Chapter 40: Gryffindor Grey

"What are you doing, Mr. Potter?"

A low, heavily sarcastic voice rang out from behind Harry, interrupting his focused manipulation of the caged star.

Harry jerked his head up, seeing a sweep of black robes looming like a shadow over his desk.

The professor named Snape was staring at him with a terrifying gaze that sent a chill straight to his bones.

Hastily shoving the caged star back into his robes, Harry stammered, "Uh... nothing, Professor, I..."

"Nothing?" Snape sneered, drawing out the syllables. "If I am not mistaken, you appear to have not the slightest interest in my Potions class, and would rather concentrate on... some sort of Muggle trinket."

A few low snickers rippled across the classroom, but Snape ignored them.

He leaned in slightly, drawing close to Harry's desk. "Mr. Potter, do you suppose your fame permits you to do as you please in my classroom? Or perhaps you believe that brewing a potion is less worthy of your effort than fiddling with a broken toy?"

"I... I didn't mean to..." Before Harry could invent a plausible excuse, Snape extended a hand and said coldly, "Hand it over."

"I..." Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second, but Snape's glare was too intimidating—for a fleeting moment, Harry felt as though the man wanted him dead. He had no choice but to brace himself, retrieve the caged star from his robes, and place it gingerly on the desk.

Snape bent down, his long, slender fingers pinching the caged star. He examined it briefly before letting out a scoff. "A toy to fool infants," he declared, his tone dripping with contempt. "Yet it managed to distract our Mr. Potter to the point where he did not even hear me calling his name on the roll."

"I was just..." Harry's face flushed crimson. He opened his mouth, but had no idea how to reply.

"Just?" Snape straightened up, pressing the attack as if he had seized upon a vulnerability. "Are you implying that this class is less entertaining than your little toy? If so, perhaps we could have Mr. Potter demonstrate how one brews a cure for the common cold using 'toys'."

A wave of low laughter erupted through the room. Hermione nudged Harry gently with her elbow, signaling him to stop explaining, but Harry clenched his teeth and gripped his fists tightly.

"It's not like that, Professor!" he finally blurted out, bracing himself. "I take your class very seriously, I was just... a little distracted."

"Distracted?" Snape's eyes narrowed slightly, his tone growing sharper still. "Then, to ensure Mr. Potter is no longer 'distracted,' perhaps I should deduct from Gryffindor—"

"Two points," Hermione blurted out. Those two points were ones she had worked exceptionally hard to accumulate over the past couple of days. "Professor, please forgive Harry's lapse, but he truly didn't mean it. I'm sure he will be much more focused on the rest of the lesson."

Snape turned slowly, looking at Hermione with a hint of surprise.

He fell silent for a moment, then smiled. "Two points? Gryffindor camaraderie is truly touching. However, I never said anything about five—Mr. Potter, for your distraction, five points from Gryffindor."

Harry's face burned even hotter. He stared down at his desk, filled with regret and anger.

He felt the gazes of the entire class pressing down on him like needles, but the sharpest prick of all was Snape's cold and disdainful expression.

"Now," Snape turned around, his eyes sweeping over the classroom, "I shall teach you the precise science and strict craftsmanship required to brew potions in this room. Since there is no foolish wand-waving here, many of you will fail to believe this is magic."

"I do not expect you to truly grasp the beauty of the simmering cauldron with its white wisps of smoke and drifting fragrances, nor will you truly understand the wondrous charm of liquids flowing through human veins, captivating the mind and bewildering the will... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death—provided you are not the stubborn blockheads and toy-obsessed children I so frequently have to endure, much like Mr. Potter."

"Next," Snape swept his robes and strode back to the podium, "we will be brewing a basic cure for boils. It is a simple potion, but quite sufficient to determine whether you possess any fundamental aptitude for potioneering."

With a flick of his wand, instructions and ingredients for the cure for boils appeared verbatim on the blackboard:

Cure for Boils
Ingredients: Dried nettles, horned slug mucus, crushed snake fangs, porcupine quills
Instructions:
1. Add dried nettles to the cauldron, heat over a low flame, and stir three times.
2. Add horned slug mucus and stir thoroughly until the mixture turns pale green.
3. Crush snake fangs and add them, stirring five times counter-clockwise.
4. Finally, add two drops of porcupine quill potion, stir once more, and the mixture will turn silver.

"Now," Snape surveyed the classroom, his voice chillingly cold, "begin. I trust at least some of you will manage to complete this simple task."

The students scrambled into action, gathering ingredients and lighting their cauldrons.

Harry quickly retrieved dried nettles from his ingredient box. Due to his nervousness, his hands trembled as he added the dried nettles to the cauldron according to the recipe.

Meanwhile, Ron, who was paired with him, was responsible for ingredient preparation—such as stewing the horned slugs and chopping dragon teeth.

"Stir three times," Harry muttered to himself, carefully agitating the contents of the cauldron.

He felt his movements were reasonably steady, but the addition of the slug mucus threw him off—the viscous liquid made stirring considerably more difficult.

"Counter-clockwise, five times," Hermione whispered a reminder. Her cauldron was already emitting a faint green luster.

"Thanks," Harry muttered back, mimicking Hermione's movements as he took the chopped snake fangs from Ron and added them. However, he noticed that his potion was not taking on the expected pale green, but rather leaned slightly yellow.

"Oh no," his heart sank, unsure of where he had gone wrong.

"Porcupine quill drops, two," Hermione whispered again. Her tone, though calm, carried a hint of urgency—she desperately wanted to avoid giving Snape any excuse to dock more points. Heaven knew how hard she had fought for those two points, and now not only were they gone, but three more were hanging in the balance.

Harry hurriedly grabbed the bottle of porcupine quill extract, dropped two drops in, and stirred again.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, his potion refused to turn silver, settling instead into a strange grayish-green.

At that moment, Snape had begun his patrol of the classroom.

He walked over to Harry's desk, glanced down into the cauldron, and smiled derisively.

"Grayish-green," Snape drawled slowly. "Mr. Potter, your creativity is truly refreshing. Perhaps we should name this shade 'Gryffindor Gray' to commemorate your extraordinary aptitude for potion-making?"

Malfoy and his cronies Crabbe and Goyle didn't even bother tending to their own cauldrons, covering their mouths and snickering quietly.

Snape did not stop there, continuing, "If you had applied yourself even slightly, Mr. Potter, you would find that stirring nettles requires an even pressure, rather than the frantic thrashing you displayed. Naturally, that requires a degree of focus—though I suppose you were far too busy contemplating how to play with your silly little toy in class."

"Professor..." Hermione spoke up softly, attempting to intercede on Harry's behalf, but Snape merely shot her a cold glance. "Miss Granger, unless your potion has attained a silver sheen, I would advise against wasting time making excuses for others."

Hermione pressed her lips tightly together, lowered her head, and refocused on her cauldron.

Snape straightened up and said coldly, "Mr. Potter, I trust that next time you will prove yourself somewhat more resembling a wizard than you have today."

Harry's hand tightened around his stirrer, but in the end, he said nothing.

Perhaps it was because he knew speaking up would only cost more points, or perhaps because... in the distance, Seamus and Neville's cauldron had tipped over, spilling potion all over the flagstone floor in a chaotic mess—as chaotic as a battlefield. Within seconds, all the students were forced to scramble up onto their stools.

All in all, Harry's first Potions class was anything but easy.

Not only had he lost points, but he had also had his birthday gift from Professor Morris confiscated.

"Cheer up," Ron comforted him. "Snape takes points off Fred and George all the time. Can I come with you to see Hagrid?"

With that, the three of them quickly packed their things. After afternoon classes ended, they crossed the castle corridors and lawns, heading toward the cabin on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Along the way, Ron tried hard to distract Harry with amusing anecdotes. Though Harry's spirits remained somewhat deflated, he at least stopped staring blankly at the stones along the path.

Hagrid's cabin sat at the boundary of the Forbidden Forest, a heavy wooden sign hanging by the door bearing a simple carved symbol—which they later learned Hagrid had carved himself.

Piled outside the cabin were several thick logs and empty wooden barrels, giving the impression that hard labor had just concluded.

"Hagrid!" Harry reached out and knocked on the thick wooden door, the muffled thuds echoing through the quiet air.

Seconds later, the door was pulled open with a yank, and the massive figure of Hagrid practically filled the entire doorframe.

His smile was warmer than sunlight, and his booming voice made their eardrums ring slightly: "Harry! Come on in!"