The underground Potions classroom always reeked of something strange—a murky blend of simmering herbs, pickled animal parts, and the cold damp of stone.
Moisture clung to the walls, gleaming faintly under the jars of colorful, floating things lining the shelves.
Professor Snape glided between rows of cauldrons like a giant bat, black robes billowing silently. His icy gaze swept over each student's work. The room was so quiet that only the bubbling of potion and the soft scratch of quills filled the air.
In Harry and Draco's cauldron, a clear, pearlescent liquid bubbled in steady, tiny bursts.
They worked almost in perfect sync—measuring, grinding, stirring three and one-quarter turns clockwise—smooth, precise, wordless.
A few Slytherins nearby shot them looks ranging from envy to irritation.
The Gryffindors, on the other hand, were having a less peaceful time.
Neville Longbottom's cauldron was spewing ominous yellow-green smoke. He was sweating profusely, hands shaking so badly he could barely hold his pestle. Seamus Finnigan's potion sparked from time to time.
Hermione Granger sat not too far away, brow tightly furrowed, lips moving soundlessly as if reciting steps.
Her potion was close to the standard color, but murky—stirring it produced a sluggish drag.
She flipped through her textbook again, comparing it with her meticulous notes.
Harry's gaze passed over her without a ripple.
Thick brown curls frizzed in the damp basement air. Her front teeth seemed even more noticeable than he remembered. Every line of her posture screamed nervous and must get it right.
A fragment of his past life struck him without warning—
the library stacked high with books,
Ron muttering "she's a nightmare,"
and that tear-choked confession:
"I'm just a horrible know-it-all… a hideous one…"
He extinguished the emotion at once.
Useless.
Now, she wasn't a lonely, bookish girl who needed friends.
She was… a tool. A highly valuable one.
Bright, disciplined, extraordinary memory, and nearly blind obedience to authority. Guided properly, she'd be a very sharp blade. Far more useful than the impulsive Weasley.
As for whether she had known anything in the previous life, whether she had tried to help…
A shard of cold light flashed through Harry's eyes.
That didn't matter.
What mattered was that she was a blank sheet now—one he could write whatever he needed on.
Snape drifted to Hermione's side, peered into her cauldron, and spoke in a low rasp that somehow reached every nearby ear:
"Excessive stirring, Miss Granger. It appears memorization cannot replace the most basic sense of technique. Gryffindor loses one point—for this… liquid that barely qualifies as a potion."
Hermione's face flushed scarlet. Her lips pressed white with humiliation and stubborn defiance, but she said nothing.
Snape huffed and swept away.
Harry watched her sniff sharply, then begin chopping ginger root with even more force—as if fighting an enemy.
Perfect timing.
When the bell rang, Snape assigned a mountain of essays and dismissed them to a chorus of groans. Chaos erupted as students began packing up.
Hermione scrambled to clean her cauldron, stuffing books into her oversized bag, clearly intent on fleeing to the library to fix her mistakes.
Harry moved faster.
Packing his things, he murmured to Draco, "Wait for me," then walked toward Hermione with his flawless potion vial in hand, as if by chance.
She was still scraping residue from her cauldron.
"Your counterclockwise stir was two seconds late," Harry said calmly—not loud, but crystal clear. "After adding the armadillo bile. The textbook is vague, but bile causes a brief thickening reaction with the soporific juice. It's better to start stirring half a second early—and a bit harder."
Hermione jerked her head up, eyes wide behind her lenses, still damp with embarrassment. "W–what?"
Harry nudged her open copy of Magical Drafts and Potions toward her, pointing at a line. "Here. 'Slow counterclockwise stirring,' but it doesn't account for the immediate viscosity change."
She looked from the page to Harry's impassive face, then to his perfectly shimmering potion, then to her own murky failure.
"How did you even know that?" she blurted, voice full of desperate curiosity. "I mean—do you have a reference? Besides, um… practical intuition?"
She clearly hated admitting that experience could trump the written word.
"Observation," Harry said simply. "Try preheating the bile on a silver spoon before adding it. Makes the reaction clearer."
Hermione's eyes lit up instantly, like an explorer discovering a new continent. "Preheat? Right! That would lower the viscosity and help mixing—why didn't I think of that?" She fell into a frenzy of academic excitement, gesturing unconsciously.
Harry watched silently.
She had taken the bait.
"Thank you, Potter!" Hermione finally said, returning to herself, her tone warm and sincere, almost grateful to have found a kindred mind. "Really—thank you! That tip is brilliant! I'm absolutely trying it next time!" She snatched a scrap of parchment and a quill. "Can I write this down? What temperature? What stirring speed?"
"Just warm, not hot. And keep your speed steady," Harry replied, watching her scribble. "Your notes are thorough, but you can't rely entirely on steps."
Hermione froze for a moment—caught.
Then flushed, then recovered. "You're right! Practical knowledge! Honestly, I used to depend too much on the textbook…"
She hesitated, then asked excitedly, "Do you study potions a lot? You always finish early, and your results are always amazing…"
"Not particularly," Harry cut her off lightly, inserting just the right hint of distance. "Just noticed a few things. You work on your notes—I'm heading out."
He walked away, leaving Hermione staring at her parchment and cauldron, torn between revelation and reluctant admiration.
Draco was waiting against a stone pillar, arms crossed, expression neutral but eyes gleaming with amusement. When Harry reached him, they fell into step.
"Preheated bile?" Draco raised a brow, voice low for Harry alone. "Funny, I don't recall us 'discovering' that. Sounds like something that old walrus Slughorn would brag about."
Harry didn't look at him. "It works."
"Tsk. Rebirth really has made you a potions master." Draco glanced back at Hermione, still lost in thought. "Granger? Not a bad target. A thousand times better than that redheaded troll."
His tone carried his usual disdain for anyone not a Slytherin, but he didn't object to Harry's choice.
"She's useful," Harry repeated, as if convincing himself.
"Sure she is," Draco snorted. "And watching her go all 'oh wow Potter you're amazing' is… admittedly entertaining." He smirked, then gave Harry a sidelong look. "But you're sure you want to poke at her? She's the clingy type. And she hates dishonesty. If she notices anything—"
"She won't." Harry's voice cut cold and sure. "She'll see exactly what she wants to see—a talented classmate willing to share knowledge."
Draco chuckled. "Fine. Want me to play the villain? Next time she comes over, I could drop a few insults—'Mudblood' and whatnot. Make her more grateful to you. Feel like you're the only one who appreciates her."
It was cruel, realistic, and undeniably Malfoy. But there was a hint of testing in his tone.
Harry stopped walking for a beat. "Draco."
Draco blinked, then shrugged lightly. "All right. 'Muggle-born little genius'? Respectful enough?"
"No need to do anything." Harry resumed walking. "Just stay the same."
"Stay the same?" Draco drawled, grinning. "Arrogant, snide, and superior Malfoy heir? I can do that."
He sped up to match Harry's pace and elbowed him lightly. "What if I give her guidance too? Tell her bile works better frozen for an 'extra dramatic' effect?"
Harry shot him a glare.
Draco burst into laughter, loud enough that a few Ravenclaws ahead turned around.
He ignored them, laughing until his shoulders shook. "Kidding! Wouldn't ruin your grand scheme." After calming, he leaned a little closer, voice still warm with amusement. "Seriously though—if you need help, just say the word."
Harry didn't reply.
They descended the stairs, turning toward the dungeons.
The Potions classroom faded behind them—along with the Muggle-born witch who now carried the first seed he had planted.
Draco kept chattering beside him—planning how he could "accidentally" read an advanced potions text in the library to lure Hermione over, or maybe hint at Snape's annotated notes—lighthearted, like he was plotting a game.
Harry listened in silence—half focused on Draco's schemes, half calmly calculating the weight of Hermione Granger as a chess piece and how, exactly, he would make the first move.
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