pertwk Chapter 23 Potions Class
Chapter 23 Potions Class
The Potions classroom was deep in the dungeon, one floor below the Slytherin common room. When Viserys entered the classroom, Draco had already reserved two spots on the Slytherin side and was pushing Crabbe's cauldron aside.
"Here." Draco patted the stool next to him.
Viserys sat down and spread out the book, "A Thousand Wonderful Herbs and Mushrooms".
A crooked dragon was drawn on the spine of the book, just like the "lizard" picture he had made disappear last time.
When did Daenerys do this? Looks like I'll have to buy her a picture book next time, lest the other books suffer the same fate.
The seats gradually filled up. On the Gryffindor side, Potter and Weasley huddled in the second-to-last row, while Neville Longbottom sat beside them, head down examining the bottom of the crucible, presumably looking for a crack.
Hermione sat in the first row, directly facing the podium, with three reference books spread out in front of her and a quill pen already in her hand.
As Viserys walked past her desk, their eyes met for a second. Hermione lowered her head again, her brows furrowing slightly, and wrote a line of small print on a blank page, visible only to herself.
Snape entered without any opening remarks. His black robes dragged across the stone floor, making a very faint scraping sound.
He walked to the front of the class, turned around, and his dark eyes swept across the class, lingering for a moment on Potter's face.
"Potter." The voice wasn't loud, but each word seemed to permeate the cold air of the Potions classroom, "What would I get if I added narcissus root powder to wormwood infusion?"
Hermione immediately raised her hand.
Harry said he didn't know. Ron's mouth was slightly open, clearly also unaware of why anyone would mix narcissus root and wormwood together.
"It seems fame isn't everything." Snape ignored Hermione's raised hand. "To ask another question, if I were looking for a bezoar, where would you look?"
Hermione raised her hand even higher.
"I don't know, sir."
"Then tell me the difference between Aconitum carmichaelii and Aconitum davidii."
"I don't know, sir," Harry said. "But I think Hermione knows the answer. Why don't you ask her?"
Snape twitched his jaw slightly, as if he were biting down on a word.
"Sit down," he said to Hermione, then turned to Harry. "Potter, narcissus root powder and wormwood together make a very potent sleeping potion called the Water of Life and Death. Bezoar is a stone taken from a goat's stomach and can counteract most poisons. As for aconite and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, also called Aconitum carmichaelii."
He turned toward Slytherin's side.
"Targaryen".
Viserys stood up.
"Boat-shaped aconite and wolfsbane aconite are the same plant. They need to be calcined three times in potion making to remove their toxicity. The first calcination is done with a silver knife, the second with a copper cauldron, and the third with an iron pot. The order cannot be reversed because each metal removes different levels of toxicity."
Snape's dark eyes lingered on his face for a moment. "What color will the liquid be after the second calcination?"
"Deep purple, with a layer of silvery-gray foam."
What happens if the foam isn't skimmed off in time?
Silence. That chapter was torn out, leaving only half a sentence: "Otherwise, it will lead to..."
"I don't know, sir."
Snape looked at him for three seconds.
“The foam will solidify into needle-like crystals that pierce the bottom of the cauldron.” Then he turned to Harry, his voice turning cold. “Potter, do you see? Mr. Targaryen honestly said ‘I don’t know’ for things he didn’t know. And you can’t even tell what you know and what you don’t know. Your reputation has made you used to everyone answering for you, but in this classroom, no one does.” He paused. “Clearly, reputation doesn’t equal intelligence. And honesty, at least, requires intelligence.”
He turned back to Viserys, his tone now calm and measured, each word precise: "This question is beyond the scope of the textbook. Sit down. Slytherin, ten points for your honesty in saying 'I don't know.'"
Viserys sat down. Draco took a very quiet breath beside him.
---
The decoction process begins.
Draco took the dried nettles and snake tooth powder, and used a knife to chop the nettles into small pieces. A nettle thorn pierced the edge of his thumb; he hissed, bent down, and pulled it out.
"When you answered those two questions, Potter's face was greener than the bottom of a cauldron." He chopped nettles while lowering his voice. "I almost thought that if you answered all three questions, Snape would give a freshman extra points for the first time ever, and Potter didn't even know what bezoar was."
"I really don't know the answer to the third question." Viserys picked the porcupine quills out of the herb bag and divided them into three portions. The dried nettles felt prickly in his hands, the snake tooth powder had a fishy smell, and the porcupine quills were rough and prickly under his fingertips. He arranged the herbs from left to right, according to the order in which they would be put into the pot.
“I know,” Draco said, “but the way Snape looked at you when you said ‘I don’t know,’ my father once said, he only saw people in two categories: those who waste air and those who are still usable. You’ve already been classified as the second. Potter is probably still in the first category. Not enough fire.”
Viserys raised his hand, his palm hovering half an inch above the flames. The flames were stabilized, the orange fading to a stable golden-red core, the heat spreading evenly.
"Where did you learn to do that?" Draco asked, looking at the unusually docile flames beneath the cauldron.
"Professor McGonagall taught the principles after the Transfiguration class. I figured out the rest on my own."
"McGran won't teach you how to control the fire in the cauldron in class." Draco slowly poured the snake tooth powder along the edge of the pot. "Next Potions class, you'll be in charge of the fire, and I'll be in charge of cutting things. I'm fast, and frankly, your nettle-cutting technique is scarier than my house-elf's."
The medicinal liquid in the pot began to bubble, green foam spreading across the surface. Viserys stared at the distribution of the bubbles; they were too dense to the left and too sparse to the right and behind.
"The left side," Draco pointed with the handle of his silver spoon.
Viserys tilted his finger slightly, causing the flames to slant to the left, cooling down the overheated area and making the foam more even.
"That's more like the level Slytherin should be at." Draco straightened up and stirred the potion twice. "Potter probably can't even tell the difference between nettles and common weeds. That guy grew up in the Muggle world."
When he said "Muggle world," he smirked to one side, then turned to Viserys, "You're different. You know how to make fire obey, and you know when to say 'I don't know.' Snape remembered that, and so did I."
From the front row came Pansy Parkinson's suppressed but not completely suppressed complaints.
"Daphne, no matter how I adjust the heat, it's either too high or too low."
Beneath Pansy's crucible, flames flickered wildly. An inappropriate layer of grayish-green scum had formed on the surface of the liquid, contrasting sharply with the dark brown, burnt-smelling liquid in Milison's pot next to her; both pots were hurtling headlong towards failure.
Daphne sat next to Pansy, the cauldron in front of her quietly emitting even steam. The liquid was a textbook pale green, clear and without a single speck of scum. She was pouring porcupine quills out of the mortar when she heard Pansy's voice; she didn't stop, only glancing sideways.
"You put the nettles in too early." Daphne reached out and turned the flame under Pansy's crucible down half a turn, her movements clean and efficient, the rotation of her wrist just enough to keep the flame stable at an orange-red.
"The nettles need to be added when the liquid is steaming, not bubbling. If they start bubbling, it's too late, and they'll just scum rise to the surface. This pot of yours," she looked down at the grayish-green scum layer, "can still be salvaged if you skim it off. Milison, your fire is too high. You need to remove the pot from the heat before adding the snake tooth powder, otherwise it will burn as soon as it touches the hot oil."
Milison said "Oh," and hurriedly reached for the crucible, nearly knocking over the ink bottle beside her. Daphne reached out to steady her.
Viserys watched Daphne's gestures as she adjusted the fire. Her movements as she turned the brass knob were almost as precise as his; she didn't use a wand, but directly with her fingers, and after turning it, she lightly rubbed the surface of the knob with her fingertips, as if checking for any looseness.
This isn't a technique learned in class; it's a muscle habit developed through repeated practice.
Draco followed his gaze. "Greengrass is in charge of everyone's potion-making in their dorm," he said in a low voice, his stirring continuing. "I heard she can even recite the recipes from the upperclassmen."
“I didn’t memorize it,” Daphne said, her voice just loud enough for Viserys to hear. “Astoria’s medicine can’t be stopped. Regular suppressants can only delay the onset, so I’ve searched through every potion book I could find to see if there’s a better formula. The more experiments I do, the better I get at it.”
She looked at him with her gray eyes as she spoke. There was no self-pity in her tone; she was simply stating a fact.
Viserys placed the last porcupine quill into the mortar. The ring pressed against his finger bone, slightly warm. The castor bean held the answer within; he had tried every spell—unlocking charm, breaking charm, even the ancient Elvish incantation he'd copied from the forbidden library—but the ring only silently tightened its grip on his finger.
The vial of potion he brought out from the secret room was almost empty, with just enough for one more use. He had the key, but he couldn't turn the lock.
The crucible next door started making strange noises.
The bubbling sound, accompanied by a sharp hissing, was like metal corroding under high temperature. The liquid in the pot changed from grayish-green to a murky orange-yellow, with large and small bubbles rising to the surface, the largest being the size of a fist.
"Longbottom," Draco put down his silver knife, "your fault."
Neville looked up, his face full of panic. He picked up the porcupine quills to put them in the pot, but his hand stopped in mid-air; he had forgotten whether he had put the previous ingredient in.
"Take the pot away first."
too late.
The liquid in the crucible began to churn violently, not boiling, but a chain reaction. The orange liquid overflowed from the rim, flowing over Neville's hand. He cried out in pain and pulled his hand back; the crucible began to tilt.
Viserys stood up. The fire at the bottom of the Neville cauldron was spiraling out of control, the flames fading from orange-red to an ominous blue-white, and an eruption was imminent.
He took out his wand and pointed it at the flames, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would jump out of his throat. There was no time to think; he only knew that the fire had to be stopped before it exploded.
The blue and white flames suddenly stopped.
It was as if an invisible hand had stopped its momentum. It stopped expanding and hissing. The rolling flames began to contract inward, and the color faded layer by layer from the about-to-explode blue and white back to orange-red, and then to a stable golden-red.
Then it gently rose from the bottom of Neville's cauldron, like a shimmering ball of light, passed through the passageway, and landed in Viserys's palm. It burned quietly, no longer posing any threat.
He clenched his five fingers together.
The flames elongated and contracted in his palm, coalescing into the shape of a firebird. The firebird spread its wings and rose from his palm, its wingtips sweeping across the classroom ceiling, its tail feathers trailing a faint, warm glow. Neville's eyes followed the firebird upwards, his beak opening, his fingers unconsciously loosening their grip on the pot handle. The entire class looked up simultaneously; the pot of medicine had stopped bubbling.
The crucible tipped over.
Neville's elbow struck the pot handle as he stepped back. The remaining medicine splashed onto his calf, causing him to let out a short scream and slump onto the stool, his calf skin beginning to redden and blister.
Hermione was the first to stand up. "His pants are still stained with the potion," she said, using her wand to pull the soaked pant legs off his skin.
Harry jumped up from his seat. "He needs to be taken to the hospital wing, Neville, can you even walk?"
Neville's face was contorted in pain, and the blisters on his legs had swelled up.
Snape walked through the crowd. He glanced only at Neville's burns on his leg before turning to Harry.
"Porter, you're in the same group as him. He made three mistakes right under your nose: starting the next step without confirming the previous one was complete, mixing up the order of porcupine quills and dried nettles, and not removing the pot from the fire in time when the medicine was boiling. As his partner, you didn't stop any of those mistakes."
He paused. His voice was as cold as a potion sample just retrieved from an ice cellar.
"Gryffindor deducts 10 points."
Ron opened his mouth to retort. Harry stopped him.
Snape turned to Viserys. The Firebird was still circling the ceiling, its outline now faint, the firelight flickering.
"You just moved the flame from your own cauldron to Longbottom's cauldron, completing an emergency fire extinguishing without using a wand or spell. Slytherin, 10 points."
The firebird folded its wings above the last row, turning into a wisp of smoke and disappearing.
"To the hospital wing." Snape turned around, his black robes billowing. "Potter, you take Longbottom with you."
Harry helped Neville up. Neville bit his lip and didn't say a word; the blisters on his legs had soaked through his school uniform trousers.
"Sir," Viserys said, "I'll go too."
Snape's dark eyes lingered on his face for a moment. He didn't ask why.
"Can."
---
Neville leaned against the bed at the far end of the medical wing, his burned legs already bandaged with light green medicated gauze. Madam Pomfrey gathered his cauldron fragments into a tin tray and turned to Harry and Viserys.
"He can stay here and observe for one night. You two can go back now."
Her gaze lingered on Viserys.
"I heard about the time you used dragon flame to hurt someone."
Viserys did not look away.
"I've seen too many spell-related accidents, potion burns, and students who have been turned into unrecognizable beings by the spells they invented themselves. Every time someone brings one of them here, someone says it wasn't intentional. I know you did it to protect your sister. But no matter the reason, I won't say it's right to hurt others that way."
She looked at his expression and lowered her hand from the edge of the tray.
"If you feel wronged, you can refute me."
"I came to see him."
Pomfrey remained silent for a moment.
"He's next door, in the fourth bed. He just had his last dressing changed. Go see him."
The only sound in the corridor was the faint crackling of torches. Viserys walked quickly, Harry's footsteps following behind.
"Viserys".
He stopped and turned around.
"Just now in the classroom," Harry said, "you controlled the fire and saved Neville. If it weren't for you, he would have been more seriously injured, and I might have been hurt too. Thank you."
"That's something I just learned, and I wanted to see if it would work," Viserys said. "You're welcome."
Harry nodded, accepting the answer. Then he looked up.
"They're saying you encountered a mysterious person in Gringotts, is that true?"
"real."
Will he come again?
"Yes. He'll come looking for me again." Viserys paused. "And he'll come looking for you too."
Harry's face paled for a moment.
"Dumbledore is here," he said. "He is the most powerful white wizard, and the school is safe."
"He is very powerful. But he can't control everyone. Voldemort's power was never just his own. He manipulated everyone who craved power, everyone who worshipped strength, everyone who silenced others with fear. Dumbledore's enemy wasn't just Voldemort, but all of them." He looked at Harry, "and you are the first person to survive his clutches. So you will also be at the center of the vortex."
Harry's scar suddenly burst open with a sharp, white-hot pain.
He grabbed his forehead and bent his knees.
A hand gripped his upper arm; it was Viserys. He was pulled behind the nearest statue, his back slamming against the cold stone.
"Don't make a sound."