For a wizard with natural talent, Potions was a subject filled with the joy of exploration. Jerry was one such wizard. To him, the discipline was like precise chemical engineering, brimming with infinite possibilities. Every fusion of ingredients and every pulse of magic stirred a marvelous reaction in his heart. He could foresee the shifts in color, scent, and form within the cauldron; to him, they weren't cold recipes or formulas, but living entities.
Jerry watched Eleanora Shaffiq's demonstration with total concentration, absorbing every detail like a sponge. He frequently scribbled symbols and shorthand into his notebook—notations that would baffle anyone else. Occasionally, a smile of epiphany or the excitement of a solved riddle would flicker across his lips.
This wasn't just raw talent. His status panel now displayed a [Potions: Novice] tag, which allowed him to keep pace with Eleanora's rapid-fire logic.
However, for those with average talent or no passion for the craft, every second was agony. Eleanora Shaffiq's teaching style was machine-like—precise, efficient, and devoid of humor or fluff. She threw the students directly into a deep ocean of high-intensity, high-threshold curriculum. The obscure theories, complex magic infusion techniques, and the constant pressure of a potential explosion turned the class into a long, tedious torture.
Before the halfway mark, the classroom was filled with the sound of rhythmic snoring. Most students stared blankly at their notes, their pupils out of focus. Necks remained stiff in the same position for so long that when sleep finally won, heads would snap down and crack against the desks with a dull thud, drawing brief snickers before the silence returned.
Even the seventh-years, who were supposed to be scholars of iron will, looked exhausted. Their quills slid aimlessly across parchment, leaving behind illegible chicken scratch. Several boys had given up entirely, face-down on their desks. Even the perfectionist Head Girl, Isabella, rubbed her temples, forcing herself to refocus on the podium.
Only Katherine and Fiona maintained a proper posture, though the flicker of fatigue in their eyes betrayed their inner struggle. Fiona forced herself to remain 100% focused, her back ramrod straight as she recorded every point. She did this purely because her mother was the one standing at the podium. Yet, her furrowed brow showed how much she struggled to keep up with Eleanora's pace.
Katherine's situation was different. In terms of raw talent, she was the only one in the room who could truly rival Jerry's [Novice] status. Her mastery of Curses was legendary—she had soloed ancient curses in Gringotts' deepest vaults. In Potions, she was a "wild" genius. Without a master, she had taught herself enough to brew poisons that made the dark wizards of Knockturn Alley tremble.
But even she felt the strain. Katherine understood every point and the logic behind the "mad" recipes. The problem was that Eleanora was teaching a complete, harsh, and standardized "War System." Every step was quantified to the extreme, emphasizing absolute efficiency and replicability.
Katherine's alchemy was an "art"—fluid, intuitive, and personal. She was used to adjusting recipes based on the subtle differences in ingredients or her own sudden inspirations. Now, Eleanora was forcing her to abandon her wild, effective "folk methods" for a rigid "Standard Operating Procedure." She felt like a hunter used to fighting with a dagger in the jungle, now forced into a phalanx and told to thrust a spear at the exact same angle and power as everyone else. She understood the power of the system, but the shift felt like invisible shackles on her talent.
Suddenly, a hand went up, interrupting Eleanora's march-like lecture. It was Jerry.
He felt the same friction. Eleanora's system was powerful, but it stripped away personal spirit, turning Potions into cold war-engineering. This path might be a shortcut for average wizards to gain combat power, but for people like him and Katherine, it was a beautiful set of handcuffs.
This was the key Jerry needed—and an opportunity to finish his daily mission. The mission only gave him 24 hours; he couldn't afford to waste time. He had to crack the shell of her pride using the very logic she valued most.
Facing Eleanora's cold, questioning gaze, Jerry didn't flinch. To the other students, a first-year challenging this woman was a death wish.
"Professor!" Jerry's voice was steady. "You are showing us results. But Potions—or any true science—is about the process and the understanding. You ask us to mimic your movements like trained house-elves, yet you refuse to explain the principles behind them or why the ingredients resonate this way. This produces 'products,' but it will never produce a 'Master.'"
The room went deathly silent. Even Drake looked at Jerry as if he were insane. A first-year lecturing a world-renowned Potions mistress on how to teach?
Eleanora's eyes narrowed into the gaze of a predator locking onto its prey. Her voice dropped several degrees in temperature. "Then, Mr. Rozier, what in your opinion constitutes 'true teaching'?" She emphasized his name as a reminder of the family legacy he carried.
"Practice," Jerry stated. He pointed to the remaining ingredients on her desk. "Theory is nothing compared to a successful brew. Since you believe your system is the most efficient, and I believe spirit and understanding are the soul of alchemy, let us verify it."
His voice was clear. "The Tracking Potion you just demonstrated. You provide the materials; we start at the same time. You use your standardized process; I use my method. Let the quality of the final product speak for itself."
The classroom was paralyzed. Every drowsy student was now wide awake. A first-year had just challenged a terrifying new professor to a public, pride-stakes duel on day one.
Eleanora didn't answer immediately. Under the frozen surface of her deep eyes, something was churning. After a few agonizing seconds, she smiled. It wasn't warm; it was the cold glint of a blade in moonlight.
"Bold, Mr. Rozier," she said, her voice heavy with pressure. "Or perhaps, utterly stupid."
She stepped from behind the podium. The click of her heels sounded like a countdown to execution. She walked to Jerry's desk and looked down at him. "Since you are so confident that your 'wild spirit' can challenge a system tested by countless wars, the challenge must have a price."
She scanned the room. "If you lose, Slytherin loses fifty points for your arrogance."
"And you!" Her eyes locked onto Jerry, a hint of cruel playfulness in her voice. "To help you truly experience the power of 'standardization,' you will drink a Transfiguration potion I brewed myself and turn into a rat in front of the whole class. Duration: twenty-four hours."
A rat for twenty-four hours. It was a punishment designed to strip away a wizard's dignity, turning him into the lowest, most helpless creature. Everyone gasped. Eleanora waited for him to back down.
"I agree," Jerry said without hesitation.
"Very well." Eleanora nodded. With a flick of her wand, a new cauldron and set of ingredients flew onto Jerry's desk. "Then begin. The Tracking and Marking Potion. Let's see what your 'soul' is worth."
As she reached for her silver knife, Jerry interrupted again. "Wait, Professor."
The temperature in the room dropped. A flash of murderous intent flickered in Eleanora's eyes. "What now, Mr. Rozier? Are you backing out and preparing to become a rodent?"
"No." Jerry shook his head, his face calm beyond his years. "I simply believe a fair duel should have reciprocal stakes. You named my punishment, but you haven't said what happens if I win."
The students were stunned. To them, Jerry couldn't win. It was a joke. But he was actually discussing the prize.
Eleanora was about to crush him with a sharp retort, but Jerry spoke first. "I don't want money or points. If I happen to win, Professor, I only want you to agree to one condition."
Eleanora laughed. It was the funniest thing she had heard all century—a certain loser negotiating for a prize. She didn't even care to hear what the condition was. To her, it was a pathetic straw clutched by a drowning boy.
"Fine," she sneered with absolute arrogance. "Whatever the condition, I agree. Provided," she drawled, "you actually win."
She turned her back on him and began. Her silver knife blurred as she processed the Moongrass, each leaf cut to the exact same micrometer. "Anything else, Mr. Rozier? My patience is finite."
"What is the criteria for victory?" Jerry asked, unswayed.
"Speed and quality," she answered coldly, her back still turned. "Whoever finishes first with the higher quality wins. Even a troll could understand that."
The duel began.
Eleanora was the perfect embodiment of her "system." She was like an alchemy machine. She didn't use scales; her hand knew exactly how many ounces of Dragon Liver powder to grab. She didn't use a timer; the Moongrass soaked for exactly seven seconds. Her wand emitted a near-invisible flow of magic at a constant frequency. The potion shifted from pale purple to deep blue to clear silver, exactly as the textbook described.
On the other side, Jerry was the polar opposite. He didn't start immediately. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if communicating with the ingredients. When he opened them, he was possessed by a strange, quiet focus.
His handling of the materials was "chaotic." He didn't use a knife; he tore the Moongrass by hand into irregular pieces. He tossed in the Dragon Liver powder with a casual pinch. His fire flickered wildly—sometimes roaring, sometimes dimming. To a casual observer, he was a mess.
But Katherine and Fiona saw something else. Every "random" move had a rhythm. When he tore the grass, his grip broke the fibers in a way that let the juices seep out faster. His wand didn't stir in mechanical circles; it danced and adjusted based on the shifts in scent and color. He wasn't brewing a potion; he was taming a wild beast.
He was slower than Eleanora, but his potion seemed to have a "life" that her perfect brew lacked.
"Is he crazy?" a Slytherin whispered. "Double ingredients? He's going to blow the cauldron to the moon!"
Everyone knew recipes were balanced. Doubling a core ingredient usually meant failure—or a catastrophic explosion. Eleanora paused for a microsecond, a contemptuous smirk on her face. She didn't stop him. In her eyes, the boy had already defeated himself.
But Jerry wanted that double dose. He wasn't competing for speed or precision; he knew he couldn't beat her there. He was competing for effect. A standard potion lasted an hour. If he could fuse the double dose, it could last an entire day.
To force these stubborn, doubled ingredients to fuse, he had to be aggressive. Jerry pointed his wand, and the fire roared into a bright orange heat. The black cauldron began to glow a dull red. The potion boiled violently, sending up large bubbles and a pungent, burnt smell.
"It's over. He failed," the class thought.
But Jerry's focus was absolute. His wand hovered over the cauldron, his magic forming an invisible net to catch the chaotic liquid. His wrist vibrated at a minute, irregular frequency, soothing the warring elements and finding a new equilibrium within the roar of the flames. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He was like an old sailor steering a ship through a hurricane, catching every wave and using its power to keep the vessel upright.
As expected, Eleanora finished first. She lifted her wand, and her potion turned into a perfect, impurity-free moon-silver. She bottled it elegantly.
"Time," she announced.
Everyone turned to Jerry. By all accounts, he had lost. But Jerry didn't look up. He watched his cauldron as the chaotic liquid finally began to settle and transform. One minute passed... a minute and a half...
Suddenly, Jerry's potion underwent a metamorphosis. All impurities were wiped away by an invisible hand. The liquid turned into a deep, textured dark-silver—far richer than Eleanora's. It looked like molten starlight, pulsing with a vibrant magical aura.
Jerry let out a breath and bottled it. He was exactly two minutes slower than Eleanora.
In terms of time, he had lost.
But as he placed his bottle on the dais, Eleanora's face changed. Her contempt vanished. She stared at Jerry's potion, her eyes wide with genuine, stunned disbelief. The magical concentration in that bottle exceeded the theoretical limit of the recipe.
"You were gambling," she whispered. She realized it now—the double dose, the high heat—it was a high-stakes bet. If a single variable had slipped by a fraction of a percent, half the classroom would have been leveled.
"Yes, Professor." Jerry offered a relaxed smile. "Luckily, I won."
He pointed to her perfect potion, then his own. "I lost the race against the clock. But double ingredients mean this potion is far more powerful. Yours will last three or four hours. Mine," he held up the shimmering dark-silver bottle, "will last over eight. In a real tracking mission, those extra hours are worth far more than the two minutes saved in brewing."
Eleanora was silent, her eyes darting between the two bottles. The classroom was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
"Professor," Jerry said, dropping his smile for a humble tone. "You are the undisputed victor in speed and precision. I merely cheated with the effect. Shall we call it a draw?"
He was giving her a way out. Losing to a first-year in front of the class was a massive humiliation for a master. But Eleanora shot him a look that said, Do I look like I need your pity?
"A loss is a loss," she said, her voice cold and decisive. She admitted defeat with a bluntness that shocked everyone.
The bell rang. Eleanora ignored it, her eyes locked on Jerry. "To my office. Now."
She grabbed her potion and disappeared into her inner office, leaving the stunned students behind.
As the tension broke, the Slytherins swarmed Jerry. "Rozier, you're insane!" "How did you do it?" "I've never seen anything like that!" For a moment, they forgot his terrifying family name.
Just as Jerry was wondering how to escape, Katherine's voice cut through the noise. "What are you all staring at? Do you want the Professor to dock fifty points from each of you?"
The students scattered like leaves.
As the crowd thinned, Fiona Shaffiq blocked his path. This girl, usually as rigid as her mother, was smiling warmly. She looked lighter, as if a heavy chain had been removed. Seeing her mother—the immovable mountain of her life—lose to a first-year filled her with a secret, joyous thrill.
"Can I treat you to dinner tonight, Junior?" Fiona asked softly, her tone friendly and devoid of her usual prefect authority.
"It would be my pleasure, Fiona," Jerry replied. It was a good opening for his mission. "But I must see Professor Eleanora first. I think she's waiting."
"I'll wait for you," Fiona said. "Tonight, at the Great Hall doors."
Jerry reached the office door, and before he could knock, the heavy oak door clicked open. Behind it was a ghostly green glow.
He stepped inside. The lights were off; all the illumination came from Eleanora Shaffiq herself. She had removed her dragon-hide duster and wore only her dark professor's robes. But now, the clothes failed to hide anything.
A powerful, vibrant green radiance was seeping through every inch of her skin, turning her into a breathing, glowing emerald statue. Jerry realized instantly—she had used the double-dose Tracking and Marking potion he had just brewed on herself.
Under the intense light from within, her dark robes had become a near-transparent veil. The fabric could no longer block the light; it clung symbolically to the curves of her athletic body. Her silhouette was perfectly outlined—the rise and fall of her full breasts, the tight tuck of her waist, and the flare of her rounded hips and long, straight legs were all visible through the "light-shroud."
The light moved over her body, showcasing every detail of her mature, powerful form to Jerry. Eleanora herself stood motionless, arms crossed, watching him with the analytical gaze of a scientist examining an interesting experiment.
Jerry's throat went dry. The air in the office felt thick. "Professor, perhaps I should come back—"
Slam!
Eleanora moved. She stepped forward and slammed the heavy door shut, the bolt sliding home automatically.
"That wasn't gambling," she said, approaching him. With every step, her glowing silhouette became clearer. She stopped inches away, her scent of herbs and cold perfume filling his lungs. "You used magic control and mental strength to stabilize the volatile liquid layers and force a high-intensity fusion. It looked like it would explode, but you were in control every second. Like filling a bowl right to the brim without spilling a drop. Am I right, Mr. Rozier?"
She leaned down, her sharp eyes searching for a crack in his composure. As she leaned, the neckline of her robes slipped. Beneath the semi-transparent cloth, her full, soft breasts were exposed by the light within. The rounded curves, the firm peaks, and the subtle movement of her breathing were rendered clearly in ghostly emerald.
Jerry nodded calmly.
Eleanora's eyes grew complex. She stared at the boy with such terrifying control. "I need your help," she said, her voice regaining its flat tone. "Help me brew a... more complex potion."
"My pleasure," Jerry began.
"And I haven't forgotten," she interrupted. "I owe you a condition. Speak. What do you want?" She seemed ready for anything—greed, power, or madness.
"Professor, I want to discuss the debt you owe the Rozier family. Thirty thousand Galleons."
Eleanora froze, then burst into laughter. It wasn't a sneer; it was a genuine, hearty laugh of relief. It melted the frost in the office. It was the first time Jerry had seen her look... happy. Her body shook with laughter, her glowing breasts bouncing under the translucent fabric.
"That's it?" she asked. She walked to her desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out a stack of Gringotts bank drafts. She flicked through them and slapped several on the desk. Each one read "10,000 Galleons."
Jerry realized he had overthought it. For a master of Potions, how could she ever be short on money?
"If you want them, come and get them." She stood right beside the drafts, arms crossed, watching him with amused eyes. Her glowing body remained a vivid, seductive barrier.
Jerry looked at the drafts, then at the glowing, exposed woman. He didn't move forward. "Professor, we can discuss the debt later. You said you needed help with a potion."
A flash of approval crossed her eyes. This boy had a clear sense of priority. She nodded and walked to her lab table, her glowing body moving through the shadows like a humanoid will-o'-the-wisp. She handed him a clean, magically sterilized beaker.
"This potion is... unique," she said, her voice returning to academic seriousness. "Its base requires an alchemical substance that is highly active and contains a unique individual magical signature."
Jerry took the warm beaker, confused.
"I need your urine," Eleanora stated as a matter of fact. "As one of the base ingredients."
Jerry's hand froze in mid-air. He ran through every potion book he had ever read. None mentioned... this material. Was this another test, or some bizarre alchemy? But given the system mission and this woman's inscrutable nature, he complied.
"Very well, Professor." He turned toward the attached lavatory.
"Stay." Her voice was absolute. She pointed to a stone basin in a corner used for waste ingredients. "Right there."
Jerry showed no shyness. He walked to the basin, turned his back to her, and unbuttoned his trousers. Soon, the sound of a steady stream hit the stone. As he was finishing and the flow slowed, a powerful force came from behind.
Eleanora had moved silently. She reached out, one hand grabbing his butt, the other around his back, and effortlessly lifted him off the ground, spinning him 180 degrees in the air.
The sudden move caused Jerry's aim to fail. The warm liquid splashed directly onto Eleanora's chest and stomach, soaking the already semi-transparent robes. The height difference was stark; Jerry's head only reached her chest. He instinctively wrapped his legs around her waist, hanging from her body like an accessory.
Eleanora ignored the urine on her clothes. Her gaze was locked onto something else.
Jerry's cock, half-erect from the physiological reaction, was exposed. Its size was staggering, far beyond common logic for a boy. A look of pure, scientific wonder flashed in Eleanora's eyes. She leaned her glowing face in, her nose sniffing the tip of the head, identifying the unique scent.
Then, before Jerry could react, she darted her warm, soft tongue out and took a tentative lick of the wet tip.
"Fascinating magical structure..." she murmured, her voice low, as if recording data. "Extremely high activity. No impurities. This purity is like the legendary unpolluted Primal Magic source."
Her hand wasn't idle. The hand that had held his butt now gripped the base of his shaft. Her thumb and forefinger slid from base to tip with the precision of someone measuring a tool, feeling the texture, the tension, and the energy within.
"And it isn't just a matter of size." She looked up, her eyes meeting Jerry's with deep confusion and a near-feverish thirst for knowledge.
"Your..." She stared directly at him. "Why is it so big?"