Harry Potter: Prince of Shadows

He quenched the fire.

Ian wiped away nonexistent sweat from his forehead.

"Without me, this entire potion might have been ruined!"

Just as a fire bearer must carry the torch, a fire stoker must bring the fuel.

In magic or cooking, controlling the heat is an art—key to success or failure.

At least, that was Ian's view, and his personal status panel seemed to confirm it.

[Potions Mastery (Level 2) 65/200]

He'd monitored every step of the brewing process.

Practical experience yields true knowledge.

Whether or not others noticed was irrelevant; he'd gained over a dozen points of proficiency. Enough said—this had been a thoroughly satisfying potions session!

"We're pretty good at this—first to finish, and from the look of it, the quality's not bad at all."

Ian, unaware of Snape silently grinding his teeth a short distance away, signaled Aurora that it was time for the final step.

"Yes, all right."

Following Ian's cue, Aurora poured the potion into a container. Observing the adequately hued Boil-Cure Potion, even her usually cool features lit with a satisfied smile.

It was her first attempt at potion brewing—

a resounding success, giving her a sense of achievement.

"You're amazing! I feel like we're both future potions masters!"

Ian kept heaping praise.

Aurora's skill at ingredient prep and handling the brew was indeed top-notch; Ian figured his occasional instructions had contributed as well.

After all, directing someone else's potions work surely counted as a valuable talent.

"I wonder if we can take this potion back with us,"

Aurora mused, looking rather like a collector as she carefully set the finished brew on the table.

At that instant, Snape, still stewing over Ian's apparent insult to the proud Prince lineage, stalked toward them. He seethed to see Ian Prince playing "fire stoker" without shame.

"Professor, see how we did! Care to grade us?"

Ian believed he and Aurora had likely produced the best potion. Unaware that speaking up only stoked Snape's frustration, he pressed on confidently.

"Slytherin: five points. Ravenclaw: minus one."

Snape forced composure while conjuring a flimsy rationale for his decision.

"Obviously, Miss Grindelwald is responsible for most of this fine potion's quality. If not for you dragging her down, she might have achieved even higher standards."

He lowered his voice, sounding ice-cold.

"But we both contributed,"

Ian objected—he'd played a tangible role in the potion's creation, and his status panel wouldn't lie.

"Professor, I agree with Ian,"

Aurora chimed in calmly.

Hearing both from the pair, Snape scowled, forced to hold his tongue. Sometimes, he still tried to appear fair-minded.

"Very well. This lesson's assignment is two separate potions, not just one."

Fortunately for him, years of teaching had given Snape plenty of backup plans.

"Huh?!"

The outcry came not from Ian or Aurora but from nearby first-years still struggling with their own potions. All stared in dismay.

"Professor, you never said that earlier! I've got it all in my notes—"

"But we only took enough for one batch!"

"We already learned the process—why brew two?"

"How'd you guys manage even one? Ours is still stuck green instead of yellow! Help me!"

"I can pee yellow—maybe we can add some?"

…

A wave of groans and despair rippled among the young wizards.

Snape remained unmoved,

uttering only a curt snort.

"Perhaps I didn't say so before, but I'm saying so now… It's my requirement,"

he declared, calmly ignoring how brazen it sounded to Ian.

Students of every House, including Slytherin, seethed silently but didn't dare speak out. Ian realized there was nothing for it: Snape's petty grudge left him no choice but to comply.

"Aurora, the teacher's messing with us—get the ingredients for another batch."

Ian sighed. His German friend stood, ready to fetch them.

But Snape clamped a firm hand on her shoulder, forcing her back down.

"Miss Grindelwald's task is done. Now it's your turn,"

he growled, glaring at Ian as though he'd like nothing more than to devour him whole. Indeed, never had Snape seen such brazen idleness in a Prince. Why wasn't this scoundrel in Slytherin?

"That's downright discrimination!"

Ian grumbled. But under Snape's petty tyranny, he could only go gather another set of Boil-Cure Potion ingredients.

"Snake fangs, horned slugs, porcupine quills…"

Lugging them back to the table, he spotted Snape staring at him in stony silence, forcing him to grind the snake fangs himself.

Aurora tried to handle the fire,

but Snape shot her a lethal glare.

She ignored it,

though he soon seized her by the scruff of her robe, hauling her aside.

"Huh?"

She yelped as he whisked her away,

her arms flailing in reflex,

though she refrained from drawing her wand.

"He does this alone,"

Snape declared, ignoring other first-years who continued struggling. He stood right at Ian's table, determined to watch every move from start to finish.

"Crack, crack..."

Ian ground the snake fangs to powder, sprinkling it into the cauldron before adjusting the flame a little, then tending to the horned slugs.

He mentally kept track of the time,

then waved his wand.

Plopping the prepared slugs into the brew, he remarked lightly:

"Making this is like cooking soup—control the heat and let it simmer gently."

He meant to invoke the crucial "control the heat" concept Snape had praised.

Hence,

the irritated professor found no immediate retort, glaring all the while, hoping for a mistake to pounce on.

But despite his gritted teeth,

Snape saw every step Ian performed was spot on—no missteps. He'd already rehearsed a barrage of scolding lines in his head, yet none would apply.

"Carry on,"

he insisted, still unwilling to concede.

Meanwhile, other first-years glanced over:

"Why's he stayed at Ravenclaw's side the whole time?"

"Our Head's ignoring us!?"

Slytherins looked befuddled. Some mumbled as they observed Snape shadowing Ian.

Noticing the attention,

Ian said offhandedly:

"It's not just simmering, really. You also have to reduce the liquid—like a frying technique."

Shifting the cauldron away from direct flame, he tossed in two porcupine quills, stirring five clockwise revolutions. All the while, he explained patiently.

The explanation made Aurora nod in agreement, and several onlooking students seemed thoughtful. Compared to Snape's lofty talk, Ian's approach felt more tangible.

"Close that filthy mouth,"

Snape hissed at last, patience worn thin.

"Done, Professor,"

Ian replied, pouring the finished brew into a container. The yellowish-green potion bubbled softly inside the glass—precisely what the book described.

Not perfect, but nothing to criticize.

Snape was poised to comment when—

"Oh, I get it now! I've got it!"

"Me too!"

"So my mom was a potions master—she makes delicious food, after all!"

...

Their exclamations came in a sudden wave.

Snape felt as though he was facing the biggest challenge of his teaching career.

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