Quirks in Wizarding World

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- Hogwarts Castle -

- September 2, 1991-

After Charms, Arthav and his friends made their way outside toward the greenhouses for their next lesson—Herbology. The air was crisp, the morning sun casting long shadows across the grounds. The scent of damp earth and blooming plants filled the air as students from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw gathered near Greenhouse One.

Professor Sprout, a stout and cheerful woman with dirt-streaked robes, stood by the entrance, greeting students as they arrived. "Come along, come along! We've got plenty to cover today."

Arthav found a spot next to Harry and Ron, with Hermione and some other Gryffindors nearby. Padma had gone over to sit with her twin sister, Parvati, but she still gave him a quick smile before turning to listen to Professor Sprout.

As they waited for the class to start, Arthav turned to Harry. "How was your first class?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a look before groaning in unison. Ron rubbed his forehead. "We got lost trying to find the Transfiguration classroom. Took a wrong staircase, ended up in a corridor full of moving suits of armor."

Harry sighed. "By the time we got there, Professor McGonagall was already teaching. She turned to us, gave this really disapproving look, and before we could even explain, she said—"

"'Perhaps a map would be useful for those who struggle with directions,'" Ron mimicked in an exaggerated tone.

Hermione, who had been listening, sniffed disapprovingly. "Well, she was right. You should have paid more attention during the tour."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Not everyone memorizes the entire castle in one day, Hermione."

Arthav chuckled. "Sounds like a rough start."

"You have no idea," Harry muttered, adjusting his gloves as Professor Sprout clapped her hands.

"All right, listen up!" she called. "Today, we'll be working with Mimbulus Mimbletonia. They may look unassuming, but they have a rather…unique defense mechanism."

Arthav had read about the plant before—it was known for expelling a foul-smelling liquid when threatened. He glanced at Ron, who looked worried.

Sprout led them to a table where several small, grayish-green plants sat in pots, covered in wart-like lumps. "Pair up and handle them carefully," she instructed. "Gently stimulate the tendrils, and if they react, note your observations."

Harry and Ron hesitated before reluctantly reaching toward the plants. Hermione, already scribbling notes, was muttering about plant biology, while Arthav carefully prodded one of the lumps with his gloved finger. Immediately, a jet of thick, dark liquid shot out, narrowly missing his sleeve but splattering onto Ron's robe.

"Ugh! It smells worse than troll breath!" Ron gagged, stepping back.

Harry laughed as Ron tried wiping it off, only to smear it further. Even Hermione smirked, though she quickly went back to her notes.

Professor Sprout, seeing the commotion, nodded approvingly. "Good! That's their natural response to threats. The smell will wear off in a few hours."

Ron groaned. "Brilliant."

The rest of the lesson continued with more cautious attempts at handling the plants. Arthav observed carefully, taking mental notes. He was fascinated by the way magical plants had their own defenses, almost like living creatures with instincts. It reminded him that magic wasn't just about spells—it was in everything, even the earth itself.

When the lesson ended, they made their way back to the castle for lunch. The Great Hall was already filled with students chatting over steaming plates of food. Arthav sat together with them at the Gryffindor table. The scent of roast chicken and fresh bread filled the air as they dug into their meals.

Harry, now recovered from the Herbology incident, sighed in relief. "At least we don't have to deal with any more exploding plants today."

Ron, still faintly smelling of the Mimbulus Mimbletonia's secretion, grumbled. "I just hope the smell wears off before Potions."

Hermione, ever practical, passed him a napkin. "You should be more careful next time."

Arthav smiled to himself as he listened to them bicker. The day had been eventful, and it was only halfway through. He knew there was much more ahead, but for now, he was content to enjoy lunch with his friends.

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After lunch, the next class was Potions, which they had together with all the houses combined. Arthav chose to go with Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the rest of their friends, making their way down to the dungeons where the class was held. The air was cooler here, the stone walls absorbing the chill, and a sense of unease settled over them as they stepped into the dimly lit classroom.

Professor Snape arrived in his usual manner, sweeping into the room with his robes billowing behind him, his expression unreadable but unmistakably stern. He stood at the front of the class, his dark eyes scanning the students before he spoke in a slow, deliberate tone. "There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. As such, I don't expect many of you to truly appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. However, for those select few… who possess the predisposition… I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even—put a stopper in death."

As he spoke, his gaze flickered across the room, but his eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Harry, who was staring at something other than the professor. Snape's lips curled slightly. "Mr. Potter," he drawled, his voice cutting through the silence, "our new celebrity. Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry hesitated, caught off guard. He glanced at Ron, who looked equally confused, then at Hermione, whose hand shot into the air eagerly. But Snape ignored her.

Harry tried to think, but nothing came to mind. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Snape continued, his voice laced with mockery. "Tut, tut. Fame clearly isn't everything. Let's try again, shall we? Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"

Harry remained silent, his frustration growing.

Arthav, watching the exchange, could see through Snape's act. It wasn't just about humiliation—it was a twisted attempt at something more, a hidden layer of meaning meant only for himself. Snape's words, though cutting, carried remnants of an unspoken regret and a silent promise made long ago.

Unfortunately, Arthav's gaze lingered a second too long, his expression laced with knowledge and a hint of pity. Snape's sharp eyes turned to him instead, not liking the way he was looking at him. "Perhaps you might enlighten us, Mr. Nair? Since Mr. Potter seems to be at a loss."

Ignoring Hermione's still-raised hand, Snape fired question after question at Arthav.

"What is the primary use of powdered root of asphodel in potion-making?"

"It is commonly used in the Draught of Living Death, a powerful sleeping potion," Arthav answered smoothly.

"Correct. Now, tell me, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"There is no difference. They are two names for the same plant, also known as aconite."

Snape's expression remained unreadable. "And where would you find a bezoar?"

"In the stomach of a goat. It is an effective antidote to most poisons."

The class fell silent as he responded without hesitation, detailing ingredients, effects, and uses with clarity. Even Snape, though outwardly composed, couldn't hide the faint flicker of acknowledgment in his expression.

"Impressive," Snape murmured, though his tone lacked warmth. "It seems at least someone has been reading beyond their assigned texts."

Then, without another word, he turned back to the class, gesturing to the blackboard where today's potion was written. "Enough chatter. Begin. And do try not to melt your cauldrons."

The students hurried to gather their ingredients. As they worked, Harry shot a glance at Arthav, still bristling from being singled out. "I swear, he has it out for me."

Ron nodded in agreement. "You think?"

Hermione, though still miffed at being ignored, muttered, "He's the Potions Master. You should have read up before coming to class."

Arthav stirred his potion, focusing on the task at hand. He had earned Snape's reluctant acknowledgment, but it didn't mean much. The professor was a complicated man, and Arthav had no illusions about gaining his approval. Still, something about that moment lingered in his mind as they continued their lesson in the cold, dim classroom.

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