Hogwarts' Golden Glory

Harry stared at the flamboyant "O" (excellent) on the parchment.

His eyes were so wide they almost popped out of their frames.

He instinctively pinched his thigh—it hurt, and it wasn't an illusion.

Snape actually gave him the highest score?

Knowing that the other party will target them!

So my original goal was just to pass.

"Potter!" Snape's chilling voice suddenly boomed in my ear. "If you keep staring at that piece of paper, I won't hesitate to turn it into a den of vixens."

Harry looked up abruptly and met Snape's dark eyes.

A complex emotion churned in those eyes—anger, resentment, and a hint of...admiration? Harry had never seen before.

"Professor," Harry stammered, "is this grade...?"

"A problem?" Snape's lips twisted into a mocking smile. "There is definitely a problem. For a freak like you to doubt the grades, there must be something wrong with them—"

They haven't even gotten into the heated argument yet.

Snape strode toward Seamus Finnigan, who was setting up the third explosion.

......

"An 'O'?!"

Ron's voice boomed through the Gryffindor common room.

The incident startled several first-graders nearby, who nearly spilled their milk tea on themselves.

"Snape gave you an 'O'? That old bat who's always picking fights?"

Harry awkwardly touched his nose.

The report card with an "O" on it suddenly felt like it was burning in his mind.

In the firelight of the fireplace, he could see that Ron's freckles were even more pronounced in shock.

"I can't believe it either."

Harry said quietly, "But that's exactly what he wrote back then."

Ron retorted immediately, "That's impossible! He deducted ten points from you last time because you stirred it the wrong way! Remember? That was the time he poured your scabies medicine down the drain!"

Hermione looked up from her book and adjusted her glasses: "Actually, Harry's potion-making skills have been improving..."

"Progress?" Ron waved his arms exaggeratedly.

I almost hit a little owl that was passing by.

He mimicked Snape's slick tone, "Let's enjoy Mr. Potter's latest creation—the Troll's Drink!"

"I bet Snape either got hit by a Confusion Charm, or..."

He suddenly lowered his voice and leaned closer mysteriously, "He's been switched! Maybe he's an imposter who drank the compound decoction!"

"Then where's the real Snape?" Harry couldn't help but play along. "Locked up in the cellar with his prized toad specimens?"

"Worse than that!" Ron said seriously, "Now we're forced to write about the wonderful uses of the Malfoy family's shampoo!"

A burst of laughter erupted in the lounge.

Even the usually serious Percy couldn't help but twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Harry, so why is your potion preparation different from ours?"

Hermione asked curiously.

She's been wanting to ask this question for days.

I initially thought Harry would lose points for doing that.

But now, seeing Harry's high potions score, she has to admit that it seems to be true.

"It was the notebook that Snape gave me for Christmas, and those methods were written in it."

"Ron knows too!"

Ron's expression was absolutely priceless.

It was like seeing the world's most disgusting slug and the coolest flying broom at the same time.

Of course he remembers that gift!

He even suspected that Snape must have lost his mind!

"So you used Slytherin's cheating methods... in Potions class... to get an 'O' from Snape?"

Harry looked to Hermione in despair for help.

What kind of cheating is this?

Hermione, however, looked serious and was still wondering why Snape had given Harry the notes.

"I'm going to throw up," Ron said, slumping onto the sofa and covering his face with his report card.

"Savior Harry has been corrupted by Slytherin... Are you going to start combing Draco's hair next?"

"I won't--"

"Or perhaps share the candy with Crabbe and Goyle?"

"Of course not—"

"Merlin!" Ron suddenly sat up straight, his face pale. "You wouldn't... have started to like Potions class, would you?"

Harry opened his mouth, then suddenly realized a terrible truth.

After using the notes Snape gave me.

For the first time, he truly felt that brewing potions wasn't so painful.

......

Defense Against the Dark Arts exam

Professor Quirrell's exam room was in the corner classroom on the third floor, which always smelled of garlic.

When Neville Longbottom opened the door, a musty smell mixed with a strange spice aroma hit him.

"Teach, or professor?"

Neville called out timidly, his voice echoing in the empty classroom.

Suddenly, a muffled thud came from behind the podium, followed by Quirrell's signature stuttering voice: "Come in, Mr. Longbottom."

As Neville approached, he discovered that Quirrell was huddled behind the podium.

The purple headscarf was wrapped crookedly, revealing a few strands of sweaty hair.

There were seven glass bottles on his desk, each containing a different colored liquid.

"Today's exam was very, very easy."

Quirrell stood up shakily, his robes stained with suspicious marks. "You...you only need to identify these...defense potions..."

Neville leaned closer to the first bottle, which contained a murky green liquid.

Just as he was about to speak, the bottle suddenly popped open automatically.

A pungent smell of rotten eggs wafted out.

"Cough cough cough!" Neville coughed, choked by the fumes.

"Oh! I-I'm sorry!" Quirrell frantically waved his wand, accidentally knocking over the red potion bottle next to him.

The liquid spilled on the table and immediately corroded a large, smoking hole.

"Teach, Professor!" Neville cried out in alarm, backing away.

"It's okay!"

Quirrell's wand fell to the ground, and as he bent down to pick it up, a corner of his headscarf suddenly came undone.

Neville swore he saw something horrible wriggling under his turban.

But the next second, Quirrell pressed down hard on his headscarf.

"We...we'll change the test!" Quirrell's voice turned shrill. "Please...please demonstrate the 'Flickering' spell!"

Neville raised his wand, trembling: "Fluorescent...Fluorescent!"

The tip of the staff emitted a faint light.

"Pass! Pass!" Quirrell practically shouted the word. "Next! Next one!"

When Harry Potter pushed open the door and entered.

Quirrell felt a sharp pain in the back of his head.

Voldemort's consciousness spread through his mind like venom: "Let him come closer...closer..."

"Mr. Porter,"

Quirrell's voice trembled more than usual as he deliberately turned his back to Harry to adjust his headscarf.

"Please, please close the door."

Harry instinctively gripped his wand tighter.

The classroom was filled with the pungent smell of chemicals.

The smoky corrosion mark on the podium was still hissing.

Even more bizarrely, as he approached Quirrell!

His scars are hurting again!