Chapter 11 - Chapter 11 : Unfair Lessons

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And with that, Filius Flitwick began the Charms lesson.

There was, however, a brief moment of excitement when Professor Flitwick caught sight of Harry Potter and nearly toppled from his stack of books in his enthusiasm, quickly righting himself with a flustered cough.

Once order was restored, he launched into the lesson.

As it was their first day, he began with the basics—explaining that Charms depended not on raw magical power, but on proper intent, clear pronunciation, and precise wand movement. He demonstrated several simple motions, his small wand tracing neat, deliberate patterns through the air.

"Magic responds best to control," Professor Flitwick said cheerfully. "Not strength, but accuracy."

He then introduced their first spell.

"The Wand-Lighting Charm," he announced. "Lumos. A very simple spell—but an excellent way to practice focus."

Professor Flitwick raised his wand. With a clean flick and a precise incantation, the tip lit up at once, glowing softly.

"Now then," he said, clapping his hands lightly, "let's give it a try."

The remainder of the lesson passed in a pleasant blur of whispered spells and tentative wand movements.

By the time the bell rang, most students had managed their first proper charm—Lumos—and Professor Flitwick had even demonstrated a stronger variation, Lumos Maxima, which produced a noticeably brighter light.

Wands glowed unevenly throughout the classroom. Some flickered uncertainly, others shone far too brightly, and a few stubbornly refused to light at all.

Victor followed along without difficulty. There was nothing new for him here—he already knew both spells—but he made a point of keeping his success unremarkable.

When the lesson finally ended, students packed away their wands with excited chatter.

That afternoon, they set off for their next class.

Potions.

The lesson was held in the dungeons, where the air was colder and smelled faintly of damp stone, old iron, and unfamiliar ingredients simmering quietly on the shelves.

Students filtered in and took their seats, setting down bags and whispering to one another. Most of the Gryffindors chatted easily, curiosity outweighing caution.

They had no idea what they were about to walk into.

Especially Harry Potter.

None of them knew they were about to be chewed alive by Severus Snape—a man who seemed to dislike Gryffindor more than anything else in the castle, and who took a particular interest in making that dislike known.

Hermione leaned toward Victor, lowering her voice. "I'll get those lost points back in this class."

Victor glanced at her, unconvinced. "We'll see."

She bristled slightly. "What? You don't believe me? I've read the entire basic syllabus for this year. Twice."

"That's not the part I doubt," Victor replied calmly. "The question is—why would Professor Snape ask you anything?"

Hermione frowned, clearly not understanding.

Victor didn't explain. Instead, his gaze drifted briefly to the front of the room, then—almost imperceptibly—to Harry's seat.

He already knew how this would unfold.

Snape never questioned at random. That would be far too fair. He chose his targets with care—and Harry Potter was impossible to resist.

When the questions came, Victor had no illusions about the result.

Harry wouldn't know the answers.

Which meant Gryffindor points would disappear with remarkable efficiency.

The dungeon door slammed open.

Severus Snape swept into the classroom like an enormous bat, black robes billowing as he strode to the front without a word. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees.

Conversation died instantly.

Snape's eyes slid slowly across the class, sharp and measuring, before settling—inevitably—on Harry Potter.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," Severus Snape said, his voice low and cutting. "As such, I do not expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."

He moved slowly along the front row, black robes whispering against the stone floor, eyes flicking from face to face as though already recording a list of disappointments.

"However," he continued softly, "for those select few who possess the necessary predisposition—"

his gaze paused, just briefly, on Victor

"—I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses."

He stopped.

"I can tell you how to bottle fame," Snape said, lips curling faintly, "brew glory, and even put a stopper in death."

The dungeon fell into complete silence.

Then Snape noticed Harry Potter.

Harry's head was bent over his parchment, quill moving quickly, copying every word as though this were an ordinary lecture.

In Snape's view, that meant one thing.

Harry was not paying attention.

"Then again," Snape said softly, "perhaps some of you arrived at Hogwarts already convinced that your talents are so exceptional that listening is unnecessary."

His gaze fixed, unmistakably, on Harry.

Ron noticed at once and nudged Harry sharply. Harry looked up, startled, straight into Snape's cold stare.

"Well?" Snape said silkily. "Perhaps you would care to repeat what I was just explaining."

The room went very still.

Harry opened his mouth—then closed it again. His mind scrambled, turning up nothing useful.

"I—I was writing it down, sir," he said at last.

"A fascinating method of learning," Snape replied coldly. "Unfortunately, this is Potions, not dictation."

A few students shifted uneasily.

"Let us see whether fame has granted you knowledge as well," Snape continued.

"Potter—what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry froze.

Ron sank lower in his seat. Hermione's hand shot up instantly.

Snape ignored her.

"I don't know, sir," Harry said.

"Tut, tut," Snape murmured. "Clearly, attention is overrated."

Victor watched without expression.

Exactly as predicted.

"Another question," Snape went on smoothly. "Where would you look if I told you to find a bezoar?"

Harry hesitated again. "I don't know, sir."

Hermione's hand rose higher.

Before she could speak, Victor calmly reached over and lowered it.

"Don't," he murmured.

Hermione stared at him in disbelief.

Snape paused—just long enough to savour the moment.

"Ten points from Gryffindor," he said lightly.

Hermione looked ready to combust.

Snape turned away from Harry as though he had ceased to exist.

"The rest of you—open your books to page ten. Today, you will be brewing a Cure for Boils."

Cauldrons scraped against stone as students hurried to pair up.

Hermione sat stiffly beside Victor, still fuming.

"Why didn't Professor Snape ask me?" she whispered. "I knew the answer."

"You already know why," Victor replied quietly. "Professor Snape hates Gryffindor. And he doesn't bother hiding it."

Hermione frowned. "He just… hates Gryffindor?"

"Yes," Victor said simply.

Almost on cue—

"Ten points from Gryffindor," Snape announced again, spotting an incorrect ingredient.

Hermione puffed out her cheeks in pure indignation.

"This is completely unfair."

Across the dungeon, Snape glided between desks like a dark shadow, robes billowing, eyes sharp—and clearly enjoying himself.

And it was only the first day.