Chapter 26: Slytherin's Rules
The Slytherin common room was a long, narrow underground hall.
The ceiling was very low, at least five meters lower than the Great Hall, but the area was quite large.
The walls were rough stone, with a fine layer of moisture on the surface—because it was right next to the Black Lake, the humidity was heavy.
Several silver chandeliers hung overhead, emitting a dark green light.
There was a row of windows on the right wall.
Outside the windows was not the sky, but water.
The bottom of the Black Lake.
At this time, nothing could be seen, only a pitch-black expanse of water and the occasional drifting waterweed.
In the very center was a long table, shorter than the one in the Great Hall, but more exquisite.
It was dark oak, with snake patterns carved into the table legs.
High-backed chairs with green velvet seats were placed on both sides of the table.
The fireplace was on the innermost wall, and the flames were green.
Not the green of Floo powder, but a deeper, heavier dark green.
There were already people in the common room.
The older students had arrived before the first-years—they had their own routes and didn't need a prefect to lead them.
About twenty or so people were scattered throughout the common room.
Some were sitting on the sofas in front of the fireplace, some were leaning against the windows, and some were standing in corners whispering to each other.
When the first-years walked in, everyone's gaze turned towards them.
Not looking at the first-years.
Looking at one specific person among the first-years.
The news had already spread throughout Slytherin during the banquet.
The incident with the Sorting Hat smoking.
The incident on the train.
The incident in Diagon Alley.
The three incidents combined to form a complete picture—the younger son of Malfoy Family was something that couldn't be measured by conventional wisdom.
When Cassius walked in, the conversation in the common room dropped a level.
It didn't stop completely, but the volume changed from normal conversation to whispering.
Farley stood at the entrance, her back to the stone wall, facing all the first-years.
"Welcome to Slytherin." Her voice wasn't loud, but in the basement environment, the echo was very good, "Here, you need to know a few unwritten rules."
She held up a finger.
"First, internal conflicts are not to be brought outside.
No matter how you bicker among yourselves, once you step out of this door, Slytherin is a whole.
Not fighting back when bullied by people from other houses is more shameful than being bullied."
A second finger.
"Second, respect your seniors.
This doesn't mean letting you be servile, it means letting you know what should be asked and what shouldn't, what occasions to speak, and what occasions to shut up."
A third finger.
"Third—"
She glanced at Cassius.
This glance lasted a little longer than she had expected.
She withdrew her gaze and continued.
"Third, strength speaks.
This is not Hufflepuff, we don't do that tender, sentimental stuff here.
If you have the ability, people will naturally follow you.
If you don't have the ability, recognize your position early."
After finishing, she stepped aside.
"The boys' dormitory is on the left, the girls' on the right.
Your names are on your respective beds.
Your luggage has already been moved."
The first-years began to walk toward their respective dormitories.
Draco walked beside Cassius, muttering: "This common room is too dark, didn't my father say there were crystal chandeliers back in the day? These broken lamps—"
"Draco."
Draco shut up.
Cassius didn't immediately walk toward the dormitory.
He stopped in the center of the common room.
His gaze was scanning the space.
Not looking at the decor.
Looking at the people.
On the sofa next to the fireplace on the left sat three people.
Older students, judging by the wear on their school robes, at least fourth-year or above.
The biggest one in the middle, Cassius recognized—Adrian Pucey.
Sixth year.
A Chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch team.
Flint's teammate.
Pucey was looking at him.
There was scrutiny in his gaze, curiosity, and something else—not hostility, closer to a "watching the show" mentality.
He had probably heard about Flint's encounter on the train and was weighing what kind of caliber this first-year in front of him was.
Two people were standing by the window on the right.
Seventh years.
Cassius didn't know their names, but he could judge some things from their positioning—these two were consciously standing at the "high ground" of the common room, the position by the window had the best view and could see the entire hall.
This was declaring territory.
In Slytherin's social structure, the allocation of positions in the common room was not random.
The best sofa by the fireplace belonged to the leader.
The position by the window belonged to the second-in-command or the lone wolf.
The corner was a place for people with no presence.
The long table was a public area, but the people sitting at the head of the table were usually prefects or the most influential students in the year.
Cassius went through this information.
It took about three seconds.
Then he walked toward the fireplace.
Not toward the sofa next to the fireplace.
Toward the single chair directly in front of the fireplace, the largest one with silver snakes carved on the armrests.
This chair was empty.
In Slytherin's default rules, the chair directly in front of the fireplace belonged to the prefect or the student with the highest status in the year.
No one would sit on it on the first day of enrollment—this wasn't just a chair, this was a statement of position.
Cassius sat down.
His movements were very natural.
There was no intentionally provocative meaning, nor was there the flamboyance of "I'm just here to occupy the seat."
He just walked in front of that chair and then sat down.
Just like walking into his own living room and sitting in the chair he usually sat in.
As a matter of course.
The whispering in the common room stopped.
Pucey looked at the way Cassius sat in that chair, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
He turned his head to look at his two companions beside him.
The three of them exchanged a look.
Draco walked to Cassius's side and sat down on an ordinary chair nearby.
Crabbe and Goyle stood behind.
From the outside, this standing position looked like a—
Like a small power center.
"Are you sure you want to sit there?" Zabini's voice came from the side.
He was leaning against a stone pillar, his hands in his robe pockets.
His tone was very casual, as if he were chatting about the weather.
Cassius glanced at him.
Zabini's positioning in the original work was the "smart centrist."
Doesn't take sides, doesn't cause trouble, but isn't easy to mess with either.
His mother had married seven husbands, each of whom died inexplicably, leaving behind a large fortune.
Zabini grew up in this environment, and his observation skills were far beyond his peers.
"Is there a problem?" Cassius asked.
Zabini shrugged.
"No.
Just reminding you—Flint's friends might have a different opinion about this chair."
After he finished speaking, he left.
Walking toward the dormitory.
His pace was neither fast nor slow, and his back looked very relaxed.
This person knew how to protect himself.
Cassius made a mental note.
Draco frowned as he watched Zabini's back:
"What does he mean?
Flint's friends?
Does someone like Flint even have friends?"
"Yes." Cassius said,
"But he didn't mean to warn me to be careful of Flint's friends.
He was confirming whether I knew what I was doing."
"Then do you know?"
"I know."
Cassius closed his eyes.
Chapter 27: Stay Away From Him
Cassius leaned back against the chair. The backrest was hard, and the stone base was covered with a thin layer of leather padding. It was not very comfortable. But the location was good. Sitting here, one could see the entrance to the common room, the fireplace, the long tables, and the corridors leading to the dormitories on both sides.
A full view.
He did not wait long.
Pucey, who was on the sofa by the fireplace, stood up. He did not walk over directly. He first went to the long table, poured a glass of water, took a sip, and then slowly strolled over to the front of Cassius's chair.
Pucey was at least thirty centimeters taller than Cassius. Sixth year, sixteen years old, with a sturdy build—the physique of someone who played Quidditch year-round. He stood in front of the chair, looking down at the seated Cassius.
"You are Lucius's youngest son."
It was not a question. It was a statement.
"Mm." Cassius did not stand up.
"My name is Adrian Pucey. Sixth year. Flint's teammate."
"Mm."
Pucey waited a moment. He probably expected Cassius to have more of a response—an introduction, an explanation, or at least show a little of the attitude due to an upperclassman.
There was nothing.
Only a "Mm."
The corner of Pucey's mouth twitched.
"Flint is in the Hospital Wing," he said. "One of his front teeth is broken, and another is loose. Madam Pomfrey says it will take two days to grow back."
"Mm."
"His two friends still have headaches. The aftereffects of that magical shock will probably last until tomorrow."
"Mm."
Pucey took a deep breath.
He wanted to get angry. As Flint's teammate and friend, he certainly had enough reason to be angry upon learning that Flint had had his front teeth smashed by a first-year student with a pumpkin juice bottle, and that his other two companions had been insta-killed.
But he didn't.
Because before walking over, he had done something Flinthadn't—he had carefully recalled all the rumors about Cassius Malfoy.
Diagon Alley. Blowing out a ten-meter deep crater with his bare hands.
The ice cream shop. Releasing magic to force back the Half-giant Hagrid.
On the train. Sitting still and pushing people away. Snapping his fingers to lock others' wands. Using a pumpkin juice bottle as a ranged weapon. Using Wandless Magic with both hands simultaneously to insta-kill two people.
Piecing this information together painted a very clear conclusion: in this common room, no one—not even the seventh years—could be certain of taking down this ten-year-old boy in a direct confrontation.
Pucey was not Flint. He would not make a move without a chance of winning.
He wasn't here to pick a fight, either.
He was here to test the waters.
"That chair," Pucey pointed at the thing under Cassius's backside, "is usually for the prefect. When Farley isn't here, Flint sits in it. When Flint isn't here—" He paused, "no one has ever sat in it."
"Now someone is sitting in it," Cassius said.
Pucey looked at him.
The two stared at each other for about four seconds.
In those four seconds, Pucey was making a judgment. He was judging whether the person sitting in the chair was acting on impulse or with careful consideration. If it was impulse, he could use his status and experience as an upperclassman to suppress him—not through force, but on a social level.
But there was no impulse in Cassius's eyes.
Those gray-blue eyes were as calm as a pool of stagnant water. No provocation, no unease, no "what are you going to do" probing.
Only one thing.
Certainty.
He was very certain that he should be sitting here.
Pucey made a decision.
He nodded. The movement was small. Then he turned and walked back to the sofa.
His two companions watched him sit back down.
"How did it go?" the one on the left asked in a low voice.
Pucey didn't answer. He placed his water glass on the coffee table and leaned back against the sofa.
"Stay away from him from now on," he said.
The one on the left was stunned. "You mean—"
"Did you not understand what I said?"
Those two stopped asking.
The atmosphere in the common room underwent a subtle shift at that moment. Pucey was the one in charge among the Slytherin middle years when Flint wasn't around. His attitude determined the attitude of most of the upperclassmen.
He chose not to mess with Cassius.
This signal was more direct than any words.
Draco leaned back in his chair and said in a volume only Cassius could hear: "Was he here to give you trouble just now?"
"No."
"Then what was he here for?"
"To see if I'm worth making way for."
Draco thought for a moment. "And the conclusion?"
"What do you think?"
Draco looked at how Pucey looked after sitting back down, looked at how the other upperclassmen were each busy with their own things with their heads down, and looked at how no one in the entire common room was casting glances in this direction anymore.
He understood.
The conclusion was "worth it."
The green flames in the fireplace danced, casting alternating light and shadow on Cassius's face. He sat on that silver-snake armchair, his expression exactly the same as it had been in the train compartment.
Eleven years old. The first day of school.
He sat in the highest-positioned chair in the Slytherincommon room, and there was no opposition.
Not because they agreed with him.
It was because they had weighed the cost of opposition.
And then reached the same conclusion as Pucey.
Cassius sat in the chair for about twenty minutes. It wasn't until the first years had all gone to the dormitories one after another, and the upperclassmen had mostly dispersed, that he stood up.
"Let's go," he said to Draco.
The brothers walked toward the first-year boys' dormitory.
The dormitory was a long, narrow stone room with six four-poster beds with curtains arranged along the walls. Green curtains, silver bedsheets. On the nightstand of each bed sat a small oil lamp, emitting a faint green light.
Cassius's bed was the furthest inside, near the corner. This position was the most secluded, but also the safest—behind him was a solid stone wall, and no one would be able to approach from behind.
His trunk had already been placed at the foot of the bed.
He did not open the trunk. He took off his robes, hung them on the bedpost, and then sat on the edge of the bed.
Draco's bed was next to his. There was a distance of about a meter between the two beds. Draco had already changed into his pajamas—silk, dark green, with a small "M" embroidered on the collar. A custom piece from Malfoy Family.
"Cassius." Draco called out before pulling the curtains shut.
"What?"
"What's the first class tomorrow?"
"Potion Class. With Gryffindor."
Draco snorted. "With Gryffindor? How unlucky. Have to see Potter and Weasley's faces again."
"Go to sleep."
The curtains were pulled shut.
The lights in the dormitory went out one by one. Crabbe's snoring started three minutes later. Goyle's followed five minutes later. Nott was as quiet as if he didn't exist. Zabiniturned over twice, then went silent too.
Cassius lay on the bed, his eyes open.
Outside the curtains was a faint dark green glow—moonlight reflected from the surface of the Black Lakeshining in through the narrow window in the stone wall.
His hand rested on his chest. Beneath his palm, the [Dual-Soul Furnace] was running at low speed.
"Hum—"
A very light sound. Only he could hear it.
Tomorrow, Potion Class.
Snape.
Chapter 28: Dungeons
Breakfast was in the Great Hall.
Cassius woke up at 6:40. Everyone else in the dorm was still asleep. Crabbe's snoring had continued from last night until now, without a single second of interruption. Cassiussuspected that this person's respiratory tract was as tough as his stomach.
He washed up, changed into his school robes, and left the dormitory. There was no one in the common room. The green fire in the fireplace was still burning, but the light was dimmer—probably some kind of automatic adjustment, weakening at night and recovering during the day.
The stone wall opened, and he walked out.
The temperature in the underground corridor was lower than in the common room. The torches on the walls were the standard orange-yellow—only the interior of Slytherinused green tones; the outside was a uniform warm light. Footsteps echoed in the stone corridor, and apart from that, there was no other sound.
Cassius climbed two flights of stairs, made three turns, and arrived at the Great Hall.
There were only a dozen people in the Great Hall. Most were early-rising upperclassmen, scattered across the four long tables. The staff table was almost empty, with only a short, plump Witch sitting at the far right—probably Professor Sinistra from Astronomy.
Cassius sat down in the middle section of the Slytherinlong table. Food automatically appeared on the silver plate in front of him—toast, fried eggs, bacon, grilled tomatoes, and a pitcher of pumpkin juice.
He ate two slices of toast and a fried egg.
Halfway through his meal, someone sat down opposite him.
Zabini.
This person's schedule was about ten minutes later than Cassius's. His hair was neatly combed, and his school robes were worn meticulously, but there was a faint shade of blue under his eyelids—he hadn't slept well.
Zabini did not greet Cassius. He poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice, helped himself to a few slices of bacon, and started eating.
The two of them ate their own meals across the table.
About five minutes later.
"Potion Class starts at eight," Zabini said.
He didn't look up. His tone was as if he were talking to himself.
"In the dungeons," he added, "Professor Snape. With Gryffindor."
Cassius glanced at him.
Zabini's way of socializing was interesting. He didn't ask questions, didn't express opinions, and didn't take the initiative to get close. He simply "provided information." The benefit of this approach was: if the other party didn't respond, he lost nothing; if the other party did respond, he naturally established a layer of connection.
A transaction with neither loss nor gain.
"Got it," Cassius said.
Zabini nodded and continued eating his bacon.
At 7:40, Draco arrived late. His hair was slicked back with styling Potion, shiny and smooth, with every strand plastered back. Crabbe and Goyle followed behind him, their cheeks bulging—they had started eating on the way, each holding an apple they had swiped from somewhere in the common room.
"Cassius, why didn't you wait for me?" Draco sat down next to him with a thud.
"You aren't a three-year-old child."
"I meant walking together—forget it." Draco quickly gave up on pursuing the matter and started piling food onto his plate. "First period is Potion Class today, with Gryffindor. My father said Professor Snape is our Dean, he will take care of us."
Cassius did not respond to this.
Whether Snape would "take care" of him was hard to say.
Last night in the Great Hall, the look Snape gave him was not the gaze of a Dean looking at his own student. That look contained evaluation, vigilance, and something else that was hard to define—probably similar to how he looked at Harry Potter, just for different reasons.
Snape hated Harry because of James Potter.
Snape was wary of Cassius because—
He saw a variable that exceeded his ability to control.
To a former Death Eater and current spy, the three words "uncontrollable" were more unsettling than "hostility."
Five minutes to eight. The first-year Slytherins and Gryffindors converged in the dungeon corridor.
The dungeons were at the very bottom of the Castle, two levels deeper than the Slytherin common room. The corridor was narrower, the ceiling lower, the torches on the walls were spaced further apart, and the places where the light didn't reach were patches of shadow. The air had a mixed smell—the dampness of stone, the residue of old Potions, and the spiciness of some unknown herb.
The Gryffindor students had arrived first.
Harry and Ron stood together. Ron didn't look well—when he saw Cassius appear at the end of the corridor, his whole body leaned towards Harry. It wasn't a conscious movement; it was a conditioned reflex of the body.
That push on the train had left him with aftereffects. Not physical—if Madam Pomfrey checked, she wouldn't find any injuries. It was neurological. His body remembered the feeling of "an invisible force rushing from the front, and then the whole person losing control of the ground."
This memory was triggered the moment he saw Cassius's face.
Hermione stood on the other side of Harry. She was holding a copy of Magical Drafts and Potions in her hands, cover facing out. She was reading, but the speed at which she turned the pages was too fast—she wasn't reading; she was using the action of "reading a book" to make herself look busy, so as to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
The temperature in the corridor dropped by about half a degree because of Cassius's arrival.
It wasn't a leak of magic. It was the perceived temperature of the crowd. Everyone tensed up.
The classroom door opened.
No one pushed the door. The door opened by itself. From the inside.
Behind the door was a stone room darker than the corridor. There were no windows. The lighting came from a dozen green-bronze wall lamps, the light dim and yellow, failing to reach the corners. In the center of the room were two rows of long workbenches, with cauldrons, scales, mortars, and various knives placed on the tabletops. The shelves against the wall were densely packed with glass bottles—inside the bottles were liquids of various colors and unrecognizable biological tissues.
The students filed in.
The Slytherins sat on the left, the Gryffindors on the right. This wasn't a rule; it was the default. The students from the two houses walked into the classroom like two incompatible streams of water, automatically separating.
Cassius sat by the wall in the second row on the left. Dracosat to his left, and Zabini sat in the row in front. Nott sat in the corner of the back row.
After everyone was seated, the classroom was quiet for about ten seconds.
Then the door closed.
It closed by itself, too.
A "pop" sound. The sound of the door panel hitting the door frame echoed twice in the stone room.
Snape appeared.
He didn't walk in from the door. He walked out from a side door at the back of the classroom—that door was hidden behind a medicine shelf, and if you didn't pay attention, you wouldn't see it at all.
Black robes. Black hair. Aquiline nose. The expression on his face was somewhere between "gloomy" and "annoyed." His posture while walking was very distinctive—his strides weren't large, but his speed was fast, his robes unfurling behind him, dragging a black arc in the air.
He walked to the podium at the front of the classroom and turned to face the students.
No "Hello everyone." No "Welcome to Potion Class."
He picked up a roster and started taking roll.
His voice was very low. Every time he read a name, he looked at the corresponding student with those black eyes. The time he looked wasn't long, but it was enough to make the person being looked at feel uncomfortable.
"Blaise Zabini."
"Here."
"Theodore Nott."
"Here."
"Draco Malfoy."
"Here." Draco's voice was a bit louder than usual. He wanted to show off in front of his Dean.
Chapter 29: The Classic Potion Class
Snape's gaze rested on Draco for less than a second. Lucius's eldest son. He knew him. Blond hair, pointed chin, a carbon copy of his father.
"Cassius Malfoy."
When Snape spoke this name, his lips moved a fraction of a second slower than when he spoke the other names.
"Here."
Snape looked at Cassius.
Their gazes met in the dimly lit classroom.
What did Snape see?
A boy with a relaxed posture. His back wasn't straight, leaning slightly against the chair. His hands rested on the desk, fingers interlaced. His expression was neutral. Grey-blue eyes looked back at him, neither evasive nor challenging.
Snape searched within those eyes.
What was he searching for?
He wasn't sure himself. Perhaps he was looking for something familiar—arrogance, fear, ambition, anger. These were emotions he commonly saw in students' eyes.
He didn't find it.
There was no particular emotion in Cassius's eyes. It wasn't 'hidden'—Snape was a master of Occlumency; he could distinguish between 'hidden emotions' and 'nonexistent emotions.'
This child wasn't feigning calm. He simply was calm.
Snape shifted his gaze away.
He continued reading the list.
"Harry Potter."
The way Snape spoke this name was completely different from the others. He paused. The angle of his mouth changed—downward.
"Ah, yes," he said. "Harry Potter. Our—new celebrity."
A few Slytherin students snickered. Draco laughed the loudest.
Harry's face flushed. He sat in the front row on the Gryffindor side, squeezed in next to Ron.
After finishing the roll call, Snape placed the parchment on the lectern.
"You are here," his voice echoed between the stone walls, "to learn the precise and delicate art of potion-making."
He took two steps. The hem of his robe swept the floor.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving here."
As he spoke these words, Snape's gaze swept across the class. It lingered on Cassius for approximately 0.3 seconds.
Cassius noticed this pause.
When Snape said 'no wand-waving,' he was looking at him. This was no coincidence. Snape was conveying a message: in my class, your usual tricks are useless.
Interesting.
"...Few among you will truly understand the power contained within the softly bubbling cauldron," Snapecontinued, "that liquid which seeps slowly into human veins, captivating the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
The classroom was quiet.
Snape's gaze fell upon Harry again.
"Potter!" he suddenly raised his voice. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry froze.
Hermione beside him raised her hand.
"I don't know, sir," Harry said.
"Tut, tut—fame clearly isn't everything," Snape's mouth twitched. "Let's try again—Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
"I don't know, sir."
Hermione's hand shot up even higher. She was practically rising from her seat.
"It seems Potter didn't even bother to open his textbook before coming to class," Snape said. "One last question—what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Hermione stood up directly.
"Sit down," Snape didn't even look at her.
"I don't know, sir," Harry's voice hardened. "But I think Hermione knows. Why don't you ask her?"
A few Gryffindor students laughed. Snape did not.
"Sit down, Miss Granger," he said coldly, then turned back to Harry. "Potter, for your information—asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant. Gryffindor loses one point—for your rude attitude toward a fellow student."
Harry's face flushed even redder.
Ron gritted his teeth beside him but dared not make a sound.
Cassius watched this scene.
The classic scene from the original work. Snape's targeting of Harry Potter began from the very first class. The roots of this targeting ran deep—James Potter, Lily Potter, childhood trauma, unresolved love and hate.
But Cassius wasn't concerned with Snape's psychological trauma. He was observing something else.
Snape's teaching style.
This man exhibited a very strong sense of control in the classroom. He didn't need to raise his voice; no one in the entire room dared to make a sound. His method of applying pressure wasn't violent—he didn't directly crush with magical power like Cassius might. He used psychological oppression: precisely finding the target's weakness, inflicting maximum damage with minimal effort.
Very efficient.
If Snape weren't on Dumbledore's side, he would be a formidable enemy.
"Now," Snape waved his wand, and lines of fine text appeared on the blackboard. "You will work in pairs. Following the steps on the board, brew a potion to cure boils. Materials are on the shelves. Begin."
The classroom filled with the sounds of chairs scraping and materials clinking.
Draco naturally partnered with Cassius.
Draco was responsible for fetching the materials—dried nettles, snake fangs, horned slugs, porcupine quills. Cassius looked at the steps on the board.
Six steps. Crush the snake fangs. Heat the cauldron. Add ingredients in order. Stir. Remove the cauldron from the fire before adding porcupine quills. Stir three times at the end.
Simple.
And rigid.
After reading the steps once, Cassius didn't look a second time. He began to work.
Draco arranged the materials. Cassius picked up the mortar, placed the snake fangs inside, and began to crush them.
His crushing technique was different from the other students'.
The other students' crushing was 'grind into powder as the textbook says'—mechanical, haphazard force, just enough to pulverize.
As Cassius ground, an extremely thin film of magic coated his fingertips. This film wasn't for enhancing force; it was for perception—through the feedback of magic, he could precisely judge the particle size of the snake fang powder.
Too coarse, and the potency wouldn't fully release. Too fine, and it would decompose prematurely during heating, causing unnecessary side reactions.
He ground for about forty seconds. More than twice as fast as the textbook's suggested two minutes, but the uniformity of the powder far exceeded the standard.
Draco lit the fire beside him. The bottom of the copper cauldron began to glow red.
Cassius added the dried nettles according to the steps. The liquid began to change color—from transparent to a pale green.
He stirred twice. Clockwise.
Then stopped and waited for three seconds.
Not the 'wait three seconds' written in the textbook. The textbook said'stir until the color is uniform.' But by observing the change in the angle of light reflected off the liquid's surface, Cassius judged that three seconds was the optimal reaction time at this temperature.
Add the horned slugs.
A puff of greenish steam rose from the liquid's surface. Normal.
He continued stirring.
Now for the most critical step—adding the porcupine quills.
Chapter 30: He is Dumbledore's Man
It was clearly written on the blackboard: Before adding porcupine quills, the cauldron must be removed from the fire.
The reason is that a certain active ingredient in the porcupine quills will react violently with the slug horn residue at high temperatures; at best, the potion will be ruined, and at worst, the cauldron will explode.
Cassius removed the cauldron from the heat source.
He waited for five seconds, confirmed that the liquid temperature had dropped to a safe range, and then added the porcupine quills one by one.
Each time he added one, he observed the reaction of the liquid surface.
Seven. All melted. The liquid turned from blue-green to pale purple.
Finally, stir three times. Counter-clockwise.
Done.
The whole process took about fifteen minutes. Most students were still at the stage of grinding snake fangs.
Draco looked at the finished product in the cauldron; the surface of the purple liquid was smooth as a mirror, emitting a hint of cool, minty scent.
"Is that... it?" Draco asked uncertainly.
"It's done."
Snape was patrolling the classroom.
His route was not random.
He started from the Gryffindor side, first passing Harry and Ron's workstation—he glanced at the suspicious-colored liquid in their cauldron, said nothing, and just pulled the corners of his mouth down slightly. Then he passed Hermione and Neville's workstation.
Hermione's potion was nearly finished, and there were no problems with the color or the steps. Snape took a look without offering any praise. He never praised Gryffindorstudents.
Neville's cauldron was smoking. It wasn't normal steam, but black smoke with a burnt smell. Neville's face was covered in sweat, and his hands were shaking.
Snape looked at Neville for two seconds.
"Longbottom."
Neville's body shuddered.
"Did you forget to remove the cauldron from the fire?"
Neville looked down—his cauldron was indeed still on the fire. The porcupine quills had already been added. The color of the liquid was not purple, but an ominous dark red, and it was rapidly expanding.
"Ah—"
Neville's reaction was to step back.
He did the right thing.
The liquid in the cauldron overflowed in the next second. It didn't overflow slowly—it sprayed out. The dark red potion sprayed all over the table, and some of it splashed onto Neville's arm.
"Ow!" Neville screamed.
Several red boils instantly swelled up on his arm—ironically, if a potion for curing boils is brewed incorrectly, it will instead cause boils.
The classroom became chaotic.
"Idiot." Snape's evaluation was brief and cruel. "Granger, take him to the Hospital Wing. Two points from Gryffindor—for Longbottom's incompetence."
Hermione put down her stirring rod and helped Neville up to walk out. When passing Cassius's workstation, her steps faltered for a moment.
She saw the finished potion in the cauldron in front of Cassius.
The purple liquid surface was smooth as a mirror.
Hermione's lips moved, but she said nothing. She helped Neville out of the classroom.
Snape continued his patrol. He turned from the Gryffindorside to the Slytherin side.
Passing Zabini's workstation—Zabini's potion was still one step away from completion, but the color and form were within the normal range. Snape did not stop.
Passing Nott's workstation—also normal.
Then he walked up to Cassius.
He stopped.
He looked down at the potion in the cauldron.
Then he picked up a silver stirring rod and gently stirred it into the cauldron. The viscosity, fluidity, and the way it coated the walls—these were all indicators of potion quality.
There was no change in expression on Snape's face.
But the stir lasted a little longer than usual.
He pulled the stirring rod out. The liquid remaining on the rod was a uniform pale purple, with no impurities and no separation.
"How long did it take to complete?" Snape asked.
"Fifteen minutes," Cassius said.
"The standard time marked in the textbook is forty-five minutes."
"The standard time in the textbook contains a lot of redundant operations."
Snape's eyebrows raised. A very small movement.
"Redundant operations?"
"The grinding step is at least one minute too long. The stirring wait time suggested by the textbook is designed based on the premise that temperature control is not precise. If one can precisely control the liquid surface temperature when adding materials—"
"What do you use to control the temperature?" Snapeinterrupted him.
"My hands."
Snape looked at him.
Cassius's answer had no intention of showing off. He was simply describing a fact—he used a magic film covering his fingers to sense and fine-tune the temperature of the liquid inside the cauldron. This method bypassed the conventional temperature control steps, so it was faster.
Snape was silent for three seconds.
In these three seconds, he was doing the same thing as last night: evaluating.
An eleven-year-old child, in his first Potion Class, without any guidance, had brewed a potion with quality exceeding the standard level in fifteen minutes. He didn't use any opportunistic tricks—he achieved it through an understanding of the reaction principles of the materials and the precise application of magic.
This was not talent.
Talent is "doing better than others."
This is "using a set of methods different from everyone else."
Snape put the stirring rod back on the table.
"The potion is satisfactory," he said.
This was the only positive evaluation Snape had given today. Everyone present heard it.
Zabini looked back from the front row.
Draco puffed out his chest. He felt he deserved half the honor—even though he was only responsible for moving materials and lighting the fire the whole time.
Snape walked back to the podium.
He didn't look at Cassius again.
But the moment he turned around, Cassius noticed one thing—Snape's left index finger, hidden under his robes, tapped his thigh twice.
A nervous habit.
Last night in the Great Hall, it was three taps on the table.
This time it was two.
The frequency was decreasing.
It wasn't because he was no longer nervous. It was because he was trying hard to control his nervousness.
Cassius noted this detail down.
The bell rang for the end of class.
Students began to pack up their materials. The potion in the cauldron had to be poured into a glass bottle, labeled with their name, and placed on the podium. Snape would grade them one by one after class.
When Cassius bottled the potion, his movements were steady. The liquid poured from the cauldron into the bottle's mouth without spilling a drop.
He placed the bottle on the podium, with a small note attached to the bottle—"Cassius Malfoy".
When walking out of the dungeon, the Gryffindor and Slytherin students automatically split into two groups in the corridor.
Harry and Ron were walking in front. Ron's voice came from ahead, indignant—
"That greasy-haired old bat! What right does he have to take points from us! Neville's cauldron exploding wasn't Harry's fault—"
"Stop it, Ron..." Harry's voice was lower.
Draco was walking next to Cassius, a smug arc on his lips. He enjoyed the scene of Snape favoring Slytherin and suppressing Gryffindor.
"Professor Snape really is one of our own," Draco said. "Look at how he handled Potter—"
"Snape is not 'one of our own'," Cassius said.
Draco was stunned.
"He is Dumbledore's man."
Draco's mouth opened. Then closed. He wanted to say something, but Cassius's tone was too certain, so certain that he couldn't find an entry point to refute it.
"My father said—"
"Your father doesn't know everything."
Draco didn't speak again.
The sound of footsteps echoing in the corridor faded into the distance. The temperature in the dungeon was more than two degrees lower than upstairs.