Chapter 6 Detention
Jonathan awoke to the sound of Ron's snoring, a noise that could give a Hungarian Horntail a run for its money. Sunlight peeked through the tower windows, painting the dorm in a warm, golden glow. For a moment, Jonathan just lay there, a smile tugging at his lips. He was at Hogwarts. It wasn't a dream.
"Oi, wake up, you lazy imps!" It was Fred. Or George. Jonathan made a mental note to learn how to tell them apart, pronto.
"Breakfast in twenty!" the other twin added. "Miss it and you'll be running on Hagrid's rock cakes till lunch!"
That got everyone moving. Jonathan watched, amused, as Ron tumbled out of bed, one sock on and his robes inside out. Harry fumbled for his glasses, and Neville... well, Neville was Neville, frantically searching for Trevor.
"Found him!" Jonathan said, spotting the toad under Seamus's bed. As he handed Trevor to a grateful Neville, he felt a little surge of pride. Small victories, right?
They trooped down to the Great Hall, joining the bustling river of students. Jonathan's eyes darted around, half-expecting to see Strange floating by and commenting on the absurdity of moving staircases. But the ghostly sorcerer was nowhere to be seen.
"There, look!"
"Where?"
"Next to the tall kid with the red hair."
Whispers followed Harry everywhere. Jonathan saw his new friend's shoulders tense. "You'd think they'd never seen a kid with a cool scar before," he muttered to Harry.
Harry snorted. "Yeah, maybe I should get the other side done. Make it symmetrical."
At the Gryffindor table, schedules were handed out. Jonathan scanned his: Herbology with Hufflepuffs, Transfiguration, lunch, then double Potions with Slytherins.
"Snape first thing Friday," Ron groaned. "Way to end the week."
"Snape?" Harry asked.
"Potions professor," Jonathan explained. "Head of Slytherin. Rumor has it he's been after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job for ages. Probably just wants to be near all those specimen jars. You know, for atmosphere."
Ron chuckled, but Hermione, who'd been eavesdropping while pretending to read "Hogwarts: A History" (again), frowned. "Professor Snape is a respected member of staff," she said primly. "I'm sure he has perfectly good reasons for wanting that position."
"Sure," Jonathan said, spearing a sausage. "Like using Slytherin as a talent pool for future Death Eaters."
Hermione gasped. Several nearby students stared. Oops. Note to self: Tone down the future knowledge, smart-aleck.
"I mean," Jonathan backpedaled, "not all Slytherins are bad. But you've got to admit, their common room decor probably isn't winning any 'Most Cheerful Dungeon' awards."
Crisis averted, they dug into breakfast. As owls swooped in with the mail, Jonathan watched Neville's Gran's package land with a thud. He made a mental note to warn Neville about Draco's imminent theft attempt. No Remembrall drama today, thanks.
Their first class, Herbology, was a dirt-under-the-nails crash course in magical botany. Professor Sprout, a cheery witch who looked like she'd just stepped out of a garden gnome convention, had them repotting Bouncing Bulbs.
"Gently now," she cautioned as a bulb bounced off Seamus's head. "They're sensitive little darlings."
"Sensitive?" Ron muttered, wrestling with a particularly springy specimen. "They're more vicious than Mum when we track mud on her clean floors."
Jonathan grinned, deftly potting his bulb. His old life's brief stint as a community garden volunteer was paying off. Who knew urban farming could prep you for magical horticulture?
Next up, Transfiguration with McGonagall. The classroom was silent when they entered, save for a tabby cat perched on the desk. Jonathan smirked. Oh, this was going to be good.
When Harry and Ron rushed in, panting and apologizing, the cat leapt off the desk, transforming mid-air into Professor McGonagall. The looks on their faces? Priceless.
"Perhaps I should transfigure one of you into a pocket watch," she said sternly. "That way, at least one of you might be on time."
"We got lost," Harry mumbled.
"Then perhaps a map? I trust you don't need one to find your seats."
As they sat down, Ron whispered, "That was bloody brilliant! But scary. Think we'll learn that this year?"
"Doubtful," Jonathan whispered back. "First, we've got to turn matches into needles. Baby steps, Weasley, baby steps."
McGonagall was tough but fair. By the end of the lesson, only Hermione had made any real progress with her match. Jonathan's had developed a slight metallic sheen, which earned him an approving nod. 'Not bad,' he thought, 'for a guy whose main magical experience was card tricks and one temperamental pencil.'
After lunch (during which Hermione lectured them on the importance of proper wand movement until Ron threatened to transfigure his sandwich into earplugs), it was time for the main event: Potions.
The dungeons were exactly as gloomy as Jonathan remembered from the books. Cold, damp, with jars of pickled potions ingredients that looked like they'd been harvested from Lovecraft's backyard.
"This place," Ron said with a shiver, "gives me the creeps."
"It's atmospheric," Jonathan countered. "Like a haunted apothecary. Ten galleons says Snape practices his billowing in here after hours."
That got a few nervous laughs, but they died quickly as Snape himself swept in, his robes billowing just as dramatically as Jonathan had joked. He began the class with his famous "bottle fame, brew glory" speech. Jonathan had to admit, the man had a way with words. If he wasn't such a git, he'd make a killer audiobook narrator.
Then Snape's eyes locked on Harry. "Ah, yes. Harry Potter. Our new... celebrity."
What followed was a rapid-fire potions quiz that would've stumped a sixth-year. Jonathan winced. He knew this scene by heart, but witnessing Snape's blatant bullying firsthand made his blood boil.
"I don't know, sir," Harry said, his face flushed.
"Tut, tut," Snape sneered. "Clearly, fame isn't everything."
Hermione's hand was in the air so fast it could've been spring-loaded. Jonathan, fuming, raised his too. Snape's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Blackwood? Enlighten us."
"Asphodel and wormwood make the Draught of Living Death," Jonathan said, his voice steady. "A bezoar's from a goat's stomach and can cure most poisons. And monkshood and wolfsbane? Same plant, also called aconite." He paused, then added, "But I'm sure Harry would've known that if you'd asked him after the first week of class, you know, like a normal teacher."
The dungeon went silent. You could've heard a Knut drop. Snape's face went through a rapid kaleidoscope of emotions: shock, anger, and finally, a cold, calculating look that made Jonathan's stomach flip.
"Ten points from Gryffindor," Snape said silkily, "for your cheek, Mr. Blackwood. And detention. Tonight."
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