Lucian walked alongside the prefect, who had quietly and almost nonchalantly separated him from the group of Slytherin first-years. The young man was tall, with dark hair and a confident demeanor, qualities that reflected not only his role as a student leader but also the pride of belonging to a family steeped in magical tradition.
"Charlotte mentioned you would be coming," the prefect finally said, breaking the silence as they turned into a corridor dimly lit by floating torches that cast dancing shadows on the walls. "She asked me to keep an eye on you."
Lucian raised an eyebrow, catching the name with a small smile—polite rather than warm.
"Your sister, I presume?"
"The eldest," the prefect replied, his voice tinged with pride. "Though I imagine you already knew that."
"An impressive woman," Lucian remarked calmly, keeping his gaze forward. "Talented and, I'd say, highly capable."
The prefect let out a brief, dry chuckle, as if the assessment was anything but surprising. "That sounds like Charlotte, yes. But I never imagined someone like you would be her... contact?"
Lucian turned slightly toward him, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
"'Someone like me?'" he repeated in a neutral tone, more intrigued than offended.
The prefect didn't avert his gaze, though his tone took on a more cautious edge.
"No offense meant. It's just that, well, you don't seem like someone who'd need my help."
There was a pause before he added, with a touch of seriousness,
"Or want it."
Lucian maintained his unhurried pace, pondering the comment briefly before responding.
"The concept of 'needing help' is relative." He turned his head slightly toward the prefect, his words as measured as his tone. "But even the most prepared know how to recognize a useful resource when it's in front of them."
The prefect glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, trying to determine whether the words were a compliment or a subtle reminder of their respective roles.
"Well, it's good to know you're pragmatic. At Hogwarts, that can be... an advantage."
Lucian allowed a faint smile to play on his lips, barely noticeable.
"I'll keep that in mind."
The prefect didn't press further, and silence settled between them once more as they continued down the corridors. Finally, they stopped at a well-lit intersection.
"This is as far as I go. Professor McGonagall will take you the rest of the way," the prefect announced, nodding toward the tall, stern figure waiting ahead.
Lucian inclined his head slightly in a gesture of thanks.
"It's been a pleasure."
The prefect returned the nod, his eyes a mix of curiosity and respect.
"If you need anything, don't hesitate to let me know." He turned on his heel and walked away with a steady stride, leaving Lucian standing before the imposing presence of Professor McGonagall, who observed him with sharp, discerning eyes.
Lucian lifted his chin, steeling his mind for what was to come. He had learned that in places like this, first impressions were everything.
…
Professor McGonagall walked ahead of Lucian with firm, determined steps, never turning as they ascended the final spiraling staircase leading to the headmaster's office. The echo of her shoes resonated against the walls, a counterpoint to the soft creak of the steps beneath the young Grindelwald's feet.
At last, they arrived at a large wooden door adorned with a griffin-shaped knocker. McGonagall stopped and turned slightly to face him.
"Mr. Grindelwald," she began, her usual tone tinged with an unusual warmth, "Hogwarts will be your home for the coming years. The challenges you face here will depend as much on your ability as on your character." For a moment, her eyes glimmered with something Lucian couldn't quite decipher. "I trust you'll find your place."
Lucian met her gaze calmly, offering only a slight nod in response.
"Good luck," McGonagall added, her voice softer before turning and leaving with the same determination with which she had arrived.
The door opened on its own, revealing the headmaster's office. It was a spacious room filled with curiosities that seemed to compete for attention: ancient magical instruments spinning and tinkling softly, bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes, and portraits whose occupants murmured amongst themselves from their frames. But what immediately captured Lucian's attention was the majestic phoenix perched on a golden stand by the window, its feathers glowing warmly in the dim light.
Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen.
Lucian stepped forward cautiously, closing the door behind him. His eyes locked with those of the phoenix, which regarded him with a serene but penetrating gaze, as if it could see beyond the surface.
"Hello," Lucian murmured, surprised by the calm in his own voice. He had seen magical creatures before but had never been this close to a phoenix.
Fawkes tilted his head slightly, letting out a soft trill that filled the air with a comforting warmth. Lucian took another step forward, studying the bird with a mixture of respect and fascination.
"I thought your kind preferred to keep their distance," he remarked, an unexpected touch of humor in his tone.
The bird responded with a melodious chirp. Instinctively, Lucian reached out, and to his surprise, Fawkes didn't retreat. His fingers brushed the phoenix's feathers, which felt like fire and silk all at once.
"I suppose you're an exception," he added quietly.
The moment was interrupted by a barely audible creak. Lucian turned sharply, his eyes searching for the source, and there he was: Albus Dumbledore, emerging calmly from the shadows beside a bookshelf.
It was curious. Lucian was certain the room had been empty, save for himself and the phoenix. There had been no sign of concealment magic. Of course, that was exactly what one would expect from the most renowned wizard of the age.
"He is an extraordinary being, isn't he?" Dumbledore remarked, his voice warm and musical, laden with the wisdom of years.
Lucian showed no outward surprise. His gaze briefly swept over the man before replying.
"He is."
Dumbledore approached his desk with unhurried grace, pausing to gently stroke Fawkes' head.
"Fawkes has a special gift for perceiving the character of those around him," the headmaster said, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "It seems he's taken a liking to you."
Lucian inclined his head, considering his response carefully.
"He's a perceptive bird."
"And what have you perceived in him?" Dumbledore asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.
Lucian met the headmaster's gaze, his eyes reflecting a sharpness beyond his years.
"That he's more than he seems."
Dumbledore's soft smile suggested he appreciated the observation.
"That is often a good way to describe him."
The silence that followed was contemplative rather than awkward. Eventually, Lucian broke it.
"May I ask you a question, Professor?"
"Of course."
"Do you always know the perfect moment to appear, or was this one sheer coincidence?"
Dumbledore chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with amusement.
"Let's say that, over the years, one learns how to make an entrance."
Lucian allowed himself a brief, dry laugh—restrained but genuine.
"An interesting skill."
Fawkes trilled approvingly, as if celebrating the moment, and the two shared a fleeting smile before Dumbledore's demeanor turned more thoughtful.
"I'm sure you have your reasons for being here, Lucian," the headmaster said, his voice still kind but weighted with significance. "But if I may ask, why Hogwarts?"
Lucian didn't look away.
"For its reputation, Professor. It's hard to ignore that this school is under the protection of the most respected wizard of our era."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his interest clearly piqued.
"Protection?"
Lucian nodded, his tone pragmatic.
"It's a complicated world. Sometimes, being under a powerful umbrella avoids unnecessary problems."
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the practicality of the statement.
"A practical approach, indeed. But I can't help wondering: are you seeking protection from the shadows or from the light?"
Lucian's response was a low, restrained laugh, almost imperceptible, yet layered with meaning.
"Both, if possible," he said, pausing briefly to gauge the headmaster's reaction. "I received offers from other schools: Beauxbatons, Ilvermorny, Durmstrang. All very tempting. But none of them had Albus Dumbledore."
The headmaster simply observed, though his eyes seemed to scrutinize every word.
"And I thought," Lucian continued, with deliberate calm, "that Hogwarts was different. The fact that I'm here speaking with you and not with Ministry representatives confirms that I was right. Had I accepted any of the other offers, I've no doubt their respective ministries would have been on me the moment I set foot in their institutions."
Dumbledore exhaled softly—not a sigh of weariness, but one of understanding. His bright blue eyes seemed to shine even more vividly, as though processing every nuance of the young Grindelwald's words.
The old headmaster's gaze remained fixed on Lucian, his eyes carrying a blend of understanding and caution, as though he were walking a tightrope between empathy and prudence.
"You are right that Hogwarts is different," he conceded, his voice gentle but underscored with authority. "I have always believed that our role as educators is to offer opportunities for growth, not to pass judgment based on the burdens others carry. And while your story may influence how some perceive you, it does not define who you are... nor who you can become."
Lucian stayed silent at this statement. Whether it was because he didn't know how to respond or simply disagreed with the words, Dumbledore couldn't tell.
"You will have a chance, Lucian. You are now a Hogwarts student, which means you will have the same rights as any other young person under this roof," the headmaster continued, his tone firm but retaining its warmth. "But it also means you will be held to the same responsibilities and expectations."
Lucian allowed a faint smile to cross his lips, his tone tinged with irony.
"Does that mean I should worry about detentions if I don't do my homework?"
Dumbledore let out a soft, genuine laugh, his eyes twinkling with a touch of humor.
"While it would be wiser to focus on completing your assignments before it comes to that, I can't deny that yes," he said, pausing to let the light-hearted moment act as a bridge to a deeper subject. "But in a place like this, responsibilities extend beyond assigned tasks. It's also about how we choose to interact with those around us and how we face the challenges that inevitably arise."
The young man maintained his calm posture, though his gaze sharpened slightly.
"Challenges like preconceived opinions?" Lucian asked, his tone lightly ironic yet carrying a note of seriousness.
Dumbledore nodded, leaning forward in his chair with a reflective expression.
"Exactly," he replied, his voice growing more solemn yet retaining an air of compassion. "Some here will struggle to look past a surname. That is a reality I cannot ignore. Prejudices, unfortunately, are seeds that take deep root, and rather than fading, in recent years they have only grown and flourished in places where they should be least expected."
Lucian watched him closely, weighing the words before he asked,
"Are you referring to Voldemort's ideology, sir?"
The use of the name elicited a fleeting flicker in Dumbledore's eyes, a mix of surprise and recognition. It was a brief moment, but one Lucian didn't miss.
"I am," Dumbledore finally replied, his tone measured. "His ideas and the actions they inspired left deep scars in our community. And while time has passed, those scars have fed fears and mistrust that still linger. But it's not just about him, Lucian. Prejudices like these existed long before Voldemort raised his voice."
Lucian tilted his head slightly, processing the answer. After a moment, he decided to steer the conversation toward a more direct question.
"The house I was placed in... Slytherin. Do you think it will be an advantage or an obstacle for someone like me?" His tone was calculating, but not hostile.
Dumbledore clasped his hands in front of him, taking a moment before replying.
"Slytherin, like any other house, is a reflection of the qualities we value most," he began calmly. "In your case, ambition, determination, and the ability to think strategically are traits that should not be underestimated. However, it's also true that in recent times, Slytherin has carried a stigma not all its members deserve. Some view it as a haven for darkness and danger. Nothing could be further from the truth, yet those prejudices persist."
Lucian's expression remained neutral, though his eyes seemed to scrutinize each word carefully.
"And you? Do you see it that way?" he asked, his tone free of challenge but full of curiosity.
Dumbledore allowed a slight smile, rich with wisdom.
"I have seen many generations of Slytherins pass through these doors. Some have been lost to the power they sought, but others have used their ambition for great things—to build, not destroy. I believe ambition is like any powerful tool: it depends on how you choose to wield it."
Lucian reflected for a moment, letting the words sink in before responding.
"So, according to you, Slytherin doesn't define the person but provides the ground for that person to define themselves."
"Precisely. The houses of Hogwarts do not exist to impose a destiny but to help you forge one. Of course, in your case, you may find more eyes watching you closely. Some out of curiosity, others out of distrust. That is something you will need to navigate wisely."
Lucian let out a faint, almost imperceptible, ironic smile.
"It seems my destiny is already under scrutiny before it has even begun."
"That is inevitable, I'm afraid," Dumbledore admitted with a trace of regret, though his tone remained reassuring. "But remember, Lucian, scrutiny is not condemnation. It is an opportunity, an invitation to show who you truly are and what you're made of."
Lucian raised an eyebrow, as if questioning the optimism implicit in those words, but didn't reply. Dumbledore, sensing the doubt in his eyes, leaned forward slightly.
"Your circumstances, while difficult, are by no means a certainty of what you will become," the headmaster continued, wisdom threading through his voice. "The choices you make, the relationships you form, and how you face the challenges you encounter here—these will be what truly define your path."
He paused deliberately, letting his words settle before proceeding.
"But also remember, Lucian, that this right to decide your life does not absolve you of responsibility toward others. Your actions will not only shape your own destiny but also that of those around you."
The room fell into silence, broken only by the soft trill of Fawkes, whose plumage shimmered in the flickering candlelight. The phoenix, ever watchful, seemed to observe Lucian with the same intensity as its owner.
Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his chair, his hands folded on the desk. His gaze softened as he met Lucian's.
"Now, I believe we should continue this conversation another time," he said kindly. "This day must have been exhausting for you. You need rest."
Lucian nodded, understanding that the meeting had come to an end. Dumbledore gestured toward the door.
"Professor Snape, your Head of House, will take you to the Slytherin common room. He will guide you on what you need for tonight."
The young man rose from his seat with elegant, deliberate movements, inclining his head slightly in a show of respect.
"Good night, Professor," he said formally before turning toward the exit.
"Good night, Lucian," Dumbledore replied, his voice lingering in the air as he watched the boy disappear through the door.
The echo of Lucian's footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving the room steeped once more in stillness.
Dumbledore remained seated, unmoving for a moment, his gaze fixed on the closed door. Then, he sighed deeply, releasing a thought that seemed to have weighed on him since the beginning of their meeting.
"The future is always full of uncertainty," he murmured to himself, his tone barely audible but heavy with reflection. "But sometimes, the greatest lights arise from the most unexpected shadows."
Fawkes tilted his head, letting out a soft trill that seemed to convey silent approval. The old man's words dissolved into the serenity of the office as the candles burned steadily, their warm light reflecting in the thoughtful eyes of the headmaster.
…
The first-year girls' dormitory in Slytherin had a distinctive atmosphere, with its vaulted ceiling and stone walls illuminated by a greenish light filtering in from the lake. The dark velvet curtains around each four-poster bed offered a sense of privacy, something Helena deeply appreciated.
Standing in front of a small oval mirror framed in wrought iron, Helena adjusted a black leather choker around her neck. It was a gesture she had perfected over the years—almost automatic, yet far from meaningless. It was one of the few practical pieces of advice her Aunt Petunia had ever given her: "A woman shouldn't have visible scars, Helena. Wear something to cover it; it's not appropriate." Back then, she had complied more to avoid an argument than out of conviction. But now, the choker was more than just an accessory; it was a shield, a way to guard herself against uncomfortable questions and intrusive stares.
With careful movements, she ensured that the thin, curved line of the scar was completely hidden. Though she couldn't see it, she knew exactly where it was—just to the right side of her neck. She had grown up believing it was the result of an accident, something that had happened the night her parents died. Now, she knew it was a remnant of Voldemort's attack, the mark of a night she had barely survived.
Helena let out a sigh as she smoothed her robes with her hands, trying to focus on the present. The magical world, Hogwarts, everything she had discovered in recent weeks, still felt surreal. She had gone from being a "freak" under the Dursleys' roof to a student at a magical school. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place. It was as if she were living a life that belonged to someone else.
She looked at her reflection once more, unable to stop herself from comparing what she saw with the words of those she had met. Hagrid had said she looked just like her mother, but with her father's eyes. Ever since she'd heard that and learned the fate of her parents, seeing that blend in the mirror stung. It was a reminder of everything she had lost.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
"Helena, are you ready?" Cassandra's voice was calm but firm, with that tone that always seemed to strike a balance between neutrality and authority.
"Yes, coming," Helena replied quickly, adjusting her hair one last time.
The door creaked open, and Cassandra peeked her head inside. Her expression was serious, though there was a hint of impatience in her gaze.
"Lucian is waiting. And while he's quite patient, I doubt he wants to spend the entire morning here."
Helena nodded and got moving, grabbing her bag and ensuring everything was in order. As she left the dormitory, the eyes of a few classmates still lingering in the common room fell on her. It was an uncomfortable feeling, as if she were constantly being evaluated.
The Slytherin common room, with its greenish light and dark furnishings, always felt intimidating. As she descended the stairs, she tried to ignore the stares and focus on her steps. Cassandra walked beside her, her elegant and distant demeanor giving her an almost regal air that Helena couldn't help but admire.
Near the exit, Lucian stood waiting, leaning casually against one of the stone walls. His posture was relaxed, his robes immaculate, and his calm expression carried a presence that was hard to overlook.
"Finally," he said with a faint smile as they approached. His tone was gentle, with no hint of irritation, though there was a touch of irony that made him seem perpetually one step ahead.
"We're here now. Don't exaggerate," Cassandra replied, her gaze sparkling with rare amusement.
Lucian gave a polite gesture, signaling for them to start walking.
"It's best we head to the Great Hall first. Afterward, we'll go to Potions class." His words were measured, almost as if he were mentally organizing a schedule as he spoke. "I had the chance to exchange a few words with Professor Snape yesterday, and I must admit he doesn't seem particularly... pleasant."
"What did he say?" Cassandra asked, curious though her tone remained neutral.
"Nothing out of the ordinary. He just gave the impression of not tolerating incompetence." Lucian let out a faint smile, as though the prospect didn't faze him in the slightest.
Helena walked in silence through the stone corridors, her gaze fixed on the floor. Despite her insecurities, there was something surprisingly comforting about the company of Lucian and Cassandra. Perhaps it was because, for the first time in a long while, she felt she had friends beyond Harry.
…
"Over there, look."
"Where?"
"Next to the tall boy with black hair."
"You're an idiot. What if he hexes you for staring?"
"Have you seen her twin?"
The murmurs reached Lucian's ears the moment he stepped out of the dormitory that morning. Students loitering outside classrooms leaned subtly to get a better look or turned their heads in the hallways, casting furtive glances filled with curiosity.
He had known his arrival at Hogwarts wouldn't go unnoticed; after all, blending into a crowd wasn't exactly his forte. Yet, he hadn't anticipated this much attention. Though, as he walked beside Helena, the reason behind the stares became increasingly obvious.
The two of them together must have been a bewildering sight to many. Helena Potter, one of the two siblings who had survived Voldemort's attack and somehow defeated the most feared dark wizard of recent times, walking alongside him—Lucian. A boy whose last name cast a heavy shadow, tied to a man who had sought not just to destroy the magical world as it was but to reform it in his own image.
Helena, beside him, seemed oblivious to the intensity of the stares—or at least, she pretended to be. Her upright posture and the way she kept her gaze forward gave the impression of someone used to being the center of attention, though Lucian could pick out the small cracks in her performance: the faint nervousness in the way she clutched her bag or how her eyes briefly darted away before refocusing.
Cassandra, following with her usual calm and elegant stride, appeared utterly immune to it all. Her expression remained serene, as if the constant buzz of murmurs around them was nothing more than a distant hum.
"People are fascinating, aren't they?" Lucian murmured in a low, almost amused tone, leaning slightly toward Helena as they continued through the castle.
She glanced at him, surprised by the comment but unable to suppress a faint smile.
"Fascinating?" she repeated, her tone tinged with sarcasm.
"Oh, absolutely," he replied, shrugging nonchalantly. "Like little amateur spies—watching, speculating, inventing stories about what they don't understand."
"Not understanding won't stop them from talking," Cassandra interjected from behind, her voice as calm as ever.
"Of course not," Lucian agreed with the same casual air. "But isn't that the most interesting part? They think they know everything, and yet they know nothing at all."
Helena let out a soft laugh, unable to help herself. There was something about the way Lucian handled the situation, with that air of nonchalance, that made the constant stares feel less heavy. Though her nerves lingered, for a moment, she felt lighter.
Still, her thoughts wandered to her brother. Though she didn't mention it, a part of her couldn't help but wonder how Harry was handling all the attention. Ever since they were little, he had struggled to manage his emotions, often reacting impulsively—something that had landed both of them in trouble with the Dursleys more times than she could count.
What comforted Helena, however, was the knowledge that she would soon see her brother. Slytherin shared Potions with Gryffindor, and though she had hoped to find him in the Great Hall that morning, he hadn't been among the few first-years present when she arrived. Perhaps he had arrived early, or more likely, he was struggling to navigate a place as chaotic as Hogwarts.
As they made their way toward the Potions classroom, Helena couldn't help but feel puzzled by how easily Lucian seemed to find his way. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since their arrival at Hogwarts, yet he already moved as if he knew all the castle's secrets.
"How do you do it?" she finally asked, unable to hide her amazement. "Yesterday was our first night here, but you walk as if you've known the castle for years."
Lucian smiled, his pace unbroken as they turned another corner.
"It's not as complicated as it seems," he replied calmly. "You just have to pay attention to the details."
"Details?" Helena repeated, confused.
"Exactly—the sounds, the shadows... the magic surrounding the castle," he explained, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The castle speaks to you, but only if you're willing to listen."
Helena studied him, trying to determine whether he was serious or merely teasing. But Lucian had a way of sounding utterly convincing, no matter how strange his claims might be.
"You mean to say that disappearing staircases and doors pretending to be walls are 'guiding' us?" she asked, lacing her words with a touch of sarcasm.
Lucian chuckled softly. "In their own way, perhaps. But if you only rely on what your eyes see or your ears hear, you'll miss much of what this place has to offer."
Helena frowned, her mind drifting to Hogwarts' endless staircases—142 of them, according to a book she'd read before arriving. Some were wide and open, others narrow and rickety. There were doors that wouldn't open unless you tickled them and hallways that changed destinations depending on the day of the week. None of that aligned with what Lucian was describing.
Cassandra, still walking behind them with her usual composed demeanor, chimed in.
"Perhaps it's that you and Hogwarts understand each other," she remarked with a faint smile Helena almost missed.
"Maybe," Lucian admitted without a hint of modesty, as they turned another corner and stopped in front of an imposing door made of dark wood. "What I do know is that we're here—right on time."
Helena stopped in her tracks, incredulous. How had they managed to arrive without a single misstep? She could easily imagine other first-years still running through the corridors, frantically searching for the correct classroom.
"Incredible," she muttered, shaking her head.
Lucian simply smiled as he opened the door with an elegant gesture, motioning for the two of them to enter.
"Magic always has ways of guiding you," he said in a low voice, almost as if sharing a secret.
Helena crossed the threshold, still intrigued by his words. While she wasn't entirely convinced, there was something about the way he said it that made her want to believe him. Yet another part of her, the rational side shaped by her years in the Muggle world, insisted it was impossible. Maybe it was that same part that had grown accustomed to logical explanations and a lack of wonders.
…
Potions classes were held in a cold, gloomy dungeon, far chillier than the upper levels of the castle. Even without the glass jars lining the walls—each containing strange, preserved creatures—the atmosphere would still have been grim enough. The oppressive environment seemed to heighten the students' tension as they waited for the lesson to begin.
Professor Snape entered, his trademark black robes billowing behind him. He began calling the roll, but paused noticeably when he reached the Potter twins.
"Ah, yes," he murmured, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "The Potter twins. Our new... celebrities."
Helena felt a knot form in her stomach, more for Harry than for herself. Still, her mind couldn't help but notice something curious: Snape also hesitated when he reached Lucian's name, but refrained from making any cutting remarks. He simply moved on to the next name without further comment.
From his seat, Draco Malfoy snickered, accompanied by Crabbe and Goyle, who covered their mouths to stifle their laughter. Snape finished calling the roll and raised his eyes to the class. His black gaze was piercing, as dark as Hagrid's but devoid of any warmth. Instead, they were cold, like tunnels leading nowhere.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began, his voice barely a whisper but sharp enough to fill the dungeon. He had an uncanny ability to command attention without effort. "Here, there will be little foolish wand-waving. Many of you will hardly believe this is magic."
He paused, letting his eyes sweep across the room. Helena avoided his gaze but could feel the weight of his scrutiny.
"I do not expect you to truly understand the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron, its shimmering fumes, or the delicate power of liquids that creep through the veins, bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses. However, I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory... and even put a stopper in death. That is, if you aren't as hopelessly dim-witted as I usually find my students to be."
The silence that followed was so heavy it seemed to drain the air from the room. Helena exchanged a quick glance with Harry, sharing an unspoken discomfort at their professor's words. Hermione, on the other hand, was perched on the edge of her seat, eyes alight and hand poised to shoot into the air.
"Mr. Potter," Snape said suddenly, his voice cracking the silence like a whip. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Helena shook her head, knowing perfectly well that Harry had no idea what Snape was talking about. She vaguely remembered that the combination created a very powerful sleeping potion, though the exact name escaped her. Hermione, beside her, was already waving her hand enthusiastically.
"I don't know, sir," Harry replied calmly, though his discomfort was clear.
Snape's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Tut, tut... fame clearly isn't everything," he sneered, ignoring Hermione's raised hand entirely.
Snape pressed on. "Let's try again, Potter. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Hermione's hand was now so high it looked as though it might take flight, but Snape paid her no mind.
"I don't know, sir," Harry repeated.
"Clearly, you haven't bothered to open a book before coming here, have you?" Snape remarked, his tone growing sharper with each word.
Helena pressed her lips together, trying to make sense of Snape's behavior. She knew Harry had read the textbooks, but he wasn't the type to memorize every detail. Snape, on the other hand, seemed to expect his students to be walking encyclopedias. Well, maybe Hermione was, but even so, the treatment felt unfair.
"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?" Snape asked, his voice cutting like a blade.
Hermione was now practically standing, her hand so high it almost touched the ceiling.
"I don't know," Harry said again, maintaining his composure. "But I think Hermione does. Why don't you ask her?"
A ripple of laughter ran through the room. Seamus gave Harry a sly wink from his seat. But Snape was far from amused.
"Sit down!" he barked at Hermione, who sank back into her seat, cheeks flushed crimson. Then, his dark eyes turned to Helena.
"The same questions for you, Miss Potter," he said, his tone even sharper.
Helena felt her throat tighten under Snape's piercing gaze, but she mustered all her courage, took a deep breath, and spoke.
"If I remember correctly, sir, asphodel and wormwood combined produce a powerful sleeping potion. The bezoar is found in a goat's stomach and serves as an antidote. And as for the last question, monkshood and wolfsbane are simply two names for the same plant."
As she spoke, Snape's gaze didn't waver, but something in his expression shifted. His dark eyes gleamed with a flicker of interest, and one eyebrow arched slightly as though surprised.
For a moment, the dungeon was silent. Snape said nothing, and Helena almost wished the ground would swallow her up. Then his voice cut through the air:
"Well. It seems at least one person in this class might be worth teaching. Five points to Slytherin for your answers, Miss Potter."
The low murmurs of the students ceased instantly. Helena felt an unexpected warmth in her chest—it was recognition she hadn't anticipated but couldn't fully enjoy under Snape's cold stare.
The professor turned his attention from Helena to the rest of the class, who were now watching him intently.
"The Draught of Living Death is one of the most powerful and dangerous sleeping potions. The bezoar, as she correctly explained, is a stone taken from a goat's stomach and can counter most poisons. And yes, monkshood and wolfsbane are two names for the same plant. You couldn't have said it better."
He paused, letting his words sink into the students' minds.
"Well, why aren't you writing this down?" he snapped.
The room was immediately filled with the frantic scratching of quills on parchment. Snape watched with his usual expression of disdain, but when his gaze returned to Harry, his lips twisted into a mocking smirk.
"And one point will be taken from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter," Snape added, with evident satisfaction.
Harry frowned but said nothing, not wanting to risk further losses for his house. Helena pressed her lips together to hold back a comment, focusing instead on her notes.
For the remainder of the class, Snape paired the students to brew a simple Boil-Cure Potion. Cloaked in his dark robes, he moved among the desks, watching as students weighed dried nettles and crushed snake fangs. He missed no opportunity to criticize, except when it came to Draco Malfoy, whom he openly favored.
Helena worked with Lucian at their cauldron. Despite their initial differences in work pace, she soon noticed that their potion matched the exact shade described in the textbook. She watched Lucian handle the ingredients with almost instinctive precision—it was clear he had prior experience in potion-making.
She was about to roll her eyes at one of Lucian's quiet remarks when a sudden movement caught her attention. Lucian rose from his seat and quickly approached Neville Longbottom's table. The boy seemed uncertain as he held a handful of porcupine quills, ready to add them to his cauldron.
"Wait," Lucian said, firmly but not harshly grasping Neville's arm. "If you don't want your cauldron to explode, I suggest leaving those quills on the table. It's not time to add them yet."
Neville blinked, his face fluctuating between a pale white of fear and a bright red of embarrassment. Nearby students stopped to watch, murmurs of curiosity filling the dungeon.
Before Neville could respond, Snape's shadowy figure appeared between the desks, moving like a menacing specter. His dark eyes gleamed with malicious curiosity.
"May I ask what this little scene is about?" Snape inquired, his biting tone directed at Lucian with a mix of intrigue and disapproval.
Lucian released Neville's arm calmly and turned to face the professor with an even expression.
"Sir, Neville was about to add the porcupine quills before extinguishing the fire under his cauldron. According to your instructions, that would have caused an explosion. I was simply trying to prevent an accident."
Snape raised an eyebrow, scrutinizing Lucian as though deciding whether his intervention deserved criticism or praise. For a moment, the dungeon was utterly silent, save for the bubbling of cauldrons.
"Hmph," Snape finally grunted, turning to Neville, who now looked like he wanted to vanish into thin air. After inspecting the cauldron, he confirmed Lucian's warning had been correct.
Neville lowered his gaze, too frightened to speak.
Snape's eyes narrowed as he returned his attention to Lucian.
"Though your intervention was unsolicited, Mr. Grindelwald... your warning prevented what would have been a predictable disaster. Five points to Slytherin," he said at last, though his tone was begrudging. Then he turned back to Neville, his voice sharp. "And you, Longbottom, try not to endanger everyone in this class."
With that, the professor moved away, leaving a palpable tension in the air. Helena glanced at Lucian as he returned to his seat with calm composure.
"That was kind of you, helping Neville," she remarked quietly while carefully stirring their potion.
Lucian, without taking his eyes off his cauldron, answered calmly:
"Frankly, I did it more for myself than for him. I couldn't stand working in the middle of a disaster."
Helena raised an eyebrow and suppressed a smile.
"That's an interesting way to view kindness."
Lucian shrugged indifferently.
"Call it practical sense."
After the Potions class, the day continued with other subjects. Helena had to admit that, before coming to Hogwarts, she imagined magic was just about waving a wand and casting colorful sparks. However, the classes were far more complex and fascinating than she had expected.
The easiest, but also the most boring, subject was History of Magic. It was taught by a ghost, Professor Binns, whose monotonous voice managed to drain even the most interesting topics of life. Helena found the content of the class fascinating, especially since she was just discovering the magical world, but the professor's teaching style left much to be desired. According to what she had heard, Binns had been an old man when he fell asleep by the fireplace in the professors' lounge and, the next day, simply got up as if nothing had happened... leaving his body behind.
On the other hand, the Charms class was much livelier. Professor Flitwick, a tiny wizard who had to climb a pile of books to reach his desk, proved to be charismatic and brilliant in his teaching. His enthusiasm for charms was contagious, and Helena couldn't help but enjoy every lesson, even though some things proved to be challenging.
Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall, in charge of Transfiguration, was strict and imposing. From the very first moment, she made her expectations clear.
—Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous types of magic you'll learn at Hogwarts. Anyone who wastes time in my class will be sent away and will not be allowed to return. Consider yourselves warned.
To demonstrate, she transformed a desk into a pig in front of the whole class and then returned it to its original form. Most of the students were impressed and eager to learn, though they quickly realized that mastering that level of magic would take time. The first task was to turn a matchstick into a needle. By the end of the class, only Lucian had successfully completed it, something that even surprised McGonagall. Helena managed to make her matchstick turn silver and pointy, a progress she only shared with Cassandra, which earned them the professor's recognition.
The class everyone had been looking forward to the most was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Professor Quirrell's lessons turned out to be a disappointment. His classroom had a strong smell of garlic, which, according to him, protected him from a vampire he had encountered in Romania. He also claimed that his turban was a gift from an African prince he had saved from a zombie, though few believed his stories.
Helena felt relieved to realize that she wasn't much further behind than her classmates. Some of them came from Muggle families and, like her, were just beginning to understand the magical world. But even those from magical families didn't have too much of an advantage. However, Lucian and Cassandra were the exception: both seemed to have more advanced knowledge, though even Cassandra appeared to be falling behind compared to Lucian.