"Yes!"
Peter Pettigrew nodded sharply.
When he secretly defected to Voldemort, he had collected a great deal of dark magic and practiced it in secret. The Fiendfyre Curse was one such spell, but due to its volatile nature, he had nearly burned himself to death the first time he cast it. Since then, he hadn't dared to try again.
"What about the Fire-Making Curse?"
Grindelwald's version of this spell—more like magical gas stove flames—was extremely powerful and seemed well-suited for Ethan. In one historical account, it had nearly destroyed Paris, and even a team of Aurors couldn't suppress it. If Nicolas Flamel hadn't been present, the city might have gone up in flames.
The movie depicts the fire as blue, but in truth, it's black—Hollywood just changed the color for visual contrast against dark backgrounds.
"No!"
Peter didn't dare lie to Ethan. Though he had heard of the Fire-Making Curse, he had never acquired it.
"Then write down everything you know about Transfiguration—your Animagus experiences, spells, alchemy, and potions knowledge."
This was the real reason Ethan had captured Peter. He wanted the knowledge buried in his brain.
In this era, there were only seven registered Animagi, including Professor McGonagall. Among the unregistered ones were Rita Skeeter (a beetle), Sirius Black (a black dog), and Peter himself (a rat). James Potter was dead, so he didn't count. There might be a few more, but certainly not many.
Animagus transformation was an elite skill. Asking Professor McGonagall would yield nothing until at least fifth year, as the magic was extremely dangerous. A failed transformation could have irreversible consequences.
Peter's overall Transfiguration ability might not rival McGonagall's, but when it came to Animagus transformation, the Marauders likely knew more. Their close bond meant they probably shared everything—if one knew something, the others did too.
"All of it?" Peter asked with a grimace. He really did know quite a bit. Writing it all down would take forever.
"All of it."
Snap!
As Ethan spoke, he snapped his fingers. Peter's eyes instantly became dull and vacant.
Using the Imperius Curse was safer at this point. It wouldn't affect Peter's memory, and it prevented him from sabotaging the writing process. A desk, paper, and quill were already set up. Under Ethan's command, Peter sat and began writing furiously.
Ethan had experimented with the Imperius Curse during summer break and learned that the spell could last up to 148 hours—just over six days. As long as he came by periodically to refresh it, Peter would continue obediently.
Once he had squeezed all the knowledge he could from Peter, Ethan intended to honor his agreement with Ron and return him. Aside from the golden finger, a time traveler's familiarity with the plot was an immense advantage. Without Peter, the timing and method of Voldemort's resurrection would be completely uncertain, which could lead to catastrophic consequences.
Chapter 37: Snape's Private Goods
Friday morning: Potions class.
No one dared to be late. Everyone arrived early—especially the Gryffindor students, who looked like they were mourning their mothers.
Ethan, however, didn't care. As a Ravenclaw, he had no feud with Snape.
Bang!
Right as class began, the door slammed open. Professor Snape entered swiftly, his black cloak billowing behind him with a dramatic "whoosh."
No wonder people called him the Old Bat. He really looked the part.
Like most professors, Snape began by taking roll. Apart from a slight pause at Harry's name, his tone was mechanical, emotionless.
The low timbre of his voice, the gloomy basement, and the jars filled with disturbing specimens created a suffocating atmosphere. The students hardly dared breathe, save for their whispered "Present."
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," Snape began, his voice silky yet cold.
"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you to truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes—the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…"
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't, as I very often find myself wishing, total dunderheads."
It was a compelling opening speech, elevating Potions to something almost mystical.
Even the Philosopher's Stone couldn't stop death—only prolong life. As time wore down the body, nothing could reverse death. Snape was overselling it—but convincingly.
Scanning the room, Snape's eyes locked on a target.
"I must reiterate—perhaps someone here at Hogwarts, drunk on fame, believes they can afford to ignore my class!"
His words grew sharper, colder.
Ron, sitting next to Harry, was frozen. He sensed trouble. Harry, scribbling notes, didn't move.
Snape stalked over to Harry, towering over him.
"Mr. Potter."
Startled, Harry looked up into Snape's emotionless eyes—and felt a chill. It seemed Snape wanted to gouge out his soul through his eyes.
"Mr. Potter, the new-generation celebrity! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
This was a cryptic confession hidden in plain sight.
In flower language, asphodel symbolizes love, and wormwood represents sorrow—together, love and pain. Clearly, Snape still mourned Lily Evans.
Ethan watched with interest. Snape was baring his soul to Lily's son—but Harry didn't understand a thing.
And the question? Not from a first-year textbook. It was sixth-year material, clearly crafted for Harry alone.
Seeing Harry's blank face, Snape sneered.
"You don't know?"
Hermione, seated nearby, shot her hand into the air. Eager to prove herself, she hoped to finally outshine Ethan and Cassandra, who usually dominated the class.
She had read ahead and was prepared.
But Snape ignored her completely.
His gaze stayed locked on Harry.
"Let's try another. If I asked you to find a bezoar, where would you look?"
Another clue. Bezoars counter poison. The unspoken message: "How do I cure the pain you've caused me?"
"I don't know, sir!"
Hermione's raised hand began to tremble. Still ignored.
"What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
A final message. Wolfsbane symbolizes "living for love." Snape had loaded this lecture with emotional baggage.
"I don't know!" Harry snapped, now openly frustrated. He felt targeted—ever since the welcome feast, Snape had been out for him.
"Hermione knows! Why not ask her?"
She stood instinctively, still raising her hand.
"Sit down!" Snape barked.
He didn't allow students to take liberties in his class.
Then, Snape's eyes darted to Ethan.
"Mr. Adrian, answer the question."
What did I do? My dad didn't steal your girlfriend! Ethan grumbled silently.
He knew Snape didn't give points to anyone not in Slytherin—even if they answered correctly.
Still, Ethan stood up.
"Powdered asphodel root and an infusion of wormwood produce the Draught of Living Death."
"Bezoars come from goat stomachs and are powerful antidotes."
"Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant—aconite."
Snape's reply was chilling: "Correct. But look at me like that again, and I'll gouge your eyes out."
"Sit down!"
"And Mr. Potter—Gryffindor loses five points for your ignorance."
Snape's eyes swept across the classroom, ice-cold.
Ethan sat down, fuming. Was it wrong to be curious?
Snape was the one who let personal issues cloud his teaching.
Harry, too, was burning with indignation, but Snape didn't care.
Then—
"Why didn't you all write down the answers?"
Ethan suddenly felt someone's intense gaze. Turning, he saw Hermione glaring at him.
Does she think I stole her spotlight? Ethan spread his hands helplessly. I didn't ask to be picked!
And it's not like non-Slytherins ever get points from Snape anyway.
Unless Harry were a girl. Then even wrong answers would earn praise for "bravery" or "honesty."
Unfortunately, Harry wasn't a girl—and he looked just like James.
"You two! Flirting in class?"
"Ravenclaw and Gryffindor—five points each!"
Snape had caught the glance exchange between Hermione and Ethan. He despised public affection—especially in his class.