Swinging The Great Sword At Hogwarts

Chapter 07 Snape and the Scholar

The next day, John headed to the Potions classroom. The moment he sat down, an empty circle formed around him. When the Gryffindors arrived, they saw John standing out in the midst of the Slytherins, like a lone figure in a sea of green and silver. Hermione and Neville gave him worried glances, but John shrugged, sending back a reassuring look.

Class began.

Snape swept into the room like an oily bat, his robes billowing as though propelled by an invisible gust of wind, his steps brisk and purposefully intimidating.

“This class does not require foolish wand-waving or senseless incantations,” he announced, stopping beside his lectern, crossing his hands, and casting a sharp, scrutinizing look over the students.

Then, he began his trademark introduction.

“I can teach you how to bewitch the mind, ensnare the senses,” he said, his voice a low, smooth drawl. “I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death…”

John raised an eyebrow. If you could really teach that, Voldemort wouldn’t have bothered with Horcruxes, he thought, suppressing a smirk. His mind wandered for a moment as he summoned his status panel to check on his progress; his magic had grown somewhat stronger since his last training.

[Magic Power: Level 1 (20/100)]

[Spells: Alohomora (Level 3)]

[Skills: Short Weapons Mastery (Level 7), Long Weapons Mastery (Level 6), Heavy Weapons Mastery (Level 3), Firearms Mastery (Level 1)]

[Buffs: Stamina Boost, Quick Attack, Precision]

By his calculations, he could gain about five magic points each day through training. He pondered if he could add a few dumbbells to his room, just to push his progress further.

Lost in thought, he missed Snape’s glare, which was now fixed firmly on him, filled with open disdain.

“With some of you,” Snape’s voice dripped with contempt, “there may already be a measure of fame or a touch of power, enough to think yourselves above paying attention in my class!”

John snapped back to attention, noting Draco Malfoy’s smirk beside him. Keeping his expression neutral, he picked up his quill—a simple gesture, but one that wiped the smirk clean off Malfoy’s face.

Despite Snape’s dislike for John, his scorn found a more familiar target.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape sneered, “tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry, still fresh from a Muggle upbringing, could only blink and shake his head, clearly lost. Ignoring Hermione’s eagerly raised hand, Snape bore down on Harry.

“If I asked you to fetch me a bezoar, would you know where to look?”

“No, sir.”

“What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

“I don’t know.”

One by one, Snape’s questions fell like stones, and everyone in the room could see the blatant antagonism. Watching the exchange, John couldn’t help but chuckle. This is a classic scene, after all.

But that small laugh was enough to redirect Snape’s wrath.

“Mr. Wick,” Snape hissed, turning his gaze on John, “perhaps you can enlighten Mr. Potter with the answers.”

John blinked, taken aback. Wait, I have lines in this scene?

Ding! You have triggered a story quest. Answer Professor Snape’s questions correctly to gain Buff: Scholar.

[Scholar: Boosts learning efficiency for two hours each day.]

This could trigger a quest? John’s gaze drifted for a moment before he refocused, replaying the scene in his mind. By some lucky twist, while most details had long since slipped from his memory, Snape’s infamous “three questions” had stayed sharp.

Standing up with calm dignity, he answered each question in turn:

“Powdered root of asphodel mixed with an infusion of wormwood creates the Draught of Living Death.”

“You can find a bezoar in a goat’s stomach.”

“There’s no difference between monkshood and wolfsbane; they’re the same plant.”

A confident smile graced his face as he finished. For a brief, frozen moment, silence filled the room. Malfoy’s smirk faltered, and Snape looked momentarily caught off guard, though his expression quickly darkened in disappointment.

“Sit down,” Snape said icily, “Five points to Slytherin, and five points from Gryffindor.”

Resentment was clear in his voice, but Snape was nothing if not scrupulous when it came to his house’s points—especially when Gryffindor’s misfortunes were also involved. John shrugged and sat down, his mind flashing with a notification of his new buff, Scholar.

Snape’s frustration, now denied an outlet, turned ruthlessly on the rest of the class. Malfoy, who had been grinning just moments ago, was now as obedient as a spooked colt, while Harry and Ron looked at John with awe, as if he were some kind of hero.

After Potions, Slytherins filed out in clusters, leaving John alone and somewhat isolated within the group.

Great Hall, Lunchtime.

John stared at the so-called “British cuisine” on his plate, letting out a quiet sigh. Though he’d eaten these meals for years now, there were moments when he couldn’t help but long for the rich flavors of home. Hermione walked over, watching him struggle with a fork and a particularly stubborn potato with its skin intact.

“John, are you alright?” she asked, worry lining her brow. She clearly underestimated just how resilient he was in Slytherin.

John was puzzling over why anyone would eat a potato with the skin on when he replied offhandedly, “Of course. Didn’t you see? They’re all scared of me.”

But, to ease her concerns, John decided to make peace with Malfoy. Spying him passing by, John reached out, calling, “Malfoy.”

Malfoy stopped, eyeing John warily and taking a step back, though his pride wouldn’t let him show too much fear. “What do you want, Wick? You—”

“Finish that sentence, and I’ll be happy to send you right back to the hospital wing,” John said with a genial smile that made Malfoy’s hair stand on end. He patted Malfoy’s shoulder amicably. “Relax. I’m not a monster, you know. We’re all just classmates here. It’s bound to be a peaceful year if we can get along.”

He even turned to Malfoy’s two cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, giving them a friendly nod. The two visibly shivered and nodded in agreement.

“See?” John continued, glancing back at Malfoy. “Crabbe and Goyle think so, too. Let’s call it a truce.”

Malfoy looked at his lackeys, who, realizing they had nodded along, muttered under his breath, “Idiots.” Then, staring at John’s extended hand, he sniffed. “I refuse to be friends with you, Wick. Don’t think beating me by sneaking up makes you anything special. Wizards should settle things with magic, not fists!”

John shrugged, unfazed, and pulled his hand back. “Fair enough. How about we do it the right way? I hear dueling’s popular with you pure-blood types. Let’s find a place and duel properly.”

Malfoy paled at that, touching his still-sore neck, and quickly walked off, pretending not to hear. John returned to his seat, noting Hermione’s wide-eyed expression. “See? No problems at all,” he said, flashing her a smile.

Hermione, still in shock, simply nodded. No problems? Really?

But scholars had their own logic, and she soon launched into a discussion on Potions. John’s head started to spin. He scarfed down his meal in a few bites, abandoning the stubborn potato before making his escape.

Just then, a flood of owls filled the Great Hall, with Neville receiving a Remembrall.

One of the best things about Hogwarts was the class schedule—short lesson times, long breaks, and a full weekend off. John took advantage of the weekend to train, jogging around the Black Lake with a head-sized rock strapped to his back.

“This feeling of seeing my magic power increase… it’s exhilarating,” he thought, watching his stats improve like leveling up in a game. John hadn’t forgotten the dangers of the Harry Potter world. Peaceful school life wouldn’t last long.

He’d already spotted Professor Quirrell in class that week, recalling that unforgettable stench that surrounded him—one of the few memories from the past life where John had watched the movies, though he’d only skimmed through the books. But he did remember Quirrell had Voldemort lodged on the back of his head. Last time at the Leaky Cauldron, he hadn’t realized it; now he knew.

“Hard to imagine how the Dark Lord endures that stench,” he mused. What little he remembered was that Quirrell was eventually taken over by Voldemort and ultimately defeated by Harry.

“This threat can’t be ignored,” John muttered, “I need to get stronger as quickly as possible.” Real life wasn’t a novel—a little danger could be fatal. He dropped the stone, glancing at his now-muddy clothes. “Where can I find more weight-training equipment around here?”

Second Week of Term

The second most exciting lesson in the magical world had arrived: Flying Class.