Chapter 40: Potions Detention

Harry hadn’t read the book and had no idea what it was about.

However, judging by Hermione’s expression, he could tell that the curse mentioned in it was likely... something terrible.

"Where did you even find that book?" Hermione exclaimed, clearly unsettled. Rolling her eyes, she added with a touch of exasperation, "Honestly, I’m terrified this book will get us all thrown into Azkaban..."

"Correction," Ron interjected, raising his hand theatrically. "You’re a witch now. God won’t save you. He’d probably watch you turn into a human torch—"

Hermione shot him a venomous glare.

"Uh, what’s wrong with the book?" Harry asked cautiously.

"Do you know what the very first curse in this book is?" Hermione hissed, glancing around to make sure no one was listening before continuing in a harsh whisper, "It’s the Imperius Curse! Controlling someone’s soul! Who in their right mind calls that harmless?"

Harry suddenly remembered—it was the book Sebastian had stolen from the Gaunt family.

Well... that actually made sense. Considering the Gaunt family’s twisted tradition of forcing their children to use the Cruciatus Curse on Muggle kids, it wasn’t surprising they’d see soul manipulation as a minor spell.

"This must be a Gaunt family heirloom," Harry said without hesitation, throwing his friend under the bus. "When I took it, I noticed a name on the side—something like Ominis Gaunt."

"Oh, well, if it’s from the Gaunts, that explains everything," Ron chimed in. "The Gaunt family’s descended from Salazar Slytherin, and Slytherin himself was a dark wizard."

"One of Hogwarts' founders?" Hermione asked, looking genuinely shocked. "Mr. Slytherin was a dark wizard? How is that possible?"

Harry didn’t argue. After all, he’d seen Salazar Slytherin’s notes in the Chamber of Secrets before, and they weren’t exactly the writings of a saint.

Ron shrugged nonchalantly, deciding to leave it at that.

"This book is off-limits from now on!" Hermione declared firmly, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "I don’t want to get implicated in one of these so-called 'minor' curses and end up in Azkaban—or worse, expelled from school!"

"You really don’t know which one’s worse, do you?" Ron teased with a sly grin, earning himself another withering glare.

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By November, the weather had grown bitterly cold.

In the Scottish Highlands, even with the moderating effect of the North Atlantic Current, the high latitude gave the climate a chill comparable to Moscow’s.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The mountains surrounding the school were cloaked in mist and snow. The lake’s surface was frozen over with a thick layer of ice, cold and hard as tempered steel.

Each morning, frost blanketed the grounds.

From the upper-floor windows, they could see Hagrid out on the Quidditch pitch, bundled up in a mole-fur coat, rabbit-fur gloves, and massive beaver-fur boots, de-icing the brooms.

For some reason, Hermione seemed more nervous about Harry’s first Quidditch match than he was. Ron was the same.

Ron spent his days obsessively oiling Harry’s broomstick, while Hermione borrowed Quidditch Through the Ages from the library and insisted Harry read up on the rules.

The biting cold prompted Hermione to conjure several handfuls of blue flames that could be stored in jam jars and carried around. She handed them out generously—not just to Harry and Ron, but to Seamus and Neville as well.

Seamus, who had long since let go of any grudges, was so grateful for the portable fire that he half-jokingly called Hermione “Mum.”

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On Friday, during Potions class, Harry absentmindedly brought Quidditch Through the Ages with him to the dungeon.

Snape, as usual, hovered close, scrutinizing Harry’s every move as he worked on his potion.

When Harry successfully brewed a flawless draught of Living Death, Snape let out a nasal "hmmph."

It was impossible to tell if he was pleased or irritated, so Harry decided to chalk it up to Snape’s typical Slytherin habit of being inscrutable.

But Snape’s attention soon shifted to the book on Harry’s desk. Picking it up with alarming speed, he glanced at the title page before sneering.

"Well, well, Potter," Snape drawled, looming over him. "Bringing unrelated books into Potions class? Ten points from Gryffindor. And you’ll be serving detention in my office every Wednesday and Saturday evening."

Harry gaped at him, stunned. Losing points over a Quidditch book? That was new—even for Snape.

After class, Ron and Hermione caught up to him.

"Harry," Ron said in a hushed tone, "did you notice Snape’s limping? Looks like he’s injured."

"Now that you mention it, yeah," Harry replied, recalling Snape’s uneven gait. One moment he appeared taller, the next shorter.

"Still, I need to get that book back," Harry said with determination.

"You’re mad," Hermione and Ron said in unison.

But Harry didn’t think so. He was convinced that deep down, Snape didn’t really hate him. Dislike? Maybe. But hate? Impossible. His parents’ friend couldn’t possibly despise him. Snape probably just had an issue with Gryffindor as a whole.

With this comforting thought, Harry headed for the staff lounge, hoping to get lucky.

Knocking softly on the door and hearing no response, he peeked inside. The room was empty except for Snape and Filch. Snape had lifted his robes, exposing his leg.

Harry froze, shocked. Snape’s leg was covered in fresh wounds, blood oozing from gaping cuts deep enough to expose the muscle.

"Professor, this..." Filch muttered, handing Snape a bandage.

"Bloody thing," Snape growled. "How does anyone manage to keep an eye on three heads at once?"

Three heads?

Harry frowned. Could Snape’s injury be tied to some kind of three-headed creature?

Before he could think further, a sharp voice startled him.

"Potter!"

Harry looked up, meeting Snape’s furious glare as the man hastily let his robes fall back into place.

"Sorry, Professor," Harry said quickly. "I just came to ask if I could have my book back?"

"Get out!" Snape bellowed, pointing at the door.

Harry didn’t need telling twice. He bolted, silently relieved that Snape hadn’t docked more points from Gryffindor.

Still... what kind of creature had injured Snape?

Determined to find out, Harry decided to pay Hagrid a visit. If anyone knew about magical creatures, it was Hagrid.

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