I am Harry Potter's Cousin, Big D

Because Friday was a full day of shared classes with both Slytherin and Gryffindor, Hermione was fully prepared for a battle. Her singular goal was to earn more points than Dudley in their two Potions classes, and to that end, she had practically worn out her first-year Potions textbook, committing every page to memory.

The Potions classroom, like the Slytherin common room, was located deep in the dungeons. The temperature was several degrees lower than in the main castle, and the air was thick with a gloomy, oppressive chill. Dudley, personally, didn't see the advantage of brewing potions in such a place; he much preferred a room with a normal, stable temperature, which allowed for better control of heat and the delicate simmering process. But this, he supposed, was Professor Snape's personal preference.

Along the stone walls of the classroom were shelves lined with hundreds of glass jars, each containing a preserved animal specimen. Dudley's eyes roamed over them, lingering on the many rare and prohibited items that were explicitly forbidden in the wizarding world. He felt a pang of genuine envy. As expected of a Potions Master, even the items Snape openly displayed were nearly impossible to obtain. It was said that Snape also had a private storeroom for his personal ingredients. If that place were to be robbed, Dudley estimated, he wouldn't be short of potion materials for many, many years. Of course, he would also most likely be chased to the ends of the earth by a vengeful Professor Snape.

"Brother D..." Harry whispered to Dudley just as the other students were filing in. The day before, Hagrid had invited both of them to his hut for tea that afternoon. Dudley's evaluation of the gamekeeper was that he was 'terrifyingly simple-minded'—not a compliment, but not entirely a derogatory term either. It simply meant Hagrid operated on pure, raw instinct, like a force of nature—immensely powerful, fiercely loyal, but utterly without guile or foresight. It was this unpredictability that made him dangerous, a force that made Dudley feel apprehensive.

Dudley had agreed to the visit readily. Hagrid's hut was on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, a place that Dudley, and any student who loved herbs and potions, longed to explore. It was dangerous but rich in resources. After the initial conflict, and after Dudley had forgiven him, Harry had followed suit. Still, their relationship with Hagrid wasn't particularly close. Everything, for Harry, centered around Dudley; if Dudley refused, he would refuse as well.

With one minute left before class started, Professor Snape swept in through the door. With his cold, empty eyes, large hooked nose, greasy, shoulder-length hair, and funereal black robes, Snape looked like a villain straight out of a fairy tale. Few young wizards had a good first impression of him.

He strode to the podium, picked up the roll call, and began to call out names. When he reached Harry's, he paused.

"Ah, yes," he said, his voice a soft, dangerous drawl. "Harry Potter. Our new... celebrity."

His sarcastic tone caused a few students to cover their mouths and snicker, including Malfoy and his cronies. However, after Dudley calmly glanced around the room, the entire Slytherin house fell silent. Only a few Gryffindors, who didn't understand the dynamics at play, were still secretly laughing.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," Snape began, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet it commanded the attention of the entire room. In terms of sheer deterrence, he was not much worse than Dudley. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Potions could do many things that spells could not. Others might not understand, but Dudley understood perfectly. He had already experienced the magic of potions. Even if he could never cast spells, his achievements with potions alone might not be any less than those of other wizards. He did notice, however, that when Snape spoke these words, his eyes would, intentionally or not, drift towards Harry. Is it because you're thinking of my poor aunt? Dudley wondered.

"Potter!" Snape suddenly snapped, his voice sharp. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"I don't know, sir," Harry answered honestly. He didn't even know what asphodel or wormwood was.

Snape's lips curled in a sneer of extreme contempt. "Tut, tut. Fame, clearly, is not everything."

Another sarcastic remark, and another burst of stifled laughter. This time, not a single Slytherin participated. The laughter came entirely from the Gryffindors.

"Let's try again, Potter. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?" As he spoke, Snape's gaze once again fell upon Harry's eyes, staring at the green irises as if searching for something. In the deepest part of his dark eyes, there might have been a flicker of expectation.

Unfortunately, Harry's answer disappointed him once again. "I don't know, sir," he said, shaking his head.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Snape's voice was now laced with pure contempt, but deep within his eyes, there was a profound sense of disappointment. That person is gone, he seemed to be thinking, and will never come back. It's a pity her child didn't inherit any of her strengths.

"Potter. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Monkshood? Hearing this word, Harry instantly perked up. He actually knew this! Dudley had specifically told him about it.

"They can both be used to make poison, sir." Harry's opening remark directly stunned Snape into silence.

"Monkshood and wolfsbane are both plants of the Aconitum genus," Harry continued, his voice gaining confidence with every word. He spoke like a machine gun, rattling off the information continuously, his eyes full of the pure, unadulterated excitement of finally knowing the answer. "They are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. It's a slender, upright, and poisonous perennial herb, and the root tuber is especially toxic. The outer skin is black, and the flowers are bright and beautiful. Its sap can be applied to arrows to make poisoned arrows for killing people or animals. It is sometimes used as a poison for death row prisoners... Its flower language is 'malice'... If accidentally poisoned, the heart rate will first slow down, followed by numbness throughout the body, then the heart rate will gradually accelerate, consciousness will become unclear, the person will fall into a coma, and finally, they will die from exhaustion..."

This sudden, encyclopedic knowledge of deadly poisons, delivered with such unnerving excitement, had an immediate effect on the Slytherins in the classroom. You were hesitant and ignorant about other questions, they thought, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and suspicion, but when it comes to poison, you speak eloquently. And when you talk about death, your face is full of excitement.

Potter, they all concluded, something is definitely wrong with you.

(End of Chapter)

***

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