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Chapter 56 — The Dungeon and the Gentleman
Although Harry often worried about their vault at Gringotts running dry someday, he didn't think a pet would be too much trouble.
After all, even his Hedwig had been a gift from Hagrid.
"Me? I don't really like keeping pets," Darren said after a pause, shaking his head.
He had no plans to raise something that would eat, shed, or cost him Galleons.
Another mouth to feed was the last thing he needed.
"Don't like them?" Harry blinked. "That can't be right. You're… well, you're you. You'd probably make a Kneazle purr itself to sleep."
But Darren just smiled faintly.
Harry frowned, remembering something one of the Slytherins had said — that Darren had once defended Professor McGonagall's tabby cat from Malfoy.
Maybe he did like cats but just didn't want to admit it.
Harry decided right then that when he could afford it, he'd buy Darren one.
At least then his brother wouldn't have to sit alone every night in the Slytherin common room.
He sighed, still not understanding why the Sorting Hat had separated them.
Why Slytherin for Darren? He should have been in Gryffindor with him.
Trying to shake off the thought, Harry unfolded the note he'd just received.
The handwriting was crooked and smudged, but unmistakable.
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Dear Harry,
I know you don't have classes Friday afternoon. If you can, come down around three o'clock.
I'd love to hear how your first week's been. Bring Darren too — poor lad, I only noticed him after term started.
– Hagrid
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Harry's face lit up.
"Darren! Hagrid wants to see us this afternoon!"
Darren read the note, his eyes curving with a gentle smile.
"I'd love to go."
"That's brilliant!" Harry grabbed Ron's quill and scribbled on the back of the parchment:
'Darren and I would both love to visit you this afternoon.'
Then he handed the message to Hedwig.
"Take this to Hagrid, girl."
Hedwig gave an approving hoot and soared off through the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling.
Harry glanced at his timetable. "So, what lessons do we have today?"
He frowned. "Two Potions classes with Slytherin. I've heard Snape favors his own House and has a terrible temper."
Darren shook his head gently. "It's Professor Snape — and he's actually quite kind."
Kind was… not quite the word most would use, but for Darren it was true.
Snape had never once raised his voice at him.
As for Harry — well, that was another matter.
"Alright, alright — Professor Snape," Harry said with a sigh, unaware that this very class would one day become his least favorite subject.
---
Potions was held in the dungeons — cold, dimly lit, and lined with shelves of glass jars.
Preserved creatures floated in dark liquids, and the smell of herbs, smoke, and rot hung thick in the air.
Darren sat quietly in the back with Kassandra.
Her frosty demeanor kept others at bay, which suited him just fine.
Though she clearly liked him, Darren couldn't help but notice her idea of "affection" was… complicated.
It felt like she enjoyed watching him get into trouble just to see how he'd handle it.
Still, even she seemed tense today.
Everyone in Slytherin was eyeing him strangely — with the kind of expression that said We'll deal with you later.
Even Betsy and Kassandra herself gave him sidelong looks.
Malfoy was grinning like a Kneazle in cream.
Anyone else might have been worried. Darren, however, was oddly amused.
After all, if the Slytherins decided to "punish" him tonight, that meant more opportunities to play the saintly martyr — and rack up Father Points.
He almost smiled just thinking about it.
Then—
BANG!
The classroom door flew open so hard it slammed against the wall.
Every head turned.
A figure in black robes swept inside, fabric billowing behind him like a shadow come to life.
"You are here to learn," Snape's silken voice cut through the room.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even… stop death — if you are not as foolish as most who come through these doors."
The class was utterly silent.
Then, suddenly:
"Potter!"
Harry jerked upright in his seat, startled.
"What would I get," Snape said, eyes narrowing, "if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
"I… I don't know, sir."
Snape's mouth curved into something that might have been a smirk.
"Fame clearly isn't everything."
Hermione's hand shot up like a firework, trembling with eagerness.
Snape ignored her completely.
"Let's try again. Potter, where would you find a bezoar?"
Harry looked blankly at him, panic starting to rise.
Malfoy and his goons were already snickering behind their hands.
Hermione's hand went even higher.
Ron looked just as lost.
Only Darren was whispering urgently across the aisle, mouthing something Harry couldn't make out.
"I don't know, sir."
"Third question, then," Snape said, his voice sharp as a knife. "What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Harry blinked helplessly. "I don't know. But Hermione does — why not ask her?"
"Sit. Down."
Snape's robes flared as he turned, voice cold as steel.
"Let me enlighten you, Potter. Asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping draught so powerful it's known as the Draught of Living Death. Bezoars are found in the stomachs of goats, and monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant — also known as aconite."
He paused, eyes narrowing. "Why aren't you writing this down?"
Before Harry could answer, Snape sneered.
"Ten points from Gryffindor — for striking a professor."
Harry's jaw dropped. "What?!"
Snape only raised an eyebrow.
From the Slytherin side, Darren sat very still, his expression perfectly calm — though inwardly, he sighed.
So much for "gentle."
Even saints, it seemed, couldn't save Harry from Potions class.
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