Chapter 47 – The Double Kill Day
Thomas had fallen into a rhythm.
At night, he studied new spells in quiet corners of the Gryffindor common room, usually after most had gone to bed. And in the morning, before breakfast, he practiced his spatial magic—just enough to keep his instincts sharp. The structure gave him focus, and focus gave him calm.
Outside of class hours, he limited his reviews to short, efficient thirty-minute sessions, often tucked between lunch or dinner. Afterward, he made a point to relax with his dormmates—laughing with Johnny, swapping wild stories with Fred and George, or just listening as others talked about classes and Quidditch hopes. He was starting to feel like he belonged.
But Wednesdays were brutal.
Everyone said so—even the older years.
"Double kill," Fred muttered that morning as they walked together toward the dungeons. "Snape then Binns. It's like jumping into a frozen lake and then getting boiled alive."
"Or buried alive," George added. "Depending on how boring Binns gets."
Thomas smiled faintly but said nothing. His mind was already preparing for Potions.
The dungeon corridors were dim and cold, the air tinged with damp stone and old iron. The Potions classroom was no different. Thick walls. High shelves packed with bottles of viscous liquids and twisted roots. Long rows of shared desks, each with a cauldron already placed.
The Slytherins were seated first, as usual. Gryffindors trickled in next.
Thomas sat near the middle and opened Magical Drafts and Potions to the assigned page: Burn-Healing Paste (Grade One). He'd read the chapter twice already the night before.
Then the door creaked open—and slammed shut.
Snape entered like a blade drawn from its sheath. His black robes snapped behind him. The class froze.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving in this class," he began, voice soft and dangerous. "I do not expect most of you to understand the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. However—" his dark eyes scanned the room, lingering on the Gryffindors longer than the Slytherins "—those select few who possess the predisposition… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death."
He let the silence stretch.
Then, with a snap of his robes, he moved to the blackboard and flicked his wand. Instructions appeared in curling script.
Thomas frowned. The recipe on the board didn't match the one in the book.
Add four drops of salamander blood after crushing the root.
But the book instructed: Three drops before crushing the root.
Odd.
He hesitated, then raised his hand.
Snape turned slowly, his expression unreadable. "Yes, Mr. Space?"
"There's a difference between your instructions and the book's version," Thomas said evenly. "I just wanted to confirm which one we're to follow."
Snape stalked closer, his face like carved stone. "Do you question my methods?"
"No, sir. I want to understand the reasoning."
"Five points from Gryffindor," Snape said, voice cold. "For believing a first-year textbook should be trusted more than your professor."
A few Slytherins snickered. Thomas didn't react. He kept his eyes steady, lowered his hand, and simply said, "Understood, sir."
But inside, curiosity burned brighter.
He followed Snape's instructions precisely: four drops after crushing the root. The color change was immediate—deep emerald, not the pale green described in the book. He stirred carefully, noting the texture shift, the reaction to heat.
The potion thickened quicker, smoked less, and gave off a faint herbal scent.
By the time the brewing period ended, most students had something at least vaguely usable. A few Slytherins looked smug. One Gryffindor's cauldron had turned black and hissed ominously.
Thomas's potion glowed faintly under the torchlight.
Snape circled the room, inspecting the results. When he reached Thomas, he paused, stared into the cauldron, then looked at him. He didn't speak. He didn't nod.
But he moved on without a word.
That, to Thomas, was answer enough.
Later that day came History of Magic—a full-class lecture shared by all four houses.
The classroom was warm and still, the air dry and heavy with dust. Professor Binns floated through the chalkboard and began droning mid-sentence before everyone had even sat down.
"…and so began the Uprising of Elfric the Eager, whose efforts to seize control of wand distribution in 1612 sparked what some historians now consider a minor rebellion…"
Half the class was asleep within ten minutes.
Thomas, seated near the back, blinked slowly and focused hard. He didn't bother trying to write everything down—that was a losing game. Instead, he tracked key dates, names, and motivations. Why the uprising happened. What laws were created afterward. He created his own shorthand:
Elfric – wand tax rebel > proto-Magical Regulation Office formation.
He glanced around occasionally.
Two Ravenclaws in the front row were still going strong, scribbling like mad. Cedric Diggory sat a few seats away, calmly taking notes in neat lines.
Everyone else looked half-dead.
Binns continued, unaware—or uncaring—that half his audience was drifting in and out of consciousness.
Thomas finished the class with six dense paragraphs and three bullet summaries. Not bad. Especially considering how close he'd been to nodding off.
By evening, the day had drained him—but not completely.
After dinner, he did his usual review—a thirty-minute session tucked away on a windowsill. He checked the potion notes again, adding a line:
Snape's version more potent. Possibly intentional deviation. Safety risk?
Then he packed it away, joined Fred, George, and Johnny at the common room table, and lost the next hour to a wild debate about whether a Pixie army could defeat a single troll.
He didn't need to isolate himself to grow stronger.
Magic didn't exist in a vacuum—and neither would he.