The next day began as three-quarters of the days in a year do: the alarm clock rang, and Harry jerked upright, startled and groggy—he had grown unused to it during the holidays. Beside him, Flamia stirred in a similar fashion… They had set the alarm a bit earlier than Harry normally would have—after all, they were supposed to leave separately and enter the Great Hall one by one.
"Well then, let's go—great deeds await us!" Harry declared with more enthusiasm than even he expected. Strangely enough, he had slept quite well, even though they had gone to bed rather late.
"Yep! Time to learn and self-improve! But more importantly, you still need to find out when the main challenge is happening!" Flamia called out cheerfully, already heading to the bathroom.
"What challenge?"
"The tall, terrifying, unwashed one, starting with an S!"
"Oh yes, and also the big mystery, also starting with an S, but short and extremely round."
"That's putting it mildly. He's massive—Uncle Vernon would be jealous. Still, he leaves a fairly decent impression... All right, let's call it—we're up."
Harry entered the Great Hall. As expected, most of the students were already there, including Ron and Hermione. Heads turned his way again, but he told himself to ignore it. Flamia was already seated at the Gryffindor table, so Harry headed that way too.
"Harry Potter," said Hermione in a voice eerily similar to Professor McGonagall's. "Would you care to explain why you're no longer seen in the Gryffindor common room—and why we're only just now finding out about it?"
"Exactly, Harry, what's that about?" Ron chimed in. "When I told everyone, I swear, they nearly lynched me…"
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah. The Creevey brothers looked like they thought I'd buried you out back."
"So, care to explain?" Hermione pressed.
"Well… what can I say… Last night… it slipped my mind. Then I thought I'd already mentioned it. You wouldn't really put something like that in a letter, would you? I meant to tell you, then something distracted me…"
"But why?"
"I don't know!" Harry exclaimed. "The Headmaster said it was for security. I don't even know whose security—maybe mine, maybe yours. My room's well-hidden—it's not even on the Marauder's Map," he added in a lower voice.
"Really?" Ron looked impressed. "I thought they'd mapped every inch of the place!"
"Well, whatever anyone says, not even Dumbledore knows all of Hogwarts' secrets," Harry said, already digging into breakfast.
"So where is it?" Ron asked reasonably.
"Ron…" Hermione cut in with her usual lecturing tone. "It's a secret room."
"Yeah…" Harry turned away slightly. He wasn't exactly lying, but not quite telling the truth either. "The Headmaster made me promise I wouldn't reveal its location. I get it now, Hermione—what you went through back in third year…"
"What?" Ron looked confused for a moment, then realization dawned. "Oh, I see… Fair enough." But he didn't hide his disappointment. "Still—"
"Shhh," Hermione hushed him. "Professor McGonagall's coming."
While they were talking, their Head of House had appeared. This year, instead of delegating to the prefects, she was handing out schedules herself—apparently cross-checking chosen subjects with students' grades. She moved from student to student according to some logic that eluded Harry.
Hermione got her timetable first and rushed off immediately—she had Ancient Runes. Then Neville, the others… Finally, McGonagall reached Harry.
"So, Mr. Potter, we've already had a chance to discuss your courses. DADA, Potions, Charms, Herbology, Transfiguration… By the way, I was quite pleased with your results. Here's your schedule."
Ron had the same subjects, and of course, so did Flamia. They had a free hour, so the three of them headed back to the common room. Ron, it seemed, had serious plans regarding the new girl… Meaning, asking dumb questions and admiring her from across the room. But in the nearly empty common room, along with a few seventh-years, was Katie Bell—the last of Wood's old team and now the new team captain.
"Ah, Harry! You really scared everyone with that move of yours!" she greeted him warmly. Then, clearly unable to hold it in any longer, she added, "Look—they made me captain!" She waved her badge. "I'll admit, I thought they'd pick you…"
"When's tryouts?" Harry asked, already sensing the sting—this was bound to bring up the painful topic of him leaving the team.
"Oh, don't be ridiculous. You don't need to prove anything to anyone!"
"No, really… I wasn't even considered. I told them I wasn't playing anymore…" Harry stared intently at his trainers.
"What?!?" Ron's outburst was loud enough to echo all the way to Hogsmeade. His shock, oddly, gave Harry the courage to continue.
"Exactly! Remember, Ron—third year—after that mess with Malfoy and the mud, what did Professor Lupin say? About how I risked the sacrifice of my parents for the sake of some broomstick? For years, I didn't fully understand what he meant—but things have changed, and you know what I'm talking about!" Harry was getting more and more fired up. Everyone in the room, except perhaps Flamia, stared at him in astonishment. "Remember, they didn't even want to let me practice back then. I didn't get it… but now I do. I have no right to risk, even for a moment of fun, the very thing my parents died for! And back then, the only threat was Sirius. Even if he had been a maniac and Voldemort's right hand—it's nothing compared to what we're facing now! Someone close to me died because of my stupidity—I'm not letting it happen again!" He stopped, breathing heavily.
"Yeah…" Ron looked at him in awe. Never before had he seen Harry speak with such passion and clarity. "I think… I get it now. I'm sorry."
"What for? Just accept my choice, that's all…" Harry was relieved that Ron understood—especially since what he said had come from the heart.
After that, things calmed down. Their first class was DADA, so Harry and Ron started speculating about what horrors awaited them. Ron, in all seriousness, claimed that Snape might start turning students into potion ingredients. After a while, Flamia joined the conversation. Under the innocent pretense of wanting to learn about her future teacher, she expressed a well-founded doubt that he could really be that much of a monster. The conversation died off naturally—when she reminded them she existed, Ron lost the ability to form complete sentences and quickly started asking her questions. Harry chose not to get involved.
Time flew by. They managed to return to joking about Snape and even "convinced" Flamia that he was likely to curse every last Gryffindor. Harry took it to heart more than he liked to admit. With twenty minutes left before the "torture" began, he got up to leave.
"Harry, isn't it a bit early?"
"Yeah, just realized I forgot something in my room. I'll grab it and meet you there," he replied, addressing both Ron and Flamia.
By the time Harry arrived, most of the students had already gathered outside the classroom. He felt slightly out of place—the twins had apparently messed up his uniform measurements. It wasn't quite small, but definitely didn't fit right. "I'll have to get it adjusted…" Hermione looked like she was about to scold him for being late on the first day—but Harry cut her off.
"What's that?" he asked, nodding toward the stack of books she seemed about to pack into her bag.
"Oh, just a mountain of assignments they've already dumped on us…" she muttered irritably.
"Nightmare…" Ron yawned.
"Yeah—just wait until you see what Snape has in store!" Hermione snapped. Clearly, she and Ron hadn't quite made up yet.
At that very moment, the door burst open, and there stood Snape in all his glory—so much so that the class fell silent on its own.
"Into the classroom!" he barked in his usual manner.
Harry entered the room, which now felt eerily like the hated dungeons…
Snape, true to form, swept through the room, having already ordered everyone to put away their textbooks. By "everyone," of course, he meant Hermione—the only one who had already taken out Facing the Faceless.
Then he began to speak. He compared the Dark Arts to a multi-headed monster—impossible to defeat, constantly changing, and therefore requiring constantly adapting countermeasures.
He spoke in an ornate, even elegant manner, and his words made sense.
Under different circumstances, Harry might have even agreed with him—but the tone... It felt less like a warning about a dangerous enemy and more like praise.
Then he began speaking about non-verbal spells. Hermione's hand shot up before he'd even finished his question. The professor waited a moment, in case anyone else dared, then finally gave in and turned to her.
She didn't hesitate to quote the textbook, which Snape immediately noted in a distinctly sarcastic tone.
Harry sat there, listening to Malfoy sneering from the back of the classroom, and felt his anger rise.
Keep calm. You can't get into trouble—you can't afford detention. What would Flamia think then? he kept reminding himself.
Snape soon moved them on to practical work. The students paired up and began silently casting jinxes at each other—and silently countering them.
Harry stood opposite Ron; Flamia, for reasons of her own, chose to pair with Pansy Parkinson. From the outside, the two of them looked like complete opposites.
Within ten minutes, Hermione was already successfully blocking her partner's spells. Harry, remembering his own three weeks of effort, felt a surge of envy.
Then again, she had probably practiced over the holidays too.
But more than envy, Harry felt bitterness and frustration. Any normal teacher would have awarded Gryffindor twenty points—if not more.
Snape, of course, acted as if he hadn't seen a thing.
The professor continued prowling the classroom.
Harry seriously suspected that the general lack of progress among the Gryffindors was a direct result of the stress induced by that prowling.
Snape stopped next to him and Ron.
Ron had been unsuccessfully trying to curse Harry for several minutes. His face had turned crimson, and he clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to whisper the spell aloud—but it was no use.
"Pathetic, Weasley," said Snape after watching for a while. "Let me demonstrate how it's done..."
He moved quickly—very quickly—flicking his wand toward Harry.
But Harry stayed calm. The moment the detestable professor started to speak, Harry had felt danger approaching.
He buttoned the final button of his robe.
Fred and George had sent it to him during the last days of summer: a school shield-robe with a special enchantment—it only activated when fully buttoned.
Snape cast his spell with astonishing speed, but Harry already felt protected. He raised his wand, recalling everything he had learned over the summer.
He knew it had worked even before Snape's spell struck—truthfully, the robe might not have even been necessary.
His Shield Charm was powerful—perhaps the robe helped too.
Snape was thrown backwards and crashed into a nearby desk.
The entire class turned to look, watching as a scowling, furious Snape climbed back to his feet.
"Well, Mister Potter…"
Snape paused. Harry was quite sure he was searching for something to criticize.
"This is… not as pitiful as I expected."
"Thank you… sir," Harry replied, emphasizing the last word.
For a moment, they stared each other down.
The lesson ended soon after, and everyone spilled out into the corridor.
"Mate! You nailed him!" Ron exclaimed, barely ten steps from the classroom.
"Snape on the floor! That alone makes school worth it!" Seamus chimed in. Neville, beside him, nodded with enthusiastic agreement.
"He wanted to humiliate you—and you left him speechless!" Ron went on, and even the ever-righteous Hermione joined in.
"Yes, Harry. He couldn't even find a reason to punish you. How did you manage that…?"
"Hermione, the way you talk, you'd think I couldn't do anything at all!" Harry snapped.
"I didn't have much else to do at school, so I just practiced the charm..."
"You mean, you knew about it, and didn't raise your hand?"
"Me? Raise my hand in Snape's class?! Hermione, I do value my life, you know!"
Break ended quickly. Hermione rushed off to Numerology.
Harry, Ron, and Flamia got to work on the enormous assignment Snape had so generously bestowed.
Ron at first had no intention of working, but once Harry joined in—and especially Flamia—he finally followed suit.
Progress was slow, though summer study definitely helped.
Eventually Hermione joined them. Things picked up from there, although she was clearly reluctant to work with Flamia.
They finished the assignment before the bell for Potions. Everyone hurried to the classroom long dominated by Snape.
Only thirteen students had chosen to continue Potions at N.E.W.T. level.
Four Slytherins—Malfoy among them (naturally without Crabbe and Goyle), four Ravenclaws, and Ernie—pompous, but generally a decent guy.
"Harry," Ernie said pompously, extending his hand. "I didn't get a chance to speak with you this morning in Defense. I thought the lesson was quite good, though for us in the D.A., a Shield Charm is old hat… Ron, Hermione, how are you? And we haven't met, I believe—Flamia?"
No one had a chance to reply before the door opened again.
And in came the large, moustached man—looking distinctly like a walrus—Slughorn.
Beaming, he welcomed the students inside, greeting the redheaded Slytherin, Blaise Zabini, with particular enthusiasm.
The dungeon looked far more inviting than before, with colorful steam wafting from several cauldrons.
The Slytherins and Ravenclaws took their tables. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat at another, while Flamia took a seat behind them—much to Ernie's delight, who promptly joined her.
"Well then, well then," the teacher said. "Please take out your scales, textbooks, and potion kits."
The entire class promptly obeyed. Slughorn surveyed them all, pausing briefly on Harry, puffing out his broad chest so much the buttons looked ready to pop off.
"So," he said, "just for interest's sake, I've brewed a few potions. You'll be expected to master them by the end of your seventh year. You've likely heard of them, though I doubt you've brewed them..."
He proceeded to display, one by one, the Truth Serum, the Polyjuice Potion, and then Amortentia—the most powerful love potion. He asked questions, all of which were answered by Hermione, who was raising her hand before he could even finish. This clearly delighted the teacher, and he began to ask her about her background. Harry noticed a strange reaction from Malfoy, who had been off in his own world until then. When Hermione said she was Muggle-born, Ferret clearly expected the teacher to sneer, and was disappointed when Slughorn instead grew even more enthusiastic.
Next came a discussion about the last potion: Felix Felicis, the Liquid Luck. Then, the teacher stunned the class by announcing that the small vial would go to whoever brewed the best Draught of Living Death.
Draco showed particular interest in the prize.
The entire class threw themselves into their work with a focus and determination that Snape had never managed to inspire. Harry quickly found the right recipe—he'd skimmed the textbook during the holidays. He chopped roots from various plants, mixed in wormwood infusion... He glanced around several times as he worked. A pale blue steam began to fill the room. Unsurprisingly, Hermione was furthest along, but Harry, too, seemed to be on the right track. All he had left was to slice the sopophorous bean...
"Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?"
Harry looked up from his textbook. What's that supposed to mean? Is he sucking up or something?
"Yes," said Slughorn curtly, not even glancing at Draco. "I was quite saddened to hear of his passing..."
Draco's attempt flopped. Harry returned to his potion, trying to make sense of it all. One thing was clear—Draco probably wouldn't be the teacher's new favorite anytime soon.
The sopophorous bean refused to slice properly. Harry tried every which way with his knife, but it was no use. Don't be stubborn—sometimes you just need the right tool... suddenly echoed in his mind.
On a whim, he found a small book with an odd title. It read like a cry from the heart—the author had clearly written what he wanted to write... Probably why it wasn't in the official library. Harry flipped through it and, amid all the brooding ramblings, he found several surprisingly clever potion tips—and not just that. It suggested that textbook methods weren't always the best, and that improvisation could be a good thing.
Stopping what he was doing, Harry looked over his tools. Following the random thought, he grabbed a silver knife and, holding his breath, pressed it to the stubborn bean. It still refused to slice, but several drops of juice appeared beneath it—the very ingredient he needed. Harry turned the blade sideways and pressed down hard—the bean released a flood of juice.
His potion immediately turned the exact shade of lilac it was supposed to.
To his amazement, Harry saw he had surpassed even Hermione.
Now he just had to stir it counterclockwise until it turned completely clear. Energized by his progress, Harry stirred dutifully... thirty, forty times. The potion lightened ever so slightly... but that was it.
Frustrated, he gave it a stir in the opposite direction—clockwise.
Instant result: the potion turned pink.
Harry stared at it in disbelief, then stirred clockwise again. It darkened. He clenched his teeth and went back to the instructions. After a dozen counterclockwise stirs, it turned pink again—then lighter... and stopped. He stirred clockwise once more, and it became even lighter, turning clear... though there was still a faint murkiness to it—barely visible, but present.
On the other side of the table, Ron was muttering curses nonstop. His potion looked like melted licorice. Hermione's was still quite dark. No one had gotten as far as Harry.
"Time's up!" Slughorn announced. "Stop stirring, please!"
He walked along the rows, examining the cauldrons. He didn't speak, though occasionally sniffed, or stirred the mixtures himself. At last, he reached the two tables where the Gryffindors and Ernie were seated. The latter's blue creation earned little praise. Flamia's brew got a noncommittal head tilt—"could be better, but not awful." He gave a sad smile at Ron's attempt and nodded approvingly at Hermione's work. Harry's cauldron was the last.
Slughorn blinked in surprise at Harry's potion. He scooped a small amount, examined it closely, then returned it to the cauldron.
"Well done, Harry!" he exclaimed.
Harry looked at him, stunned. Apart from Hagrid, Dumbledore, and maybe Lupin, no teacher had ever addressed him by name like that—let alone so casually.
"Your potion is nearly complete! You may have misjudged a dose or two—there's a slight cloudiness—but that's not a big issue. You've gone much farther than your classmates! Miss Granger, you too deserve congratulations. Although you fell behind Harry, your unfinished potion is textbook-perfect—precise in every detail. I'm honestly not sure what to do..." He paused, then suddenly grinned. "Oh, what the hell—one bottle each!"
He pulled a second vial of Felix Felicis from the cabinet.
"How did you do it?" Hermione pounced on him as soon as they left the classroom.
"Well... I tried to catch up over the holidays. Once I realized I'd be allowed back into Potions, I didn't want to make a fool of myself..." Harry hesitated. "And, I guess, I got lucky. I didn't follow the instructions exactly... and it paid off."
"But Harry! You could have—anything could have happened!"
"Oh, come on! I just used a different knife when the first one didn't work, and stirred it the other way a few times. That's all!"
It was the last class of the day, and everyone gathered in the common room. Harry spent a good while there with his friends. Despite Ron's grumbling, they started their Potions homework—but eventually gave up, despite Hermione's protests. Flamia was working alone, though she kept getting distracted by older boys stopping by to chat.
Eventually, Harry claimed he was utterly exhausted from such a busy day and slipped away. He and Flamia had agreed that he'd be the one to leave first tonight.
About half an hour later, they were together in their room.
"Well, damn," Harry sighed, flopping into a chair. "What a day. Knocked Snape flat and aced Potions. Two impossible things in one afternoon..."
"Yeah, if you keep this up, either everyone will forget about me and we'll be fine, or everyone will start poking into your life again and we'll be doomed."
"You're such a pessimist..."
"You know, Harry, only today did I really grasp what an insane burden we've taken on—trying to keep our... unusual relationship a secret. A whole year! And we keep leaving the common room with barely a gap between us. Hermione will notice. She already looks at me like she's onto something."
"You're probably right. Sooner or later someone will suspect... Then we'll just say we're dating or something."
"Oh sure. Then Hermione will think I've slipped you a love potion, and Ron will sulk that you're getting all the attention again."
"We'll deal with it when it happens."
_____
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