Most classes at Hogwarts came with some degree of danger, and Potions was no exception.
One student—perhaps gifted, perhaps cursed—always managed, through a series of incredible coincidences, to turn his cauldron into an explosion waiting to happen. His reputation among his peers had already earned him the nickname "The Wizarding World's Nobel." Harry just managed to stop him before another blast.
Of course, Snape deducted points from him anyway, claiming Harry wasn't paying attention to his own potion.
"Are you that desperate to show off, Potter?"
"A student should behave like a student. Your job is to focus on your potion, not play the hero. Gryffindor loses another point for your distraction."
That phrase—"A student should behave like a student"—was something Harry could almost hear echoing from his past life. His return to this world had been sudden and absurd: he'd been about to start university, admitted to Tsinghua, when the world folded in on itself and poof!—Hogwarts again.
He hadn't even finished watching Balala the Fairies, that ridiculous drama his stepsister had forced him to watch.
Merlin, the plot was idiotic—but for reasons beyond comprehension, Harry found it incredibly entertaining.
Especially that episode when Balala the Fairies and the Balala Dark God transformed at the same time and clashed—Harry's blood had boiled with excitement. Dominating! Epic! Awesome!
Sometimes he wondered if his intelligence was only suited for this kind of thing.
"No," he told himself sternly. "This only proves that Daniel Akaka had a childlike heart."
He couldn't help but imagine—after staying in this world for over a decade—would someone like Princess Youle suddenly appear? Someone with an odd accent, worse Mandarin than his own, wielding a gun as a wand, and hiding behind a totally unconvincing mask?
Come to think of it, Roar of Blood and Water from that world had some serious A Song of Ice and Fire vibes. Maybe he should read more Muggle literature. Who knew—if he ever transmigrated again, it might come in handy.
Meanwhile, Snape was circling around Harry's table like a vulture stalking an uncertain meal. Ron was practically vibrating with suppressed fury, wanting to say something—anything—but Harry stopped him.
Ron might not have the nerve to defy a professor on his own, but he hated seeing Harry humiliated. Whenever that happened, his courage seemed to grow tenfold.
Harry, however, noticed something strange. Snape wasn't truly angry anymore. Since discovering Harry's talent for potion brewing, the rage behind those black eyes seemed to have dimmed a little—though his sarcasm, of course, was eternal.
During the lesson, Harry had to stop the "little Nobel"—Seamus Finnigan—from blowing up his cauldron again. The boy was clearly talented, but Harry still couldn't tell if he was doing it on purpose or if chaos just followed him by nature.
Britain's own "Sky-Shaking Thunder" Brandon—an alchemist who used explosions as performance art—would have been proud.
Unfortunately, both Seamus and Harry had points deducted. Losing points made sense for Seamus, but for Harry—the one who prevented a disaster—it was infuriating. Snape's bias was almost impressive in its transparency.
Harry could already imagine the alternative.
If he hadn't stepped in, Snape would've said:
"Do you think his mistake makes you look good, Potter? Why didn't you stop him?"
No matter what Harry did, Snape would always find a way to deduct points.
Ron was about to argue again, but Harry gave him a sharp kick behind the cauldron.
"Don't be rash," he muttered. "He's not listening to reason. Anything you say will just make it worse."
Still, Harry noticed something interesting: whenever he focused entirely on his brewing, Snape's mood visibly calmed. The man's attention softened; the hostility melted slightly.
Affection increased.
Harry grimaced. "Damn the Seven Gods," he thought, "this guy's a pervert."
He would honestly rather wrestle a Giant King than endure Snape's intense, soul-burning stare.
At long last, the agonizing Potions class ended. Both Hermione and Harry lost points for the first time; until then, they had been Gryffindor's top point-earners.
Harry didn't really care—it wasn't as though house points meant anything profound—but Hermione was distraught.
Her lips trembled as she mumbled, "My points… all gone…"
After an entire week of effort, earning over ten points, losing five in a single class felt like watching her hard work go up in smoke.
Harry sighed. "Cheer up," he said kindly. "You've still gained more than you've lost. Five points is nothing. Snape deducts points from Gryffindors all the time. From what I've heard, we usually end up last in the House Cup anyway. Once you hit rock bottom, you can't fall any further. So really, there's nothing to lose. Lower expectations—instant peace."
But Hermione didn't listen. Her little fists clenched as she made a silent vow.
If she ever got the chance, she would win every single House Cup from now on.
She would restore Gryffindor's honor, no matter what it took.
Harry smiled. "Good. Very spirited."
His attempt to console her had failed, but the fire in her eyes made him genuinely happy. He liked seeing children so bright and determined.
By around three o'clock, their classes finally ended. The trio crossed the school grounds toward Hagrid's hut, a small wooden cabin nestled at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Earlier that day, Hagrid had invited Harry over, and naturally, he brought his two "sleeping dragons and young phoenixes" along—Ron and Hermione.
He had originally planned to treat them as external brains—extra processors for his own plans—but after spending time together, he found their company genuinely enjoyable.
They were both bright and kind, though their personalities clashed frequently.
Still, they were good kids.
There was, however, one issue Harry urgently needed to resolve—the Snape problem. He couldn't quite figure the man out, and it wasn't the sort of thing he could just discuss openly. Some things were too outrageous, too inappropriate for young ears.
If he told them Snape might harbor… peculiar affections… toward him, they'd be terrified.
Hagrid's hut was small but cozy, with a crossbow leaning against the wall and a pair of enormous rubber boots by the door. When Harry knocked, there was a brief scuffle and a series of low barks from inside.
"Back, Fang! Back!" Hagrid's booming voice shouted.
The door opened a crack, revealing his wild beard and smiling eyes.
"Hold on a minute—back, Fang!"
He pulled the door wide and ushered them in, wrestling a massive black hound by the collar.
Harry crouched and gently stroked Fang's head, his touch firm but reassuring. Instantly, the dog calmed, curling up obediently beside the fire.
"He's a good dog," Hagrid said, panting. "Just a bit timid."
Harry smiled. "He's very gentle, actually."
Hagrid beamed. "Blimey, Harry, you've got a talent for taming beasts!"
"To be honest," Harry replied lightly, "I'm not boasting—but I'm rather good at dragons, too."
Hagrid's eyes lit up. "No kidding? Dragons, eh?"
The two of them launched into an enthusiastic conversation, quickly discovering a shared passion for dangerous creatures.
For all his years as king on the Iron Throne, Harry had never truly enjoyed the pomp and ceremony. He had endured the titles, the politics, and the endless performances, but he'd never loved them.
He was happiest in his mercenary days—when he led a small, rough crew, earning a few gold dragons a month and living by his wits and sword.
In Westeros, whenever he mentioned those days, Tyrion would smirk behind his cup of wine, as though amused by Harry's sentimentality—but never dared to laugh aloud.
They just didn't understand.
After transmigrating to Ancient Town, Harry had once come across a monarch named Cao Cao, whose poetry struck him deeply. There was one verse that captured his feelings perfectly:
"Let us sing to wine—how long does life last?
Like the morning dew, our days are fleeting.
With generous spirit, sorrowful thoughts are hard to forget.
What can relieve this sorrow? Only Du Kang's wine."
Though Harry's wasn't great, he could still sense the spirit behind the words—the yearning for purpose, the loneliness of ambition, the sorrow of being misunderstood.
"It's cold at the top," Harry murmured. "Who can understand my heart?"
Cao Cao's poem—like Albert Andrew's essays back in his original world—spoke to a kind of melancholy greatness. But still, it was different from Harry's own experience.
For him, happiness didn't lie in crowns or glory. It was in the freedom of the road, the camaraderie of soldiers, the thrill of uncertain battle.
He wasn't born to sit on thrones.
He was born to live, to fight, to laugh—to be a mercenary king among friends.
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