Only then will we determine whether this is suitable for a student to run."
I inclined my head slightly.
"Understood, Professor."
"Good," Snape said. "Now go. If you're going to get an advantage, at least make it a good one."
I turned and followed the others into Classroom Three—already thinking several steps ahead.
I arrived at Classroom Three a moment later.
Everyone was already seated.
Unlike formal lessons—where students were paired and guided—this time each of them had claimed their own table. No sharing. No leaning on another's work. Exactly as I'd intended.
Selene Rosier sat at the front, posture perfect, parchment aligned neatly with the edge of the desk. Celia Morcan sat beside her, quill already in hand. Toward the back, Montague had chosen a corner seat, arms folded loosely, eyes alert. Nyx Calder sat one row ahead of him, angled just enough to see everything without being seen herself.
Good distribution.
I set my bag down on the front desk and withdrew a single parchment. With a flick of my wand, I tapped it once—then turned and tapped the blackboard behind me.
The parchment glowed faintly.
Words began to bleed onto the blackboard, line by line, forming a structured recipe in clean, precise script.
Ingredients.Preparation order.Temperature markers.Stirring direction and timing.
A modified Cure for Boils Potion.
I turned back to them.
"All right," I said calmly. "Our first lesson tomorrow is with our Head of House."
A few shoulders straightened instinctively.
"Make sure you don't embarrass yourselves," I continued evenly. "Or me. Or Slytherin."
That got their full attention.
"He usually goes easier on us," I said, "but I've already spoken with him. He won't overlook inadequacy this time."
A pause.
"So don't assume you'll pass just because you're Slytherin."
Montague shifted slightly. Nyx's eyes sharpened.
"He has already favored us," I went on, gesturing subtly at the board, "by sharing a modified recipe. That advantage means nothing if we don't prove we can use it."
I let the silence work.
"Our first impression will not be that of pureblood supremacists hiding behind connections," I said quietly. "It will show the strength of old families through competence."
I stepped aside.
"Write the recipe down."
The classroom filled with the soft, steady sound of quills scratching against parchment.
Once everyone had begun, I raised my hand slightly.
"Bebe."
There was a soft pop.
A house-elf appeared—slightly taller than Bebe, ears twitching nervously, hands clasped together.
"Sir," the elf said quickly. "Bebe is on kitchen duty today. Chacha is happy to be of service, sir."
I nodded. "Chacha, could you please bring the potion ingredient package from my room?"
His eyes widened.
"Yes, sir! Chacha will bring them right away!"
He vanished with a pop.
Before the quiet could settle again, Celia—still seated at the front—looked up.
"Why," she asked hesitantly, "are you so polite to house-elves?"
The question lingered.
I didn't answer immediately.
Then I said, "I won't go into philosophy today."
Several students looked up.
"Just understand this," I continued. "Politeness earns goodwill—whether from someone above you, equal to you, or beneath you."
I met their eyes.
"I'm not telling you how to treat them," I added. "That's your choice. My only suggestion is this—treat them as living beings, not tools."
The room was quiet again—not uncomfortable, but thoughtful.
A pop broke the silence.
Chacha reappeared, arms straining under a crate packed neatly with ingredients.
"Thank you, Chacha," I said.
The elf beamed, nodded vigorously, and vanished once more.
I turned back to the class.
I took out the ingredient crate and placed it carefully on the side table.
The lid came off with a soft click.
Inside, everything was neatly packed and preserved—snake fangs bundled in twine, jars of stewed horned slugs sealed with wax, dried nettles, porcupine quills laid out in exact counts. Enough supplies for thirty potions.
I turned back to them.
"The recipe is on the board," I said evenly. "Ingredients are on the side table. Choose what you need and begin processing."
No rushing.
No crowding.
Selene was the first to move.
She stepped forward with quiet confidence, scanning the board once more before selecting her materials—six snake fangs, porcupine quills counted twice before she took them, and a measured portion of horned slugs. Her movements were precise, almost surgical.
Others followed, slower and more cautious.
Some double-checked the board before every item.Some glanced at Selene's selection, then back at the recipe, recalculating.
I watched without comment.
The blackboard listed the steps clearly:
Crush six snake fangs into a fine powder.
Add four portions of the crushed fangs with water to the cauldron. Heat until the potion changes color.
Add stewed horned slugs and dried nettles, stirring appropriately.
Remove the cauldron from the fire before adding porcupine quills.
Add three porcupine quills and the remaining crushed fangs. Stir five times clockwise, once anticlockwise.
Return to heat until the potion reaches the desired color.
I moved between tables, making sure proportions were correct.
"Too much water—halve it."
"Count again."
"Don't heat yet. Not yet."
Once everyone had measured their ingredients, the room settled into focused silence.
Mortars scraped.
Fangs cracked and ground into powder.
Slugs were processed, nettles crushed.
For the first few minutes, most of them watched Selene—and me—out of the corners of their eyes, gauging rhythm and timing. Then, one by one, they began in earnest.
Cauldrons were lit.
Liquids warmed, shifting slowly from dull brown to reddish-orange. Steam rose, carrying the sharp, unmistakable scent of potion work—metallic, bitter, alive.
Selene moved smoothly through every step.
She removed her cauldron from the fire at exactly the right moment, added the porcupine quills without hesitation, stirred cleanly, then returned it to heat with controlled patience.
She finished first.
I finished shortly after.
I moved through the room, inspecting each potion in turn.
Selene's was flawless.
Clear, rich in color, perfectly stable.
Better than mine.
Nyx's potion had a slightly muted hue—just a fraction off. Montague's leaned a shade too dark. Both were usable, but not ideal.
The others ranged from decent to good—no explosions, no clumping, no fumes curling the wrong way.
That alone was a victory.
At least everyone here could follow instructions—and more importantly, learn by observing others.
Selene and I went over the results together, offering quiet corrections.
"Heat was too high here."
"You hesitated before adding the quills—that threw off the balance."
"Your stirring was correct, but your timing wasn't."
Then we started again.
Second batch.
Third batch.
By 5:45 p.m., every one of them had brewed the potion three times.
Out of twenty-seven vials, twenty-three were average quality or better.
The remaining four—unstable, uneven, or improperly colored—were poured down the drain without ceremony.
I sealed the usable vials carefully and stored them in my bag.
Then I turned back to the group.
"Good work," I said simply.
A few tired smiles appeared.
"You've actually surpassed both my expectations and Professor Snape's," I continued. "We were expecting at least one accident."
That earned a few quiet chuckles.
"But there weren't any," I added. "And that matters."
They were exhausted.
Smudged with soot.
Smelling faintly of slugs and nettles.
And they had earned it.
"Clean up," I said. "Then we move on."
__________________________
Support me on p@treon:
get early access to 8+ chapters and be first to read my different stories
[email protected]/blaze98