"Er… Mr. Bo—uh, Mr. Bo—ah, never mind. Mr. Potter," Professor Slughorn said with a frown, clearly struggling to remember the boy's name. "I should remind you that I have already tasted Mr. Snape's potion myself. There's really no need to make him do it again."
He wasn't angry—just preoccupied, trying (and failing) to recall who exactly had the nerve to interrupt him.
James's jaw twitched. Deciding to let the name slip slide, he pressed insistently, "But only the maker tasting his own brew will be convincing, don't you think, Professor?"
Lily pressed her lips together.
Her instincts screamed danger. Something was wrong with that potion. She tugged lightly on Snape's sleeve, worry flickering in her eyes.
But he spoke with calm certainty, as if entirely unaware of the trap being set for him.
"I'm confident in my own work," he said flatly, meeting James's gaze. "So yes, Potter, I accept your challenge.
However—since you're the one proposing it—shouldn't you demonstrate an equal level of confidence in your own potion?"
The words landed like a hammer.
Caught off guard, James froze.
"You call yourself failures," Snape continued evenly, "but to me, many in this classroom succeeded—perhaps only lacking a little luck.
Including you, Mr. Potter.
Your potion isn't nearly as bad as you think, yet you lack faith in yourself. And such cowardice makes you unworthy of standing as my equal."
He lifted the potion bottle—the very one James's gang had secretly tampered with—raising it like a wineglass in salute.
"And now, unless you can prove yourself equally capable of becoming a potioneer, what right have you to challenge me—to demand I drink?"
The classroom fell utterly silent.
Dozens of eyes turned on James, the glare of a hundred imaginary stage lights pinning him where he stood.
He understood in an instant: Snape was ready to drink. But that meant James, too, would have to drink his own—if he wanted their "duel" to be fair.
The problem was that his potion looked… disgusting.
Murky, half-solid, and reeking faintly of burnt hair.
His throat tightened. He could already taste the horror of it just by looking.
But hesitation now would be worse than failure.
Ever since the train ride to Hogwarts, James had seen Snape as his nemesis. And the past few days had only proved just how dangerously clever his rival was.
If he hesitated much longer, Snape might suspect something—and the elaborate prank would fall apart!
"James, let me drink it!" Sirius whispered urgently. "I'm not afraid!"
The offer stirred a surge of loyalty in James—but he shook his head, determination hardening his jaw.
"No. This is my fight. If it makes him break out like Damian did, it'll be worth it."
A few quick, whispering exchanges later, James straightened and raised his bottle toward Snape.
For a second, the tension in the air was sharp as steel.
It felt like the moment before a Western gunslinger's duel.
"Agreed?"
"Agreed."
And under a hundred watching eyes, both boys raised their concoctions—and drank.
The classroom fell silent.
All sound vanished except for the thick, audible gulps as they swallowed.
James's face went from pink to gray to a horrifying shade of green.
By the third swallow, he dropped the bottle, glass shattering across the flagstones.
A retching sound escaped him as he clutched his stomach, doubling over like a shrimp.
Dozens of students leapt up to watch, anticipation gleaming in their eyes.
Snape's expression wasn't exactly comfortable either.
The taste—like cockroach eggs soaked in stale vinegar—made his scalp prickle and his body tense.
Merlin, how could anyone make something taste this revolting?
Then—
a cup appeared before him.
He looked up.
Lily's worried face was so close he could see her freckles.
"This isn't your potion, right? You knew beforehand?" she whispered.
"Mmhm," he hummed softly—neither confirming nor denying.
He swished his mouth with the clean water, the tension between his brows easing slightly.
Across from him, James stared at Snape in disbelief.
He'd been waiting for the explosion of boils, the gush of pus—something!
But Snape simply stood there, unharmed.
Panic set in.
James whipped his head toward Peter, who looked equally stunned.
"I—I switched the bottles myself!" Peter mouthed frantically. "It was Damian's failure batch, I swear! One hundred percent!"
But the next moment—all thought vanished.
A dark, terrible pressure rose in James's gut like a storm.
He doubled over, clutching his stomach, face ashen.
The more he tried to hold it down, the worse it got. His entire body trembled as though made of thin glass about to shatter.
Then—too late.
Sirius, seeing his friend's agony, panicked completely.
He shouted for the crowd to move aside, lifting James roughly onto his back.
"Hang on, mate, I'll get you to the infirmary!"
But that sudden jolt—the bump from being hoisted—was the final straw.
A sound.
A spray.
A flood.
A foul-smelling yellow stream erupted, staining the floor in a spreading puddle as Sirius carried him through the doorway, leaving a dreadful, steaming trail behind.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped.
Snape froze.
Lily froze.
Slughorn froze.
Every Gryffindor froze.
Every Slytherin froze.
And then…
The smell hit.
Hot. Rank. Unholy.
The entire class gagged in unison, the retching sound spreading like wildfire.
"Ugh—class dismissed! CLASS DISMISSED!"
Professor Slughorn didn't even try to hide his horror—he was the first to bolt, waddling at full speed for the corridor.
So much for cultivating his two "potioneer prodigies."
The rest of the students scattered like panicked birds, gagging and stumbling in their rush to escape the stench.
Snape dragged a wide-eyed Lily out the door with him, not stopping until they reached clean air.
Panting, he flicked his tongue—and something small and round dropped into his palm before it could hit the ground:
A smooth, pebble-sized lump.
Lily blinked. "Wait… is that—goat bezoar?"
She stared. Then the realization hit.
Of course.
A bezoar—known among wizards as a cure neutralizing most mild poisons. Pricey, yes, but reliable.
He'd swallowed one to block the effects before drinking the tampered potion.
Which begged the question—when had he even done it? She'd been sitting beside him the whole time!
Suspicions whirled through her head, but soon dissolved amid laughter and chatter as the chaos became the day's talk of the school.
By dinner in the Great Hall, news of the Gryffindor hero's "accident" had already spread from table to table—
and the story of "Potter's Potion Disaster" filled Hogwarts from dungeon to tower.
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