Chapter 93
"Well, well. It seems our saviour's friends are just as remarkable as he is."
Professor Severus Snape swept his dark, oppressive gaze over Ron Weasley, who was swathed in bandages from head to toe. His lips curled into a thin, malicious smile.
"Can anyone remind me," Snape drawled, "what exactly is the symbol of brave Gryffindor? Weasley—do tell me, esteemed warrior—did you steal a dragon's egg? Or perhaps wrench a basilisk's fang straight from its jaws?"
He even used honorifics, but the venom in his tone was unmistakable.
The Slytherin students burst into laughter. Even some Gryffindors struggled to keep straight faces. For a brief moment, the Potions classroom was filled with an almost festive atmosphere.
Compared to Muggle medicine, wizarding healing was far more efficient. Despite his injuries, Ron only needed a few days' rest before returning to class. Harry and Hermione had urged him to stay in the dormitory longer, but Ron stubbornly insisted on attending lessons. For the first two days, most students tactfully pretended the incident had never happened.
Potions, however, was Snape's domain.
Ron had thought himself prepared. Yet faced with Snape's open ridicule, anger surged through him, leaving him burning—and helpless, unsure how to respond.
"I believe my friend has already received sufficient punishment," Hermione said suddenly, standing up. She met Snape's gaze directly, her posture straight, her voice calm and unyielding. "Isn't this behaviour unbecoming of a teacher? Mocking students for amusement? I doubt Professor Dumbledore would approve of his students being treated this way."
Snape's smile vanished, as though his throat had been clamped shut. His expression darkened further.
"I do not require your judgment, Miss Know-It-All," he said coldly. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Gryffindor will lose five points for talking back to a professor."
Hermione sat down without protest.
Ron leaned toward her and whispered a grateful thanks.
Eventually, the laughter faded, and the Potions lesson finally moved on.
"Today," Snape announced, "we will be brewing the Shrinking Solution."
He scanned the classroom slowly. Seeing most students paying attention, he appeared mildly satisfied.
"This potion is complex. It requires numerous ingredients, all prepared to exact specifications. Uneven cutting or improper timing will directly affect the potion's efficacy."
As he spoke, Snape drifted—seemingly by chance—to Ron's workstation.
"This courageous warrior wouldn't dream of letting others do the work for him, would he?" Snape asked silkily. "Mr Weasley."
"I trust you can manage the cutting yourself."
He laid a hand on Ron's shoulder in what might generously be called a kind gesture.
"Of course, Professor," Ron replied evenly.
With his uninjured hand, he reached into his bag and produced a neatly arranged box of pre-cut ingredients.
"Thank you for your concern. I prepared everything in advance."
Harry was fairly certain that even if Snape swallowed two dungbombs in succession, he wouldn't look as displeased as he did now.
They had expected Snape to make things difficult. Precautions had been taken accordingly.
Finding no opening there, Snape prowled onward in search of a new target.
As usual, his gaze landed on Neville Longbottom.
"I find that some students require… special methods to stimulate their talent in Potions," Snape said softly. "Wouldn't you agree, Longbottom?"
"Yes—yes, Professor," Neville replied nervously, completely unaware of the trap closing around him.
"In that case," Snape continued, "why don't you feed your finished potion to your pet? I was hoping for a tadpole… though I suspect we're more likely to see a dead toad."
With that, Snape turned on his heel and returned to the front of the classroom, as though he'd only left it to torment Gryffindor.
"Draco," Pansy Parkinson whispered, tugging lightly at Malfoy's sleeve. Her potion had entered a stable stage, leaving her free to be distracted. "What do you think Professor has against Gryffindor?"
"Stop gossiping and focus," Malfoy replied flatly. "Also, your potion's about to change colour. Why haven't you added the figs? Are you trying to brew poison?"
He dropped a handful of sliced daisies into his own cauldron without looking at her.
Pansy snapped her attention back to her work, then glared at him. "You lied again."
Her potion was still bubbling a bright, healthy green—clearly not ready for the next step.
"I'm simply honouring someone's desire to study seriously this term," Malfoy said coolly. "Don't get distracted during Potions. That's how accidents happen."
"Fine, fine," Pansy muttered. "I won't ask anymore."
Ten minutes later, Snape's voice rang out again.
"I trust everyone has completed the preparatory stage. You may now begin brewing."
Then, with false magnanimity, he added, "Mr Longbottom, I'll be watching you closely—just in case you decide to blow up the laboratory."
Slytherin erupted into laughter.
Neville's face turned pale, beads of sweat forming across his forehead. Potions was hard enough without Snape's scrutiny; under it, his hands shook uncontrollably.
Hermione wanted desperately to help him—but she and Harry still needed to support Ron. Worse still, Snape hadn't taken his eyes off Neville once.
She suspected that Ron's earlier incident had put Neville directly in Snape's line of fire.
I'm sorry, Hermione thought silently.
Stealthily, she set up a spare cauldron to the side and began brewing another potion. Judging by the ingredients, it would function as an antidote.
"Excellent," Snape said at last, surveying the room. His gaze lingered on Neville's cauldron, now reduced to a bubbling mass of black sludge. "That will be all for today."
He smirked faintly.
"Clean your workstations and yourselves according to procedure. I don't want anyone poisoning themselves at dinner."
His eyes flicked sharply to Harry.
The message was unmistakable.