Richard offered a polite smile and replied:
"Terry, should anyone devise a method of producing graphene cheaply and at scale, I would be quite prepared to fund the research with a substantial grant — or offer a rather generous reward for a working solution."
"Money's all well and good," Terry remarked, "but where can I read about graphene?"
"If it genuinely interests you, I shall ask some university researchers to send over a selection of materials on the subject."
"Really?!" the boy brightened. "I'd be very grateful."
"I'd like to read about graphene too," Padma remarked. "My father said it's a material of the future."
"Padma, your father wouldn't happen to be Mr Azim Hashim Patil, would he?"
"That's right. Richie, do you know him?" the Indian girl replied.
"I've merely heard of him," Richard said politely. "He is, after all, rather well known in certain circles. Have you been in Britain long?"
"We moved to England when my sister and I were five," Padma said. "We spend most of our time in a suburb of London and only fly to India occasionally during the holidays. Richie, you're that Grosvenor, aren't you?"
"The very one — singular and, I should hope, unmistakable."
At that moment, a dark whirlwind swept into the classroom. It was Professor Severus Snape.
"Take your seats!"
His quiet voice, edged with command, immediately compelled everyone to settle down and fall silent.
Snape began his lesson by opening the register and acquainting himself with the students. Soon he reached Richard's name.
"Grosvenor."
Richard rose from his seat.
"That would be me, sir."
"Sit down," Snape said, and continued the roll call.
Once he had familiarised himself with the class, the Potions professor delivered a rather stirring speech on the importance of his subject. He spoke in a near whisper, yet every student heard him perfectly. Snape possessed the rare ability to control a classroom without the slightest effort. No one even considered whispering or minding their own business. It seemed as though that severe professor could bore a hole through any offender with a single glance.
Before long, Snape concluded a lecture on safety procedures and assigned them the task of brewing the simplest of potions — a Cure for Boils.
Richard regarded the dried nettle leaves, snake fangs, and porcupine quills with quiet horror. He could not fathom how anyone might willingly drink the foul brew these ingredients would produce. What unsettled him even more was the realisation that all of it had to be prepared somehow. HOW?!
In his entire life, Richie had never so much as approached a stove — save to reheat a prepared meal. The same dismay was clearly written across Justin's face.
In his previous life, Richard had subsisted on convenience foods, which required little more than placing them into something resembling a microwave. Thus, he had gained no experience in cooking there either.
"Richie… you do know what to do with all this, don't you?" Finch-Fletchley whispered hopefully.
"Whatever would give you that impression?" Richard replied just as quietly. "Like yourself, I was raised amidst household staff, and I feel like a tourist in a kitchen. Go on—grind the snake's teeth in the mortar, and I'll try to chop the nettles. At the very least, I can manage a knife."
Snape moved about the classroom, his long black robes whispering as he went, observing the students at work. He appeared at different points in the room without warning, criticising each in turn.
"More evenly, Mr Grosvenor," came an irritated hiss at Richard's ear. "You are not a lumberjack — there is no need to add logs to your potion."
"Thank you, sir."
Richard remained composed and began cutting the nettles more finely. Justin, meanwhile, grew flustered and worked the mortar with renewed urgency.
An hour later, the pupils dragged themselves out of the dungeon, squeezed dry.
"Snape's an absolute beast!" Justin declared. "This isn't right, that's wrong, the potion's a disgusting mess fit only for poisoning enemies…"
"Jas, try to look at it from a positive perspective," Richard replied. "At least now you know how to make poison from simple ingredients. He's a decent teacher—and his remarks were all to the point. You have to admit, we're about as great at Potions as we are at cooking. It's. Simply not our calling. Where have you ever seen a lord fussing over a stove or brewing some magical brew in a cauldron?"
"I'm afraid all Potions lessons will be like this," Justin said gloomily.
"Well, what is to be done? We'll brew magical muck if we have to. It's easier for me to hire a talented potioneer—or even several—than to make a potion myself. Each of us has his own strengths."
History of Magic proved to be the most tedious subject imaginable. It was taught by a ghost who droned monotonously through his lecture. Remaining awake required an almost heroic force of will.
Transfiguration disappointed Richard. The class was taught by the strict Professor McGonagall, who seemed to single out Richard and Justin for constant criticism. Their task was to turn a matchstick into a needle, yet only Michael and Terry managed to sharpen the wood even slightly. Richard, no matter how hard he tried, achieved nothing at all.
Charms, at least, had promised to be engaging — but even here Grosvenor found himself disappointed.
The Charms professor turned out to be an elderly wizard scarcely over a metre tall — Filius Flitwick. He assigned the students exercises to strengthen their hands and informed them that they would not begin learning their first spell until the end of October.
Professor Quirinus Quirrell, who taught Defence Against the Dark Arts, proved to be a dreadful teacher. He wore a purple turban, stammered, and smelled strongly of garlic. The only noteworthy detail, in Richard's estimation, was that the man was evidently a capable wizard — at least according to Madam Marchbanks' standards — as he performed spells non-verbally.
(End of Chapter)
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