Chapter 8 Knowledge

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The September sun filtered through the high windows of the Potions classroom, casting an almost eerie glow on the bubbling cauldrons. Jonathan Blackwood wiped his brow, the heat from his Shrinking Solution mingling with the tension in the air. Professor Snape prowled between the desks, his black robes billowing like the wings of an overgrown bat.

"Longbottom," Snape drawled, pausing by Neville's cauldron, which was emitting an alarming amount of green smoke. "I realize that comprehending simple instructions is a Herculean task for your minuscule intellect, but even you should grasp that a Shrinking Solution is meant to be acid green, not the color of a troll's breakfast."

Neville whimpered, his round face glistening with a mix of sweat and fear. Beside him, Hermione Granger fidgeted, clearly itching to help but knowing Snape's wrath would be swift if she did.

Jonathan glanced at Harry Potter, who was glaring daggers at the back of Snape's head. The Boy Who Lived had already been the target of Snape's venomous tongue twice this lesson. It was clear that the Potions Master's grudge against Harry's father was alive and festering.

"Sir," Jonathan spoke up, his voice echoing in the suddenly quiet dungeon. "I think I know what went wrong with Neville's potion."

Snape turned, his black eyes boring into Jonathan's. "Indeed, Mr. Blackwood? And what, pray tell, insights does your vast first-year experience offer?"

Jonathan held against Snape's gaze. "It's the daisy roots, sir. They need to be sliced, not chopped. Chopping releases too much juice, turning the potion from acid green to, well..."

"Troll's breakfast?" Ron Weasley supplied helpfully, earning a snicker from the Gryffindors and a glare from Snape.

"Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Mr. Weasley," Snape snapped. Then, his eyes back on Jonathan, he added silkily, "And as for you, Mr. Blackwood, your unsolicited tutorial has cost your House another five points. Potions is a subtle science, not a place for grandstanding Gryffindors to showcase their... heroics."

"However," Snape continued, his voice so soft the class leaned in to hear, "your observation, while crudely delivered, is... not entirely without merit. It seems some of your study materials have managed to penetrate that thick Gryffindor skull."

With a flick of his wand, Snape vanished the contents of Neville's cauldron. "Begin again, Longbottom. And this time, try to slice your ingredients as if your abysmal grade depends on it. Because it does."

As Neville scrambled to restart his potion, Jonathan caught Harry's eye. The bespectacled boy gave him a small, grateful nod. It wasn't much, but it felt like a victory. A tiny one, but in the dungeon realm of Severus Snape, even tiny victories were hard-won.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur of chopping, stirring, and simmering. When the final bell rang, there was a collective sigh of relief. Students bottled their potions (Neville's now a passable shade of green) and hurried towards the door.

"A moment, Mr. Blackwood," Snape's voice cut through the clatter of packing up. Jonathan froze, his heart sinking. What now?

Harry hesitated by the door, but Jonathan waved him on. No need for both of them to face Snape's wrath. As the last student filed out, Jonathan approached Snape's desk, trying not to stare at the jar of pickled newt eyes that seemed to be staring back.

"Your performance today was... noteworthy," Snape began, his eyes glinting in a way that made Jonathan think of a cat toying with a mouse. "It seems you've done more than just memorize your textbook. The question is, how?"

Jonathan's mind raced. He couldn't exactly say, 'Well, sir, in my world, you're a character in a book series, and I've read about this lesson.' Instead, he opted for a half-truth. "I... I read a lot, sir. And I practice."

"Indeed?" Snape leaned forward, his gaze so intense Jonathan wondered if he was using Legilimency. "And these... extracurricular studies. They wouldn't happen to involve a certain restricted section of the library, would they?"

Jonathan blinked. Was Snape implying he'd been sneaking into forbidden areas? "No, sir! I mean, I read ahead in our textbook, and there are some advanced brewing guides in the common area of the library..."

Snape held up a hand, silencing him. "Calm yourself, Blackwood. I'm not accusing you of skulduggery. Yet." He paused, his next words slow and deliberate. "Knowledge, when applied correctly, is a powerful tool. But knowledge without discipline..."

"...is useless," Jonathan finished, remembering Strange's words. "Like trying to stir a potion with a limp flobberworm."

For a moment, something like amusement flickered in Snape's eyes. "A peculiar analogy, but apt. Very well, Blackwood. You've shown a modicum of potential today. See that it doesn't go to your head. Gryffindor Tower doesn't need another strutting celebrity."

The jab at Harry was clear, but Jonathan let it slide. He'd learned enough about Snape to know that compliments and insults often came in the same breath. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

As he turned to leave, Snape spoke again. "And Blackwood? Five points to Gryffindor. For... adequate observation skills."

Jonathan stared, sure he'd misheard. But Snape had already turned away, scribbling notes in a battered potions journal. Dazed, Jonathan left the dungeon, the weight of those unexpected points feeling heavier than his book bag.

Outside, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were waiting. "Well?" Ron asked, eyeing Jonathan as if checking for hexes. "What was that about? Detention scrubbing cauldrons until your hands fall off?"

"Actually," Jonathan said, still a bit stunned, "he gave me points. Five of them."

There was a moment of silence, then Ron exploded. "He what? Snape? Our Snape? Greasy hair, hates Gryffindors more than he hates shampoo?"

"Ron!" Hermione scolded, but she too looked shocked. "That's... unexpected. What did you say to him, Jonathan?"

As they walked towards the Great Hall for lunch, Jonathan recounted the conversation, omitting his internal monologue about books and alternate realities. By the time he finished, they were settling at the Gryffindor table, the aroma of shepherd's pie momentarily distracting Ron from his disbelief.

"It's brilliant, mate," Harry said, his green eyes bright with something like hope. "Maybe Snape's not a complete git after all."

"Don't get carried away, Harry," Hermione cautioned, serving herself some peas. "One civil conversation doesn't undo years of... well, Snape-ness. But," she added, smiling at Jonathan, "it's a start. You stood up for Neville and didn't get your head bitten off. That's something."

Jonathan nodded, his shepherd's pie suddenly tasting like victory. It wasn't just about the points or even Snape's grudging acknowledgment. It was about making a difference, one small step at a time. In his old life, he'd been a spectator, watching Harry's adventures unfold on a page or screen. But here, now, he was part of the story. And maybe, just maybe, he could change it for the better.

After lunch, they had a free period. While Hermione predictably headed to the library ("Ancient Runes waits for no witch!"), Harry suggested a walk around the lake. September was fading into October, and the grounds were a patchwork of gold and russet.

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