HP: Ashborn

Meanwhile, Maximus and his potions partner, Lillian Everleigh, worked together like a well-oiled machine. Before even touching a single ingredient, they cleaned the cauldron, cleared their workspace, and double-checked every step of the Potions Master's instructions.

Maximus, thanks to Jasmine's prior teachings, had no trouble with preparation, while Lillian—who'd clearly received a solid education before arriving at Hogwarts—handled her tasks with practiced efficiency. Between them, there was no hesitation, no wasted movement. Just pure, methodical precision.

The result? A textbook-perfect batch of Cure for Boils.

Lillian, clearly satisfied, stopped stirring and set the ladle down, prepared to wait for Snape's inspection. But Maximus wasn't one to settle for just completing the assignment.

With a calm, deliberate motion, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small stone, and transfigured it into a glass vial. Carefully, he filled it with their pristine potion. Then, with a casual flick of his wand, he cast an unbreakable charm over it—because any competent potion-maker knew better than to risk their hard work being ruined before testing.

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Lillian blinked in surprise. That wasn't something first-years typically did. Then again, Maximus didn't exactly do anything like a typical first-year.

But even more intrigued was Severus Snape.

The Potions Master observed the act from across the room, his keen gaze sharpening slightly—like a hawk spotting an unsuspecting mouse. Or, in this case, a first-year behaving suspiciously competently.

As the forty-five-minute brewing session came to an end, Snape descended upon the students like a looming shadow, his robes billowing ominously as he moved from cauldron to cauldron. He inspected each brew with ruthless precision, pausing only to deliver soul-crushing evaluations.

As expected, the Gryffindors received a range of feedback from terrible to worthless to "Ah, I see you've invented a new category of failure." Meanwhile, the Slytherins fared better, their grades spanning from not bad to decent—with a few lucky ones receiving a rare good.

But when Snape reached their cauldron, something in his expression shifted. He examined both the brew and the vial with his usual meticulousness, his dark eyes narrowing. He lingered for a moment, scrutinizing the potion's consistency, color, and scent with the kind of focus usually reserved for uncovering deep-seated personal flaws.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he gave the ultimate Snape compliment—a barely audible mutter of "Satisfactory."

And just like that, he turned on his heel and moved on.

From Snape, that was practically a standing ovation.

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Unfortunately, he also became the first professor to assign homework—an essay on Cure for Boils—prompting a chorus of groans from both Slytherins and Gryffindors alike before he finally dismissed us.

But, of course, the now-infamous tradition of professors calling my name at the end of class continued.

"Mr. Ashborn, stay back after class."

The reaction was instantaneous.

When Flitwick or McGonagall had asked me to stay behind, no one had paid much attention. But Snape? The moment those words left his mouth, it was like someone had hurled a boulder into a still lake.

Whispers broke out. Heads snapped toward me. Students exchanged intrigued, almost gleeful glances—as if they'd just been handed front-row seats to a public execution.

Snape, however, was having none of it.

His voice dropped into an icy, razor-sharp tone, slicing through the murmuring crowd like a knife.

"I believe I called for the one named Ashborn. Unless you are Ashborn, leave."

His words carried an unspoken or else, and—like magic—the entire classroom emptied within seconds.

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Once the last student had scurried away, I stepped forward and addressed him respectfully, my tone questioning.

"Professor?"

For the first time, his voice softened—though it remained measured and precise.

"Mr. Ashborn, have you been trained in potions beforehand?"

I responded calmly, keeping my tone even. "No, sir. I have not been formally trained in potions. I have only read the textbooks prescribed in the syllabus and one from my family library."

Snape leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp and probing.

"And yet, your behavior in the laboratory suggests otherwise. You followed every precaution instinctively, taking the necessary steps without hesitation. Then, at the end, you transfigured a vial and charmed it to be unbreakable—something not explicitly mentioned in any beginner's textbook. These are the habits of a practiced potion-maker, not merely a student who has read a few books. How do you explain this, Mr. Ashborn?"

His words were calculated, scrutinizing, as if he were peeling away layers, searching for cracks in my response.

I resisted the urge to sigh internally. Of course, Snape would notice.

But I met his gaze without flinching. "Professor, my Transfiguration skills can be confirmed by Professor McGonagall—she personally tested me last Saturday. As for the brewing habits and precautions, they were told to me by my friend, Jasmine Potter. We had been reading about potions in the library, and she mentioned these steps as useful practices for careful brewing."

Snape studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a curt nod, he simply said, "Hmm. Very well. You are free to go."

I turned, exhaling a silent sigh of relief. But just as I reached the door, his voice rang out once more.

"Do not allow yourself to be influenced by your housemates, Mr. Ashborn. Maintain and improve your standards. Do not degrade them."

I stopped at the threshold, then turned slightly, meeting his gaze with a small, confident smile.

"I am not a normal Gryffindor, sir. And I will do my best to uphold the standards I displayed today."

For a brief moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his expression—approval, perhaps? But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by his usual stern indifference.

Without another word, I stepped out of the classroom, leaving the Potions Master to his thoughts.

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I had promised Jasmine I would meet her in the library to discuss Professor Flitwick's challenge. But as I climbed to the third floor, the sight before me made my blood run cold.

Jasmine was on her knees, her face flushed—not from fear, but from anger and humiliation.

Five Ravenclaws—three boys, two girls—stood around her, their faces twisted in amusement, their laughter-like nails on a chalkboard.

My voice cut through the air, fiery and cold at the same time. "What is happening here?"

The five bullies startled, but upon seeing I was alone, their confidence quickly returned. One of the boys scoffed, speaking in a mocking drawl.

"Just teaching this Potter brat some humility," he drawled, confidence seeping back into his tone. "Thought her family's gold and her famous brother made her better than us."

One of the girls snickered, crossing her arms. "Isn't that right, Princess Potter? Must be hard, living among common students when you have lived your life in some mansion, pretending you're just another student while thinking everyone was beneath you."

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Jasmine—who had always laughed so easily, who had met every challenge with a smirk and a spark in her eyes—now looked as if she'd been dragged through the mud and forced to swallow the taste of it.

I didn't know exactly what had happened before I arrived, but one thing was undeniable—they had humiliated her. For no reason. Or perhaps, for the simplest reason of all—jealousy.

As I stepped past the circle of Ravenclaws, their laughter faded. Their amusement withered into unease. They watched me now, uncertain, as I walked straight to Jasmine and knelt before her.

The sharp-witted, confident girl I had come to know over the last three days wasn't here.

No smirk. No glint of challenge in her emerald eyes.

Instead, her face—usually full of warmth and intelligence—was flushed with anger, embarrassment… and something deeper, something raw.

She knew I was there, but she wouldn't meet my gaze. Her shoulders were stiff, fists clenched so tightly that her nails must have been cutting into her palms. She looked like she was holding herself together by sheer will alone, as if letting go—even for a second—would shatter her.

I didn't like it. No—I hated it.

I hated seeing her—the girl who met the world with wit and fire—like this.

I exhaled slowly, forcing down the rage boiling in my chest. Now wasn't the time to let it loose.

Not yet.

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"Jasmine. Look at me."

She hesitated, her breath uneven, eyes locked onto the ground as if meeting mine would shatter the fragile walls she had built around herself.

"Jasmine," I said again, softer this time but just as firm. "Please."

Slowly, almost reluctantly, her gaze lifted. And in that moment, I saw everything—the pain she had buried deep, the silent battles she had fought alone, the weight of words unspoken pressing against her chest.

She was breaking.

I couldn't let her.

"You're not alone," I told her, my voice unwavering. "Not now. Not ever."

Her lips parted, but no words came. Just a flicker of something in her green eyes—something dangerously close to hope. A hope she wanted to believe in but didn't dare trust.

Then, as if burned by the very thought, she quickly looked away.

A mocking giggle sliced through the heavy silence.

"Oh! Look at that," one of the girls sneered, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "She even managed to seduce a boy in just three days. Guess the Potter charm works on the desperate ones too."

Laughter rippled through their group, their confidence creeping back like a slow-acting poison. Jasmine flinched, her shoulders curling inward as if bracing for another hit.

Like this was still a game.

It wasn't.

I reached out, my fingers closing gently around her wrist—not to restrain, not to pull, just a touch. A reminder.

I'm here.

"Look at me."

She hesitated, but this time, when her eyes met mine, there was something else beneath the pain.

Frustration. Embarrassment. The quiet, simmering rage of someone who had been cornered one too many times.

But deeper than that, I saw something worse.

Doubt.

Not in them.

In herself.

And I refused to let it fester.

I exhaled, steady, unwavering. Then I spoke.

"They don't define you."

My words cut through the air, slicing through the laughter, through the venom in their voices, through the chains they tried to wrap around her.

I held her gaze, steady, certain, unbreakable.

"They never will."

Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something—but then—

"Oh, please."

One of the boys cut in, rolling his eyes, his voice thick with mockery.

"You actually believe that, Ashborn? You think she's some poor, misunderstood soul?"

He took a step closer, his words dripping with condescension. "She's a Potter. The spoiled little daughter of a family drowning in gold, living in a mansion, with a father too busy basking in the Boy-Who-Lived's glory to even care she exists."

I didn't react.

Didn't even look at them.

Their voices were nothing more than static in the background—insignificant, weightless.

My focus remained solely on Jasmine.

My eyes drifted to the wand holster at her hip. With slow, deliberate movements, I reached out, unfastened it, and felt the smooth, polished wood against my fingertips. I turned it over once before pressing it into her trembling hands.

"Remember what Mr. Ollivander said," I murmured, my voice low but steady. "People mistake cherry wands for mere ornamental wands, but they hold a mysterious power. A power that can be lethal—if the wielder wills it to be."

She stared at me, her fingers tightening around the wand.

The air between us felt heavier now, as if something unseen had shifted, settling into place.

"And remember what I said," I continued, my tone unwavering. "This wand can only be wielded by a witch of exceptional strength. So use it, Jasmine."

She swallowed, her breath shaky, her shoulders still tense. Doubt lingered in her eyes.

So I did something I hadn't planned.

With slow, careful movements, I reached up and cupped her face in my hands. My thumbs brushed against her cheeks, and she stilled—utterly frozen—as if the touch had rooted her in place.

"Look at me."

She did.

"You are not weak," I whispered, voice firm but gentle. "You are not helpless. And you are certainly not alone."

Her breathing hitched, her eyes searching mine, like she wanted—needed—to believe me.

I leaned in, close enough that my forehead nearly touched hers, without once breaking the eye contact, my voice dropping even lower.

"It will be okay."

I felt her breath catch.

"So stand up." My grip on her tightened, steady and unshakable. "It's never wrong to fight for yourself. One can support you—but only you can fight your battles."

Her lips parted—this time, not in hesitation, but in realization.

And then, something inside her shifted.

The tremble in her hands steadied. The flicker of uncertainty in her eyes hardened into resolve.

She exhaled slowly, and when she spoke, her voice—though quiet—no longer wavered.

A shuddering breath left her lips.

And then—her grip steadied.

I saw it—the precise moment realization dawned in her eyes.

I kept my voice gentle yet firm. "You aren't weak, powerless, or fragile, Jasmine. So don't let a bunch of jealous nobodies decide who you are."

Her breathing, once uneven and shaky, evened out. The tremble in her fingers faded as she wrapped them around her wand—not with desperation, but with purpose.

For a moment, her mind drifted—not to doubt, not to fear, but to memory.

"Jasmine." Her granduncle's voice echoed from the depths of her past; a lesson spoken in a tone of unwavering certainty. "A Potter does not shrink before the storm. We are the storm."

"Born to conquer. Natus Vincere"

She had heard those words - their family, Potter Family motto. Engraved in her since childhood—engraved in their history, written in blood, carried by every Potter who had come before her.

And yet, here she was, on her knees, wavering.

"A person who seeks others to fight their battles will never rise." rang a voice of her Grand-Uncle inside her head.

She inhaled sharply.

Maximus had given her support, but he hadn't fought this battle for her. No, he had simply reminded her of who she was.

It had always been her fight.

And she should rise on her own.

The air around her shifted as she rose, subtle yet undeniable—like the first flicker of a storm before it fully raged.

Jasmine lifted her head, her emerald eyes no longer clouded with doubt or humiliation.

They were sharp. Focused.

And for the first time, the bullies felt it too—the quiet, rising storm that had just awakened before them.

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The Jasmine Potter was back.

And this time, she wasn't just standing—she was ready.

She rolled her shoulders back, her grip on her wand firm, the earlier hesitation gone. I stood just behind her, my own wand in hand, silent but unwavering in my presence.

A slow, almost dangerous smile curved her lips.

With deliberate ease, she turned on her heel, facing the five Ravenclaws who had, just moments ago, revelled in tearing her down.

Now?

They hesitated.

For the first time, the certainty in their eyes wavered.

Jasmine took a step forward. They stepped back.

"Oh?"

Her head tilted slightly, emerald eyes glinting. "What's wrong?" Her voice was light—mocking, even. But beneath it lay something razor-sharp. Something new.

The boy who had been leading the insults—the one who dared to call her extra in her own family—scowled, his earlier bravado cracking.

"What, you think you're suddenly better than us now?" he sneered.

Jasmine hummed, tapping her wand against her palm as if considering the question.

"Better than you?" she mused, voice soft—thoughtful, even.

Then, she grinned, her smile sharpened.

"I always was… but it just took me some time to remember it. What a fool I was."

The glint in her emerald eyes turned dangerous as she took another step forward, her presence pressing down on them like an unseen force.

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"You said I was a spoiled Potter, right?" Her voice was almost playful, as if she were merely toying with them, but her grip on her wand remained lethal.

She let the silence stretch, watching them shift uncomfortably under her unwavering gaze.

Then, she smiled—a slow, knowing curve of her lips.

"But you forgot, dear…"

She lifted her wand slightly, emerald eyes locked onto them, unblinking.

"I am a Potter."

Her voice was steady, smooth as silk, yet carrying the weight of something far older, far stronger than mere bloodline pride.

"And I think it's time you learned what that really means."

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(Author Notes: This is my first time writing an emotional scene. I wrote it to the best of my ability. Please give me your feedback on it.

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