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HRHL# Chapter 136: Shocking Snape for a Whole Year {1}
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 17:23:04 +0000 UTCApart from Slytherin, no one enjoyed Potions class—this was an indisputable fact.
Even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, the two houses that Snape didn’t specifically target, shared the same sentiment.
But in truth, those who had graduated could somewhat understand Professor Snape’s mindset. After all, with potions, a single misstep could spell failure—or worse, turn the brew into poison.
A moment of laxity in class, missing a single detail or step, could easily become the primary reason for a future catastrophe—quite possibly one that blows up in your own face.
Friday afternoon’s Potions class at three o’clock was, as always, a grueling hour-and-a-half session. Just like in their first year, the Gryffindor students still had to share the classroom with the Slytherins.
After lunch, Neville sank into his pre-class anxiety.
“Harry…” Neville muttered, his gaze unfocused as he nibbled at his sandwich. “Oh Merlin, it’s Potions again… Potions…”
Harry patted Neville’s back with a touch of sympathy. He figured he should find a chance to talk to Professor Snape about Neville’s situation.
After all, it couldn’t go on like this forever. Neville already lacked confidence, and with Professor Snape’s relentless sharp tongue tearing him down, what little self-assurance he had in Potions was utterly nonexistent.
“Neville, you should hold your head up,” Ron said, clearly adopting the attitude of a dead pig unafraid of boiling water. “It’s just Potions, isn’t it? I don’t think Professor Snape’s all that scary. A few lost points, that’s all—Gryffindor doesn’t care…”
“Oh, really?” Neville and Snape said in unison.
Immediately, Neville sensed something was off.
He turned around and met Professor Snape’s dark, piercing eyes.
“Since Mr. Weasley doesn’t care about Gryffindor’s points, Gryffindor will lose three points. Have a pleasant day.”
With a smug quirk of his lips, Professor Snape turned and swept away, his robes billowing like a gust of wind.
Caught red-handed by Snape overhearing their conversation and docked three points without mercy, Ron felt his entire world crumble.
“Merlin’s beard! Why does he always manage to appear right behind us at the perfect moment?” Ron growled under his breath. “I swear he’s cast some kind of tracking charm on us, so it alerts him whenever we mention his name, and then he swoops in to dock points!”
“Ron, maybe keep it down a bit,” Hermione warned in a hushed tone. “Do you want him to catch you again? Merlin’s sake!”
Harry glanced up at Snape, now seated at the teacher’s desk, and confirmed he couldn’t hear them. Shrugging, he said, “I think Ron’s onto something. He’s like a ghost lurking behind us.”
Ron let out a snort of laughter but managed to hold it in.
He peeked up to check Snape’s position, saw that the professor wasn’t paying attention to their corner, and then hunched over the table, shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles.
Harry’s comment had cracked him up—“a ghost lurking behind us” was just too spot-on. It described Snape perfectly, not a single flaw in the analogy.
But Seamus’s next words silenced him cold.
“Laughing won’t help. We still have to go to Potions. Merlin, I wish there was some magical trick to help me master this class instantly.”
“Yeah,” Hermione added in a low voice. “I’m not even hoping for extra points—just that Snape doesn’t dock us any.”
Ron muttered under his breath, “If you’d just stop answering questions, Hermione, that’d be the best help for Gryffindor’s points.”
At Ron’s words, Hermione’s eyebrows shot up, and she glared at him, fuming.
Ron quickly turned his head away, avoiding her gaze.
This kid’s done for in this lifetime, Harry thought, shaking his head with a sigh.
No matter how much they dreaded Potions, they still had to face the music eventually.
As three o’clock approached, the Gryffindors trudged toward the classroom with heavy steps, a stark contrast to the Slytherins’ confident strides.
Before long, Professor Snape breezed into the room, his presence as commanding as ever.
Very dashing, in his own way.
Harry pulled his textbook closer, shielding it just in case Snape’s greasy hair flicked oil onto it when he tossed his head.
Snape, of course, noticed Harry’s little maneuver, though he couldn’t quite decipher what was going through the boy’s mind. Still, judging by the look on Harry’s face, Snape could maliciously guess well enough.
“This lesson,” Snape began softly, “we will learn how to brew a Weed-Killing Potion.”
He scanned the room, his eyes sweeping over the students, and forced a thin, strained smile.
“So, can anyone tell me what a Weed-Killing Potion is?”
The moment the question left his lips, Hermione’s hand shot up without hesitation.
Snape pointedly ignored her and turned his gaze to the Slytherin side.
To his surprise, another hand was raised.
It was Pansy Parkinson.
Snape didn’t mind letting a Slytherin answer—adding a few points to his own house was always a bonus.
“Miss Parkinson, you may answer,” he said, gesturing for her to stand.
Pansy rose confidently and replied, “The Weed-Killing Potion, also known simply as a herbicide, is a potion used to kill or remove plants. Its recipe can be found in Magical Drafts and Potions.”
A smile crept onto Snape’s face. He nodded approvingly. “Well done, Miss Parkinson. Five points to Slytherin. Now, can you tell me its ingredients?”
“To brew a Weed-Killing Potion,” Pansy answered smoothly, “you need the following ingredients: Flobberworm mucus, Horklump juice, and vibrating spine bones.”
She paused briefly, then added, “The ‘vibrating spine bones’ come from a mundane fish, not a magical creature. It’s commonly found in the ocean and is known as the ‘lionfish’ because its wide, fanned pectoral fins resemble a lion’s mane.”
“Excellent. Five more points to Slytherin,” Snape said, nodding with satisfaction.
Then, swiftly, he turned to Hermione.
“Miss Granger, tell me—where does one obtain Horklump juice?”
Hermione blinked, slightly caught off guard by Snape suddenly calling on her, but she didn’t hesitate. She rattled off her answer at breakneck speed: “Horklump juice is a substance extracted from the Horklump. It’s used in healing potions as well as the Weed-Killing Potion.”
“And what is a Horklump?” Snape pressed.
“The Horklump is a pest,” Hermione replied, her words tumbling out like rapid-fire cannonballs. “It resembles a fleshy pink mushroom covered in black bristles. Native to Scandinavia, it’s now widespread across Northern Europe. It uses its strong, sturdy tendrils to burrow underground in search of its favorite food—earthworms.”
She barely paused for breath, spilling everything she knew like beans from a tipped jar. “It reproduces rapidly, capable of overtaking an average-sized garden in mere days. Horklumps are a favorite delicacy of gnomes, and one of the few substances that can kill them is the venom of a Mackled Malaclaw. However, Mr. Scamander notes in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them that ‘Horklumps are a tasty treat for gnomes, but beyond that, no other use for them has been discovered.’”
Snape stared at Hermione impassively. When she finally finished, he drawled slowly, “Oh, what a learned young lady. It would be even better if you realized this is Potions class, not Fantastic Beasts. Gryffindor will lose two points for your showboating wasting class time.”
Ron let out a soft sigh that surprised no one, reaching up to rub his face in an attempt to keep any trace of pity from showing.
“Will sighing improve your potion-making skills, Mr. Talentless Troll?” Snape shot Ron a sharp glance, his eyes glinting like a blade.
Ron didn’t feel the least bit upset—Snape had only attacked him with words this time, not docked any points from Gryffindor.
“The Weed-Killing Potion—” Professor Snape’s voice softened to a deliberate drawl, “Miss Parkinson has already provided us with a detailed explanation, so I won’t waste time with unnecessary elaboration. You only need to understand its basic function.”
“Generally speaking, brewing the Weed-Killing Potion takes between forty-five and sixty minutes. Now, I’ll walk you through the specific steps.”
With that, Professor Snape flicked his wand, and the required ingredients materialized in front of the students.
“Step one: place four lionfish spines into the mortar and grind them.”
“Step two: add two measures of standard ingredient to the mortar and grind.”
“Step three: transfer three measures of the ground lionfish spine powder into the cauldron.”
“Step four: wave your wand and wait patiently.”
“Step five: add two drops of Horklump juice to your cauldron.”
“Step six: heat for ten seconds, then add two drops of Flobberworm mucus simultaneously.”
“Step seven: stir clockwise four times.”
“And finally, wave your wand to complete the Weed-Killing Potion.”
At this, Professor Snape surveyed the room, his greasy voice cutting through the air once more.
“Well—why aren’t you writing these steps down?”
At his words, some students jolted awake as if struck by a revelation, scrambling to jot down the instructions Snape had just rattled off.
Others, though, had been keeping pace all along—like Ron, who was clever enough to start scribbling the moment Snape opened his mouth.
Snape’s lips twitched faintly as he turned his gaze to Harry, who sat with his head bowed, lost in thought.
“Well, well, Mr. Potter,” Snape said, gliding over to Harry’s side. “Am I to assume you’ve already memorized every step I just described, which is why you’re sitting here so confidently, daydreaming?”
“Yes, Professor,” Harry replied, his tone neither servile nor defiant.
Snape let out a derisive humph, his eyes glinting with a look that clearly said, Let’s see what mess you concoct next.
Harry lifted his head, meeting Snape’s gaze with a supremely confident smile.
Potions bolstered by ancient magic were neither entirely scientific nor wholly magical…
Here’s hoping my dear old professor’s heart can handle it, Harry mused idly. Wouldn’t want him keeling over from shock—that’d be a pity.
When it came to brewing potions, ancient magic had a clear catalytic effect, speeding up the process—a discovery not his or Veratia’s, but one owed to Professor Percival Rackham’s teachings.
It was under Rackham’s guidance that he and Veratia had learned to shave time off potion-making.
“In pairs, begin brewing the Weed-Killing Potion,” Snape announced, glancing at the clock. “You have seventy minutes…”
At his command, the students’ heads dipped in unison.
Seventy minutes meant that, after accounting for the sixty minutes of brewing, they’d have just ten minutes to prepare their ingredients.
Ten minutes was, admittedly, plenty of time to grind lionfish spines—Horklump juice was pre-made, as was the Flobberworm mucus. All they needed was to measure out two drops of each and add them to the mix.
Harry, as usual, worked solo. Ron paired with Hermione, while Seamus stuck with Neville, as always.
Not that Seamus had any grounds to complain about Neville.
Sure, Neville was a walking disaster in Potions, but Seamus wasn’t exactly a saint in Charms—his knack for setting off explosions often left Neville caught in the blast, his little face smudged black like a nineteenth-century Irish coal miner.
Today, though, Harry had other plans.
“Need any help, Ron? Hermione?” he asked first.
“No thanks, Harry,” Hermione said with a smile, shooting Ron a warning glance.
Ron gave Harry a helpless grin, scrunching his face as he turned to tackle the potion ingredients.
“What about you two—need a hand?” Harry asked Seamus and Neville.
The pair nodded eagerly, as if terrified he’d retract the offer.
“You grind the lionfish spines,” Harry said, handing the materials to Seamus and Neville. “Leave the rest to me.”
They took the spines obediently and set to grinding with care.
Harry snapped his fingers, and flames roared to life beneath two cauldrons.
While his classmates’ cauldrons glowed with orange-yellow fire, his blazed a striking azure.
Snape, who’d been prowling the Slytherin side of the room, noticed the anomaly and strode over immediately.
He said nothing. Only a prodigy potions master could brew two cauldrons at once at this age—and this Potter…
Catching sight of Harry’s green eyes, Snape faltered for a moment.
But then he saw his face, and in his mind, he spat venomously: Potter!
Harry waved his wand, adding ingredients to the cauldrons with precision.
Snape watched in silence, motionless, like an undercover agent infiltrating a Death Eater stronghold.
Powder in, a brief pause.
Snape noted that Harry barely waited a few seconds before pouring in the Horklump juice.
“Need I remind you, Potter, that potion-making isn’t cooking?” Snape drawled greasily. “Add ingredients too quickly, and you might trigger a cascade of unintended consequences. Your old professor would hate to see you take after your little troll friend.”
Harry flicked his eyes up at Snape, then dropped them just as fast.
That single glance carried a clear message, one Snape interpreted as: What, you think you’re smarter than me?
Snape’s face darkened.
Potter, just like his father—lazy, arrogant!
But Harry didn’t slow down. His hands moved like lightning, the blue flames beneath his cauldrons flaring higher, nearly singeing Neville’s face.
After adding two drops of Flobberworm mucus, Harry guided the stirring rod clockwise four times, then waved his wand to extinguish the flames.
“Finished, Professor,” Harry said, looking up at Snape with an innocent expression.
Snape glanced at the clock.
Forty-five seconds, not a moment more or less.
“Good. Very good, Potter,” Snape said, a sinister smile curling his lips.
This time, it wouldn’t end with a mere ten-point deduction, Potter!
Inwardly, he seethed: Squandering your mother’s gift for potions—unforgivable…
With that thought, Snape leaned over the cauldron…
And froze.
The classroom fell into a hush, broken only by the faint grinding of mortar and pestle on lionfish spines.
Snape’s pupils contracted. He whipped his head toward Harry, then back to the cauldron, disbelief etched across his face.
Harry met Snape’s gaze and raised an eyebrow.
“How did you do it?” Snape’s voice came out sharp—still measured, but faster than his usual drawl.
He was genuinely stunned. Brewing two cauldrons at once paled in comparison to this earth-shattering speed.
Merlin’s beard, this turned everything a potions master knew upside down.
But to Snape, even that was trivial. He’d seen this pace before.
The last person to brew a potion this fast had been… someone tied to him, in a way.
Her name was Lily Evans.
No—not Potter!
Snape would never acknowledge her as Lily Potter. To him, she was only ever Lily Evans.
If Lily were still alive, perhaps he wouldn’t cling to her memory so fiercely. But she was gone, and Snape bore a guilt he couldn’t shake.
Twice over.
Or so he believed.
Every thought of Lily plunged him into a abyss of regret and shame, mingled with an endless longing for the white moonlight that had once illuminated his shadowed existence.
