Freed from the overly didactic Hermione, Brian found his classes at Hogwarts far more pleasant.
First came a Herbology class with the Hufflepuff students. Then he sat through Quirrell's bungled attempt at teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, followed by the tediously dull History of Magic. For Brian—who had memorized the entire first-year History of Magic textbook in just half a month—this class served as the perfect opportunity to nap. He simply found a quiet corner, lay down, and drifted into a deep sleep. Hermione, who had been carefully observing Brian, shook her head in frustration. She no longer felt any desire to compete with him.
Brian, fast asleep, had no idea that Hermione had surrendered the academic rivalry. Even if he had known, he would have celebrated by adding two extra chicken drumsticks to his dinner. After all, Professor Binns—the ghostly and ancient History of Magic teacher—was as rigid and outdated as a history scroll. He droned on in a monotone, entirely indifferent to the young wizards seated below.
By Friday morning, Brian had—as usual—finished breakfast early in the Great Hall and was casually flipping through a book. But something was different today. Harry and Ron, typically late risers, were already sitting across from him. Both looked miserable as they mechanically shoveled food into their mouths.
The reason? From nine to noon, they had Potions with Professor Snape—a nightmare class by all accounts. Gryffindor's first-year Potions course was paired with Slytherin's, and with Snape's notorious favoritism, no one could predict how much the Gryffindor students might suffer.
"Let's go, quick," Ron muttered. "We need to be careful today. Fred and George said Snape's always biased toward Slytherin. He'll definitely target us."Harry nodded in agreement. Ever since the Sorting Feast, when Snape had first locked eyes with him, Harry's lightning-shaped scar had burned painfully. The memory of it still haunted him.
The group made their way to the dungeons, where the Potions classroom was located. The air was cold and damp. The space reeked of something eerie and sinister. Along the walls, glass bottles filled with dismembered creatures floated in amber-hued liquids, adding to the ominous atmosphere.
The room wasn't overly large but could hold at least fifty students. Long wooden tables were lined with brass scales, jars of strange potion ingredients, and rows of cauldrons.
Brian took a seat. Harry and Ron followed, sitting beside him.
Brian's heart sank. Just sitting near Harry in Snape's class felt like volunteering to be a target. He silently prayed not to be noticed and nervously debated whether he should continue concealing his own capabilities.
As Brian wavered, the classroom door suddenly flew open with a loud bang. A thin figure swept inside—cloaked in black and wearing a stern expression—and strode to the podium.
Snape's eyes were narrow, the corners stretching almost to his temples. His nose was thin and sharp, as if carved into his face, and his large hooked beak gave him the look of a vulture about to strike. Greasy black hair, sallow skin, and razor-thin lips completed the image of a cruel and forbidding figure.
The moment he entered, an oppressive silence gripped the room. Harry and Ron hardly dared to breathe. Snape's cold gaze swept the students like a blade. Each child who met his eyes felt a chill in their chest, like the air had been sucked out of their lungs.
Snape's tone was glacial and deliberate. "Next, I will call out names. I will be very pleased if anyone is late or absent."
"Neville Longbottom.""Hermione Granger.""Mike Brian."
Then he reached Harry's name. A mocking smile curled across Snape's lips. "Ah, how could I forget? We seem to have a celebrity in our midst."
Every head turned toward Harry. He squirmed under the attention, his facial muscles twitching and eyes blinking rapidly. Malfoy and his cronies clutched their sides, barely containing their laughter.
Fortunately, Snape moved on. He turned his back to Harry and launched into his infamous opening lecture.
"You are here to learn the subtle science of potion-making. There is little foolish wand-waving here. Many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I do not expect you to truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron, the delicate power of fumes, the liquid that courses through veins. I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
Brian instantly sensed what was coming. Harry was about to have a rough time. Right on cue, Snape paused and sneered, "Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry froze. Who would read a dry Potions textbook over the summer? In desperation, he glanced at Brian for help. But Brian sat rigidly, eyes fixed on the blackboard. Harry could only stammer, "I—I don't know, sir."
Hermione's hand shot up like a lightning bolt, but Snape ignored her. "Tsk tsk. It seems fame isn't everything. Let's try again. Potter, if I asked you to find me a bezoar, where would you look?"
Harry's eyes flicked to Brian again, pleading for help—but Brian offered none. Harry's spirit visibly crumpled.
Snape followed Harry's gaze and narrowed his eyes. "Brian. You answer these three questions."
Brian's mind raced. Sitting next to Harry was clearly a liability. He stood up slowly. "I'm sorry, Professor. I don't know either."
The two boys now stood awkwardly at the center of the room—a pitiful sight. In truth, Brian knew all the answers. But this wasn't a test of knowledge; it was Snape's attempt to humiliate. Even if Brian answered correctly, Snape would simply throw even harder questions at him. Better to play dumb and endure the scolding.
After all, Brian had endured far worse in his past life. Besides, helping Harry now would only raise uncomfortable questions later.
But Brian had underestimated the sheer intensity of Snape's wrath. The professor marched toward him and barked, "Then why didn't you write these answers down, instead of sitting there like an idiot!?"
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