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HRA# CHAPTER 101
🕑 Added 2025-04-17 18:28:32 +0000 UTCThe rumor that Harry Potter carried himself with the gravitas of a Hogwarts professor was, for now, confined to the school’s students and perhaps their parents. In the insular wizarding world, where information spread slowly due to limited channels, such a notion would take time to gain traction beyond Hogwarts’ walls.
To the wider British magical community, news came primarily through the Daily Prophet. When Harry Potter’s name appeared in its pages, it evoked gratitude, pity, or admiration. Most saw him as a prodigy with boundless potential, perhaps destined to rival Dumbledore one day. Yet, for now, he remained a young wizard—albeit an exceptional one. The rock giant he’d faced had been impressive, but to many, a young wizard was still just that: young.
Some, like Ron, held a different view. Whether aware of Harry’s feats at Hogwarts or not, they believed him to be inherently powerful—a wizard born to greatness. A few even whispered he might be a dark wizard, given his ability to defeat Voldemort as an infant. To them, attending Hogwarts was merely a formality, a playground for someone of his caliber.
Mrs. Primpernelle, however, belonged to the more pragmatic camp.
“As Harry’s Potions professor, it’s my duty to ensure he isn’t taken advantage of due to his youth,” Snape declared, his voice measured and deliberate. “I will also ensure he secures a contract that serves his interests. Rest assured, as a Hogwarts professor, my judgment is impartial and fair.”
As he spoke, Snape’s lips curled into a quintessentially Slytherin smile—polished, aristocratic, and unmistakably insincere.
Harry could only watch as Mrs. Primpernelle, seated across from them, dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief, visibly unnerved by Snape’s presence. The pressure radiating from the Potions master was palpable, his reputation for pettiness preceding him. For someone like Snape to personally intervene on another’s behalf, it was hard not to assume ulterior motives.
“Of course, I trust you completely,” Mrs. Primpernelle managed, her smile strained.
The witch appeared to be in her thirties, though Harry suspected her age was deceptive. Wizards lived long lives, and her ownership of a beauty potion shop suggested she had access to youth-preserving concoctions. Her true age, he decided, was anyone’s guess.
After a protracted discussion, Mrs. Primpernelle departed, clutching her bag tightly as if it might shield her from Snape’s scrutiny. Harry tucked the newly signed magical contract into his dragon-hide pouch.
“We could have pushed her further,” Snape remarked, a trace of regret in his voice as he watched Mrs. Primpernelle Disapparate the moment she stepped outside.
The negotiation had been a triumph. With Snape’s formidable presence, Harry held the upper hand from start to finish. The contract granted Mrs. Primpernelle’s beauty potion shop a fifty-year license to use the Sparkling Potion recipe. In return, Harry would receive seventy percent of the profits from each vial sold. The shop was forbidden from reverse-engineering the recipe or creating similar potions, while Harry agreed not to sell the Sparkling Potion—or any comparable brew—to competitors.
The contract was meticulous, laden with clauses to prevent either party from exploiting the other. Both sides had clearly anticipated trickery.
“It’s fine,” Harry replied, shrugging off Snape’s comment. “We should leave her some profit.”
Thanks to Snape’s maneuvering, Harry hadn’t even sold the recipe itself—just the right to use it. Securing seventy percent of the profits was a masterstroke, akin to holding the key to a lucrative choke point.
“Leave some profit?” Snape’s lip curled in a disdainful sneer. “You underestimate your creation, Potter. The Sparkling Potion’s ingredients are common, making it cheap to produce yet highly profitable. More importantly, its effects are temporary, requiring continuous use to maintain results.”
Snape assessed the potion’s commercial potential with the keen eye of a master potioneer. “This ensures a steady stream of purchases from witches—and wizards—who will spare no expense to enhance their appearance. Even in bulk, the profits will be substantial. Never underestimate how much those obsessed with beauty will spend.”
As he spoke, Snape’s thoughts drifted to an old friend, Lucius Malfoy. The Malfoy family’s flamboyant tendencies made them prime candidates for the Sparkling Potion’s most devoted customers.
Harry considered Snape’s words, recalling the extravagant sums spent on appearance by women—and even dragons—he’d known in Azeroth. “You might be right,” he admitted with a sigh.
Snape nodded, pleased by Harry’s receptiveness. It was a marked improvement over the boy’s father, whose recklessness had always grated on him. “Any plans for the summer?” he asked casually. “You’re welcome to visit Spinner’s End. We could delve into the deeper mysteries of potion-making.”
Harry recognized the invitation for what it was—a rare gesture from Snape, likely extending to his ancestral totem as well. “I’m not sure,” he replied regretfully. “My summer’s already packed. But if I find time, I’d be glad to come.”
Snape’s lips twitched, possibly into a smile. Harry couldn’t be certain.
Time slipped by swiftly when one was engrossed, yet it dragged in moments of discomfort.
The incident with Quirrell barely registered among Hogwarts students, who were accustomed to the annual quirks and perils of their professors. A new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher each year was practically tradition. Most in the wizarding world had developed a certain resilience to such disruptions.
Following Quirrell’s mid-term departure, Snape stepped in to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts—a role he’d long coveted but had been denied by Dumbledore. For Ron, this meant his torment extended from Potions to another class.
Yet, Snape proved surprisingly adept. His lessons balanced theoretical knowledge—strategies for countering dark creatures—with practical spellwork. After years of erratic Defense professors, students were astonished to find Snape among the most competent to ever teach the subject.
Still, his acerbic demeanor ensured few sang his praises outside class. As the Quidditch season neared its climax, with only the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw final remaining, students’ attention shifted. The looming end-of-year exams were a distant concern—after all, they wouldn’t arrive until after the match and the end-of-year feast. There was time yet.
In the locker room beside the Quidditch pitch, Harry gripped his broom, gazing at his Gryffindor uniform. Barring unforeseen events, this would be the last time he’d wear it on Hogwarts’ field. The thought stirred a complex mix of emotions.
“Harry, you made it!” Fred’s voice boomed as he slung an arm around Harry’s neck. “You’ve no idea what Wood’s been putting us through!”
“A cow that works without grazing!” George added, his eyes wide with mock horror. “A starving Minotaur! It’s been brutal!”
“Enough, you idiots,” Wood snapped, pushing through. “If you put this energy into training, we’d—”
“Crush Ravenclaw into the dirt!” Fred cut in, grinning.
“Keep up with Harry and not drag him down,” George continued, shrugging at Harry. “We’ve got Wood’s speeches memorized.”
Angelina, sipping hot cocoa in the corner, chimed in. “He also says you’re wasting your talent by training only once a week. If you showed up daily, you’d be even better.”
“Shut it, Angelina,” Wood grumbled. “I don’t want people saying we’re just Harry’s sidekicks. We need to prove our worth.”
Turning to Harry, Wood offered an awkward smile. “No offense, Harry. It’s just, you know…”
“I get it,” Harry said, nodding. “If all goes as planned, this is my last House match. Let’s win it for Gryffindor.”
“Victory!” The team’s roar echoed through the cramped locker room.
As Harry and his teammates stepped onto the pitch, brooms in hand, the stands erupted in deafening cheers. Even Hogsmeade villagers, who rarely attended, had turned out in droves—drawn by the spectacle of Harry’s matches.
“…Let’s face it, with Harry Potter, Gryffindor’s been unstoppable this year. The Quidditch Cup and House Cup are practically theirs!” Lee Jordan’s amplified voice rang out, brimming with excitement. “And it’s all thanks to their king! The Minotaur Lion King! Harry! Potter!”
The crowd’s response was a cacophony of cheers, punctuated by bizarre imitations of cows and lions. After a year of such antics, Harry had grown desensitized to the noise.
What surprised him, however, was the support from beyond Gryffindor. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students cheered enthusiastically, and even a few Slytherins clapped—albeit sparingly.
“Don’t be shocked, Mentor,” Katie Bell whispered, standing beside him. “Everyone knows this is your last game. They’re here to celebrate it.”
Harry nodded, understanding dawning. Ravenclaw had all but conceded the Cup, and the crowd was here to savor the match, not to compete.
The Ravenclaw team, led by captain Roger Davies and Seeker Cho Chang—both members of Harry’s Shaman Priest Club—greeted him with wry smiles. With Katie also in the club, three of the fourteen players were Harry’s apprentices.
“Should I be relieved you’re not playing Beater today, Mentor?” Roger teased after shaking hands with Wood.
“I only swing the bat against Slytherin,” Harry replied with a grin. “So relax and enjoy the game.”
The quip drew smiles from all fourteen players, and even Madam Hooch, the referee, pressed her lips together to suppress a chuckle. Referees, after all, weren’t supposed to laugh openly.
With a sharp whistle, therobot
System: the match began, and fifteen players soared into the sky. Roger Davies, Ravenclaw’s Chaser, snatched the Quaffle first, but Harry’s focus was elsewhere. As Gryffindor’s Seeker, his sole mission was the Golden Snitch.
“Hey, Harry! Check the commentary box!” Wood shouted, zooming past on his broom.
Harry glanced up. Alongside Lee Jordan and Professor McGonagall sat an unfamiliar man, deep in conversation with the professor.
“That’s O’Hare!” George bellowed, smacking a Bludger toward a Ravenclaw Chaser. “Captain of the Kenmare Kestrels! He’s here for you!”
Harry’s memory clicked. Seamus had raved about the Kestrels, a team beloved by many British wizards, and urged Harry to consider joining.
“Hold on, George,” Harry called, gripping his broom tightly.
He accelerated—fast. The Nimbus 2000, the finest broom on the market, propelled him downward in a dizzying dive. Gasps rippled through the stands as Harry plummeted, seemingly intent on crashing into the earth. Some spectators covered their eyes, bracing for disaster.
“…Sixty feet! Fifty! Forty!” Lee Jordan’s voice boomed, rapid and frantic. “Harry’s still diving! Has he spotted the Snitch? Ravenclaw’s Cho Chang looks confused—wait, she’s following him!”
“Harry’s accelerating! Merlin’s beard, he’s still going! Twenty feet left!” Lee’s shout became a roar. “Ten feet! Five—a flip! Incredible flip!”
“Gryffindor Seeker Harry Potter has caught the Golden Snitch!” Lee bellowed, his voice nearly lost in the crowd’s uproar. “What a heart-stopping stop! One misstep, and he could’ve broken his neck! I can’t believe it!”
The stands exploded in cheers and screams, drowning out even the amplified commentary. Professor McGonagall, usually quick to scold Lee for his theatrics, was too busy gesturing animatedly to the man beside her—O’Hare, presumably—her face flushed with excitement. The Kestrels’ captain mirrored her enthusiasm, speaking rapidly.
On the pitch, Harry stood, one hand steadying his broom, the other raised high. The Golden Snitch gleamed in his grip, its golden hue a testament to victory. He glanced at George, who spread his hands in a helpless shrug, as if to say, What more is there to say?
In just two minutes and fourteen seconds, Harry had seized the Snitch, ending the match in a blaze of glory.
A resounding triumph.
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
