When it came to Potions, Dylan felt reading any text just once was absolutely not enough.
Otherwise, it was far too easy to miss something.
Only by rereading over and over could he truly make the book's knowledge his own.
In his view, Potions contained a great many key points that were extremely intricate, with too many details that had to be memorized.
Otherwise, a tiny, seemingly insignificant step might go wrong and cause the entire brewing process to fail.
With a Potions master like Snape giving him one-on-one tutoring, Dylan had no intention of wasting that time on trivial, avoidable mistakes.
So—
the Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years watched Dylan sit off by himself, casually pull out a book, and start reading with keen interest.
Both groups stood opposite each other, itching for a fight but not daring to start one.
The Slytherin snakes were afraid that if they got too noisy, Dylan would just raise his wand and hit them all with Silencio.
None of them had even learned that spell yet.
So they had no idea how to undo it.
And while Finite Incantatem was not a particularly advanced spell and some of them could use it,
using their Finite to cancel Dylan's spell was another matter entirely.
Someone had already tried just now—and it had not worked at all.
The Gryffindors, on the other hand, simply did not want to disturb Dylan's reading.
After all, the more Dylan knew, the more, in a way, it meant Gryffindor knew.
And the less the Slytherins knew by comparison.
So the more Dylan learned, the less Slytherin "knew" against them.
As long as they could keep Slytherin under their thumb, the Gryffindor lions would back Dylan in anything he wanted to do.
Hawkwood, long live—!!!
For a while, the two Houses just glared at each other, but no one spoke.
The tension in the air was thick, but the silence was bizarre.
Until Madam Hooch came back with Neville.
Only then did Dylan put his book away and stand up.
"Luckily, Mr. Longbottom didn't suffer any serious injuries. Even the scrapes on his knee were healed by your spell," Madam Hooch said.
Dylan nodded slightly.
"All right, young wizards, now you know just how dangerous flying can be, don't you?"
She had everyone line up again, then resumed the lesson.
By the end of class,
both Harry and Malfoy had shown impressive flying talent.
Dylan's flying was steady and ordinary—not particularly remarkable.
Afterward, Ron sidled up to him and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "You were so cool just now! You scared those Slytherins stiff. Not a single one dared talk back to you!"
"I really think you're a total Slytherin on the inside!"
He kept muttering to himself as he nodded along.
"Yeah, if you weren't from a Muggle family, you'd definitely have been sorted into Slytherin! Even Professor Snape ends up at a loss in front of you!"
Dylan shot him a glance and raised his wand.
This one really did talk too much.
Should it be Reducto, or Cruciatus?
Seeing him lift his wand, Ron shrank his neck and took a step back, falling in line beside Harry again.
"Hey, Harry! When Madam Hooch praised your flying and said she'd recommend you to the Quidditch team, you should've seen Malfoy's face—he looked like a squashed pumpkin!"
Harry laughed as well.
They headed toward the Great Hall
to have dinner.
As soon as they found seats, Harry said, "Madam Hooch said she's taking me somewhere later."
"She's definitely going to put you straight on the Quidditch team! Merlin, a first-year getting onto the House team—those Slytherins are going to lose their minds!" Ron was thrilled.
Dylan ignored all that and focused on his food.
During flying class, he had felt like he could probably handle a broom much more freely if he wanted to.
But he had deliberately held back, because he did not want any professor recommending him to a Quidditch team.
"Once I buy a Nimbus 2000, I can practice in the mornings when nobody's around."
He pulled a freshly appeared steak toward himself.
The steak sizzled softly, its rich aroma carrying a hint of cream and fresh pepper.
Compared to the bland "white people food" he usually ate, Hogwarts' meals were on a completely different level.
Take this steak, for instance.
The edges were just slightly charred, while the marbling glistened with juice that pooled into a shiny little "pond" in the plate.
He cut off a small piece and put it in his mouth; his teeth first met the crisp, seared exterior, then the tender, juicy interior.
The smoky crust and the soft meat underneath blended perfectly.
As he chewed, meat juices burst free, and the deep flavor of beef mingled with the creamy notes, spreading across his tongue.
"Do the house-elves use some kind of magic when they cook? The texture is completely different from any steak you can buy outside."
Curiosity stirred in Dylan's mind. If there was such a spell, and he learned it, then even his own cooking would not be limited to "just get it cooked."
The evening sun streamed through the windows, laying a clear glow across the wooden tables and edging the food on his plate with gold.
Dylan emptied his mind. The pressure of his busy days of study faded into the background, leaving only the food before him and the quiet in his chest.
This was one of his favorite ways to relieve stress.
Even as he constantly absorbed knowledge, he could feel a faint, steady pressure building up.
That was normal. Pressure existed, and it had to be released.
His achievements only meant he did not need to stir up negative emotions to use Dark magic. They did not mean he never had negative emotions.
If the pressure built too high, it would become a burden, maybe even turn into real negativity.
At that point, he could not be sure he would not, on a bad day, throw a Bombarda at someone's head, or shout "Confringo" or "Reducto" just because he did not like the look on their face.
So, during the brief time he spent at dinner each day, Dylan poured his whole awareness into the food and thought of nothing else, letting the stress slowly dissolve with each bite and chew.
Of course, just because a person wanted peace did not mean trouble would not come knocking.
Malfoy and his gang stormed into the Hall, quickly locked onto their table, and marched over, full of bluster.
Dylan did not even look up.
But the moment Malfoy saw him, his aggression shrank.
He hesitated, then, under the expectant eyes of his hangers-on, stepped forward anyway.
(End of Chapter)
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