I am Harry Potter's Cousin, Big D

Chapter 49: Chapter 49: Dursley Stays, Everyone Else Can Go



"Potter, where did you learn all this? I don't remember it being in the textbook."

Snape's tense, severe expression relaxed slightly. At least not completely like that idiot James, he thought, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes.

"Dudley told me," Harry answered honestly.

Snape nodded thoughtfully, his gaze, for the first time, leaving Harry's face and falling on Dudley.

"Then, Dursley," Snape said, his voice a low drawl. "Do you have anything to add to what Potter said? Please answer the first two questions as well."

"Powdered root of asphodel and an infusion of wormwood make a powerful sleeping potion, the Draught of Living Death," Dudley answered, his voice steady. "A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, and it will cure most poisons."

These questions were child's play for Dudley.

"Very good," Snape said, an almost imperceptible nod in Dudley's direction. "Two points to Slytherin."

He seemed to be in a surprisingly good mood. Across the dungeon, Hermione nearly jumped out of her seat. She had been raising her hand for ages, her arm practically vibrating with the effort, but Snape hadn't called on her. And now he had just given Dudley two points. Great, she thought with a huff. The gap is even wider now.

"Work in pairs," Snape announced, his voice echoing off the damp stone walls. "For the first lesson, we will learn something very simple: brewing a boil-curing potion."

To be honest, the boil-curing potion was not simple at all. It was one of the more difficult potions in the first-year textbook, a delicate process that required precise measurements and careful temperature control. Of course, this difficulty was for ordinary young wizards. According to the standard curriculum, the first lesson should have been a simple introduction to the subject. Snape, however, clearly believed that hands-on practice was the best way to learn.

After a brief, efficient demonstration at the front of the classroom, he moved back and forth among the pairs, a silent, black-robed specter. He would occasionally guide the young wizards in their operations, his long, pale fingers pointing out mistakes as they weighed dried nettles and crushed snake fangs.

In all fairness, Snape was a very responsible teacher. He could always accurately pinpoint where the young wizards went wrong. As long as they could withstand his withering criticism and follow his guidance, they could, theoretically, successfully complete the potion.

"You muscle-bound simpleton, the goblins next door are much smarter than you."

"How many times have I told you, you must add the porcupine quills first? Is your brain filled with bezoars like a troll's?"

"If I were you, I would dig a hole in the ground and bury my head in it so people wouldn't know it was empty."

The prerequisite, of course, was that you could tolerate his 'venom,' especially if you made him repeat his instructions a second time. Snape's sarcastic insults were a masterclass in tearing people down, his level of verbal abuse an eye-opener for Dudley. Many young wizards were completely shut down by his words, and almost all the students were criticized, with only a few lucky ones escaping his wrath.

Hermione was one of them.

Her talent for Potions was formidable. In Dudley's estimation, Hermione was the young wizard whose skills were second only to his own. She was focused and precise, and she finished brewing her potion only half a beat slower than he did.

Snape looked at the potion Hermione had made, a perfectly acceptable concoction. He neither praised nor criticized it, simply stating, "Passable," before sweeping away. This really annoyed Hermione; she had been hoping for extra points, for some acknowledgment of her hard work. In reality, Snape not exploding at her was a sign that she had done well. Just not well enough. To earn praise from the Potions Master, simply completing the potion was not enough.

Next, Snape came to Dudley's workbench. He picked up the finished potion on the table and held it to the torchlight, examining it carefully. The liquid within was a perfectly clear, shimmering blue, without a single impurity. This was the first time Dudley had produced a perfect quality potion, a feat made possible by a combination of Snape's expert guidance and the analytical power of his Data Eye, which allowed him to control the heat with almost supernatural precision.

Snape stared at the vial in his hand, lost in thought. How many years had it been since he had seen such a perfect potion? The last time... the last time was from Lily. A potion they had completed together. It was one of the only truly happy memories in Snape's life. He had hoped, on some deep, subconscious level, that Lily's child would be the one to recreate that moment. But he hadn't. It was her sister's son. Petunia's child.

Snape knew Petunia. He and the Evans family had been neighbors. Fondling the small crystal bottle, his heart felt a strange, complicated ache, and a slight ripple disturbed the empty, lifeless surface of his eyes.

In a trance, his gaze drifted to where Dudley and Hermione were quietly cleaning their station. He saw the Granger girl make a face at Petunia's son and saw him subtly pinch her cheek in retaliation. For a fleeting moment, time seemed to rewind twenty years. This moment was just like that moment... himself and Lily. It was just that everything was irreversible. If either of their eyes had been green, it might have been a fatal blow for him. But Dudley had inherited Petunia's blue-green eyes, and Hermione's were a simple, intelligent brown.

He remained rooted to the spot, lost in his memories, for a full three minutes. The young wizards watched him, curious and slightly afraid. Was the potion so good that the professor couldn't bear to put it down? Or was it so bad that he was contemplating new and creative ways to curse its maker?

A sudden explosion shattered the silence. A cauldron near Harry and Ron had erupted, sending a plume of acidic green smoke into the air. A pungent, hissing liquid splashed everywhere, burning holes in students' robes and shoes. The worst of it hit Neville, who was sprayed all over and immediately covered in angry, red boils, his screams of pain echoing through the dungeon. Seamus, who had caused the explosion, was also caught in the blast.

"Are you a brainless goblin?" Snape roared, snapping out of his reverie. He discreetly pocketed Dudley's potion and, with a flick of his wand, vanished the spilled liquid from the floor. "Not only did you add the porcupine quills early, you also didn't pay attention to the temperature! How many times did I say it today? I really want to pry open your brain and see if it's filled with bezoars!"

"And you, Potter," he snarled, turning on Harry. "Why didn't you remind him? For this, Gryffindor loses one point."

"You are truly the worst class I have ever taught."

Just then, the bell rang, signaling the end of the lesson.

"Today's homework is to write a four-inch essay on the boil-curing potion," Snape announced over the scraping of chairs. "I expect a satisfactory answer from you in the next lesson." He paused, his dark eyes sweeping over the departing students.

"Dursley, stay behind. Everyone else can go."

(End of Chapter)

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