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[HP: Return from Game of Thrones]-Chapter 32: Potions Class
🕑 Added 2025-09-22 18:58:18 +0000 UTCHarry was only holding back from challenging him to a duel for Dumbledore’s sake.
This guy was seriously twisted—both obsessed with himself and filled with self-loathing.
Maybe he even saw himself as a freak, consumed by self-hatred, his mind warped beyond repair.
Harry even got the sense that he had a touch of self-destructive tendencies.
It was unsettling, and Harry wanted nothing more than to keep his distance. Truth be told, he wasn’t all that curious about what was going on with the man. If he could, Harry would pretend he didn’t exist. But that wasn’t an option, because he was the Potions professor, and the class was mandatory.
Potions lessons took place in a dungeon classroom.
It was colder and gloomier than the main castle above, with glass jars lining the walls, filled with preserved animal specimens floating in murky liquid.
Like Professor Flitwick, Snape began the class by taking roll, and just like Flitwick, he always paused when he reached Harry’s name.
But his attitude couldn’t have been more different.
“Oh, yes,” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new… celebrity. The boy who, on his very first day, mistook the school for a gladiatorial arena, brawling with ghosts and brandishing Gryffindor’s sword.”
Snape’s mockery wasn’t always clever, but as a Head of House, when he started sneering, there were usually a few Slytherins who’d chime in. Today, though, was an exception.
Not a single first-year dared join Snape in mocking Harry.
Except for Draco Malfoy. He glanced at Snape, seemingly mustering his courage.
Harry was no stranger to reading people, and he could tell at a glance that Snape and Malfoy shared an unusually close bond.
Distant relatives, perhaps? Was Snape some kind of elder figure to Malfoy? That was the vibe.
Malfoy shot desperate looks at Crabbe and Goyle, signaling them to join in. Normally, those two bodyguards would have been quick to jeer, but after Harry had thoroughly intimidated them last time, they pretended not to notice. Malfoy scanned the room, then took it upon himself: “Hahaha, foolish Gryffindor! I laugh at Harry’s recklessness, Potter the witless…”
His laughter petered out, his voice growing smaller, the moment painfully awkward.
Bang! Snape slammed his hand on the desk, cutting through the cringe.
He surveyed the class, his eyes cold and hollow. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that Snape was utterly disillusioned with life, yet driven by some unyielding purpose… What a complicated man. Harry shook his head.
Unaware that Harry had already seen through half his defenses, Snape launched into his well-rehearsed speech for first-years:
“Enough. You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making…” He spoke of simmering cauldrons, brewing glory, and even bottling fame or stopping death, concluding with, “…provided you aren’t the usual lot of dunderheads I’m forced to teach.”
After his brief opening, the class fell silent.
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, raising their eyebrows.
“I bet he uses that speech every year,” Harry whispered. “It’s actually pretty good.”
“Not as good as your speech,” Ron shot back.
Hermione was practically sliding off her chair, leaning forward, eager to prove she was no dunderhead.
“Potter!” Snape snapped suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
Here we go again. Harry could feel the tangle of emotions Snape directed at him—hatred, provocation, and… was that a flicker of expectation? Mixed with that uncomfortable, hidden affection that made Harry’s skin crawl.
“Draft of Living Death, a powerful sleeping potion,” Harry answered.
Snape’s lips twitched, his feelings a mess, though he kept his tone stern. “Tch, tch—looks like you’ve done some homework.”
He pointedly ignored Hermione’s raised hand.
“Let’s try again, Potter. If I asked you to fetch me a bezoar, where would you look?”
Was he… enjoying this?
Hermione strained to raise her hand even higher without leaving her seat. Harry replied, “In a goat’s stomach, Professor. These questions are pretty straightforward. Why not ask someone else? Hermione looks—”
“Don’t pawn your tasks off on others, Potter. I’m asking you.”
Harry met Snape’s cold, unreadable gaze.
Human emotions were truly complex…
Snape wasn’t just picking a fight. He seemed genuinely pleased when Harry answered correctly, as if his approval of Harry had ticked up a notch, even without Harry trying to charm him. So hard to figure out.
Harry was starting to think this wasn’t about him at all—it was Snape’s issue. Had they met before? Was this some kind of rekindled old flame nonsense? Was Harry’s perception off?
Snape continued to ignore Hermione’s trembling, outstretched hand.
“Potter, tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane.”
Hermione shot to her feet, her arm stretched toward the dungeon ceiling.
Snape promptly docked five points from Gryffindor.
“Sit down, Granger,” he barked. “I didn’t call on you. Answer, Potter.”
“Professor, you don’t need to be so harsh,” Harry said calmly, soothing a near-tearful Hermione before answering, “Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, collectively known as aconite.”
“Well answered,” Snape said.
No mistake—Snape was genuinely pleased for a moment, but then his anger flared again. “Why aren’t you all writing this down?”
A rustle of quills and parchment filled the room.
Amid the noise, Snape added, “Potter, for talking back to a teacher, Gryffindor loses one point.”
Harry shrugged. He’d braced himself for a barrage of point deductions, so losing just one felt anticlimactic.
He decided to investigate Snape’s deal himself. If that led nowhere, he’d have to sit down with Dumbledore for a straight talk. He couldn’t keep dealing with this. A duel might be simpler—loser gets humbled, maybe even scarred for life by Harry’s hand. Then this nonsense would stop.
Potions class continued. Snape paired the students up to mix a simple cure for boils.
Swishing his long black cloak, Snape prowled the classroom, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs. Nearly everyone earned a sharp critique—except Malfoy, naturally.
Harry had spent the summer raiding Gringotts and obsessively practicing beginner potions, so his skills were near professional. Even Snape could barely find fault.
Instead, Snape offered pointers on superior techniques, and Harry was surprised to find they were often better than the textbook’s methods.
With enough practice, Harry might’ve figured these out on his own, but Snape’s tips saved him time.
It seemed having a teacher for the basics really did speed things up and keep you from stumbling.
Standing on the shoulders of giants, indeed.
