Slughorn Recounts History

The afternoon Potions Class was held in the Underground Classroom, with Slytherin and Gryffindor attending together.

The air was filled with the smell of Potions brewed over the years, which seeped into the cracks in the rocks and could not be washed away by Cleaning Charm.

A green flame burned in the fireplace, a little warmer than the Corridor, but still only slightly, and the young Wizards wrapped themselves tightly in their robes.

Long tables stretched from the front of the podium to the back wall, each table holding two crucible racks, a set of basic tools, and a pile of materials.

Slytherin sat on the right, Gryffindor on the left, with several rows of empty tables between them, just like last semester and the semester before that. The atmosphere in Slytherin' room was a bit off.

The Pure-bloods ' faces hadn't recovered from the morning's events. Avery and Alex sat together, still whispering to each other.

Avery's expression still carried the same awkwardness from that morning, his brows furrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down.

Another Pure-bloods boy in front of him was in a similar situation, arms crossed, staring at the table, looking preoccupied.

The entire Slytherin half of the classroom was filled with a solemn and serious atmosphere. Almost every face showed that we were thinking about important questions. We didn't know what had happened in Gryffindor.

They didn't take that History of Magic class; the schedule was different. They only saw a group of people from Slytherin House with grim expressions, whispering among themselves, as if they were having some kind of secret meeting. A tense atmosphere filled the air.

A Gryffindor boy tilted his head and glanced at the Slytherin, whispering something to his deskmate, who scoffed. Another, bolder boy spoke up directly, his voice loud and arrogant, deliberately making sure everyone could hear. "Who died in Slytherin House today?" The person next to him tugged at him, stopping him from continuing.

No one from the Slytherin paid them any attention, not because they were holding back, but because they simply couldn't be bothered to reply.

Lina sat a row behind Avery, her small frame upright, her gaze sweeping over the Gryffindor with undisguised indifference. Samuel sat next to her, arms crossed, his expression less overt, but clearly unconcerned by the mockery.

They both rose through the ranks of Slytherin, and unlike these Pure-bloods, their fear and anger towards Muggle weren't as deeply personal. But they were Slytherin, and in this atmosphere, they would naturally gravitate towards their own house.

As for the other Pure-bloods, they didn't even glance at Gryffindor, their expressions carrying a condescending disdain.

We are worried about the historical fate of the wizarding community. You don't even know what happened, so what's the point of talking to you?

A foolish Lion.

It's a subtle, shared feeling; we're thinking about really important things, things only Slytherin would think about.

The Gryffindor, their minds are filled with nothing but Quidditch and pranks, and they don't care about the fate of the Wizarding World at all.

They don't understand, and they don't deserve to understand.

A bunch of useless Potions.

The Gryffindor exchanged bewildered glances, confused but said nothing more, assuming the snakes were simply having a collective fit of madness.

Slughorn emerged from the office, his round belly protruding from his green velvet vest, the buttons taut, the bottom one looking like it might pop off at any moment, and his usual smile on his face.

He glanced around the classroom as soon as he entered, his gaze lingering briefly on Slytherin.

He's a veteran Slytherin; he can tell at a glance what his students are like.

He walked to the edge of the podium, ran his finger along the edge of his vest, and chuckled casually, "What's wrong? Did someone step on your tail?" The Slytherin exchanged glances.

One of the girls couldn't hold back any longer, her voice filled with anger and confusion. "Professor, this morning Professor Binns talked about the Witch Hunts. Muggle burned wizards, Bamberg alone, more than nine hundred people were burned."

After she finished speaking, a boy next to her asked urgently, his voice filled with obvious doubt. "Professor, can Muggle really kill wizards?" Slughorn listened without changing his expression, still with that same grinning look, nodded twice, and tapped his finger lightly on the edge of the podium.

"Oh, the Witch Hunts." His tone wasn't serious; he was still smiling, a relaxed and reassuring smile.

"Do you think medieval wizards were all like you?"

The classroom quieted down a bit, and Gryffindor's attention was drawn in; he pricked up his ears to listen.

"Seven years of formal study at Hogwarts, with wands and systematic spell instruction, and you can go toe-to-toe with Auror right after you leave the school?" He straightened up from the side of the podium, put his hands behind his back, and leaned forward, speaking in a relaxed tone, as if telling a rather interesting historical story. "Most wizards in the witch-hunting era were self-taught, with an apprenticeship system. An old wizard would take on one or two apprentices, and what they learned depended on luck. Some people only knew three or four spells in their entire lives."

Hogwarts does indeed have Book of Admittance and Quill of Acceptance, which automatically records children in Britain with Magical Talent from the day the school was founded. However, recording is one thing, and notifying and enrolling students is another.

Before the International Statute of Secrecy, there was no tracking system from the Ministry of Magic. How far could an owl fly? What if it was shot down by Muggle with a slingshot halfway through delivering a message? A wizarding family living in a fishing village in the northernmost part of Scotland, hundreds of miles from Hogwarts, crossing mountains and dozens of Muggle towns, who would spend weeks driving a carriage to send their child to school?

Those who can't come, those who don't know, those whose families are afraid of revealing their identities and won't let them come —the Book of Admittance has a hundred names on it, but less than half of them will actually get a seat at Hogwarts.

As for wands, forget about it. The Ollivander family has been making wands in Britain for over a thousand years; they have excellent craftsmanship. But where would a wild wizard living in Muggle village buy one?

Standardized production and widespread supply came after the International Statute of Secrecy. Before that, many wizards used old wands passed down from their ancestors; some had their cores replaced three or four times and were still in use, while others didn't even have a wand at all.

He glanced at the boy who had asked the question.

"Those wizards lived in Muggle villages, were neighbors with Muggle, did business with them, and some didn't even really understand the difference between themselves and Muggle, and then they got caught."

He spread his hands, his tone carrying a hint of helplessness, but more of a sense of how lucky you are now.

"A wizard who only knows two spells, who was dragged out of bed in the middle of the night and never even touched his wand, and an unarmed Muggle widow are no different in front of the stake."

The classroom fell silent for a while.

Then Slughorn laughed, "But you're different."

He stretched out his hand and drew a circle in the air, encompassing the entire classroom.

"You all at Hogwarts, all second-year students, have been learning spells, Transfiguration, Potions for a year and a half, and you're holding Ollivander's wands. Imagine being transported to the Middle Ages..."

His smile widened, tinged with genuine pride. "Each one was a top wizard of their time."

The little wizard is indeed easy to coax.

Some people breathed a sigh of relief, some nodded, and Avery's brow relaxed, his complexion improving considerably.

The girl who spoke first tucked her hair behind her ear, picked up her wand, and twirled it between her fingers with a composed air.

Lina and Samuel exchanged a glance. Samuel shrugged slightly, while Lina's lips curled up slightly.

They are Hogwarts students, formally trained wizards, not those wild wizards of the Middle Ages who couldn't even touch a wand, and they won't be burned at the Muggle.

The young Slytherin wizards straightened their backs again, shifting their gaze from the professor to the Gryffindor, their aura shifting from somber to a clear sense of superiority.

Gryffindor overheard a bit and roughly knew it was about the Witch Hunts.

Several Gryffindor curled their lip in disdain. Was this really such a big deal?

"At least Gryffindor aren't afraid of Muggle," the bolder Gryffindor boy muttered under his breath.

The person next to him rolled their eyes at him.

Regulus remained silent throughout.

He sat in the middle row of Slytherin, against the wall, listening to Slughorn finish speaking.

The professor was right; medieval wizards were indeed weak, their education was poor, and their equipment was outdated.

But the core issue of the Witch Hunts is not the strength or weakness of individuals.

Loose sand is loose sand; even a mediocre wizard can't stop ten thousand organized Muggle.

The professor's reassurance was effective for the child.

He chose not to add anything, as there was no need for him to speak on this occasion.

"Alright, alright," Slughorn clapped his hands, his smile returning to its usual enthusiasm and energy, "First class of the new semester, focus your attention, everyone look this way."

He turned to the blackboard, tapped it lightly with his wand, and several lines of words appeared on the blackboard, the characters glowing.

"Those interested in that period of history can go to the Library after class to find <Medieval Wizard Villages: Forgotten Histories of Settlements> and <Before and After the Statute of Secrecy> by Orfenlis."

The two books offer different perspectives, and reading them side-by-side is more interesting than Professor Binns ' lectures.

Or Chapter 10 of Bathilda Bagshot's * History of Magic *, which she writes more vividly than Binns lectures, probably because she's a living person." He turned and glanced at the class, smiling as he said, "Of course, Professor Binns's lectures have their value too; listen carefully, and you'll get an O on the exam."

Slughorn thought for a moment, coughed lightly, and added, "I'm not saying Professor Binns' lectures are boring; in fact, he was my professor when I was in school."

After saying that, he blinked, spread his hands, and looked completely innocent.

The Wizards burst into laughter, and the atmosphere finally eased.

"New semester, new knowledge, today we're making Calming Draught."

Slughorn clapped his hands again, drawing everyone's attention back, then tapped the blackboard lightly with his wand, and another line of text appeared: the recipe and steps.

"The recipe is on the blackboard, the ingredients are on the table: cut Valerian Root into sections, three Lavender Buds, Porcupine Quill Infusion as the base, Glass Stirring Rod, seven turns clockwise, three turns counterclockwise."

"Don't give me that level of understanding that's supposed to be for second graders. Gryffindor gentlemen, I'm watching you."

Sure enough, someone from Gryffindor shrank back slightly.

He tapped his finger on the blackboard. "Begin."

The sound of materials being chopped filled the classroom as the crucible was moved onto a stand and a flame lit up at the bottom.

Avery made two cuts on the Valerian Root with his knife, then lost focus and made a third cut that went astray, shattering the Valerian Root all over the cutting board.

Slughorn walked past him, tapped on his desk, and said, "Mr. Cuthbert, Valerian Root isn't wood; you're cutting firewood."

Avery stammered, unable to speak, and quickly lowered his head to continue cutting.

Alex nearby, quietly pushed half of his share towards her.

A muffled thud came from Gryffindor; someone had stirred the mixture in the wrong direction, and a plume of purple smoke billowed from the cauldron, choking the student and causing him to cough.

Slughorn chuckled and walked over, waving his wand. The purple smoke dissipated, and the liquid in the cauldron returned to its normal color.

"Seven circles clockwise, three circles counterclockwise, not the other way around. Next time, pay attention to the recipe. The direction of stirring is more important than the incantation or hand gestures." The student's face turned bright red, and several people next to him snickered.

Regulus quietly did his own thing in the back row.

Instead of using the previous method, he used his Magic Perception to directly probe the structure of the finished product, then bypassed the steps to guide the materials to fuse on their own.

Let's follow the steps today.

Cut the Valerian Root into uniform sections, and clean three Lavender Buds, then place them in a crucible.

Pour in the Porcupine Quill Infusion, simmer over low heat, and stir with Glass Stirring Rod seven times clockwise and three times counterclockwise.

Simple, mechanical, requires no brainpower.

For him, this was a process of clearing his mind; he didn't need to analyze the flow path of the material's Magic Power, nor did he need to construct the Magic Power structure of the finished product in his mind—he just did it.

After stirring for the last round, the liquid's color changed from light green to pale purple, leaning towards blue, becoming stable, uniform, and just right.

Slughorn passed by his table, glanced down at the crucible, scooped up half a spoonful with a small silver spoon, brought it close to his nose to smell it, and then put it back. The color was perfect, and the aroma was pure.

He nodded in satisfaction. "Mr. Black, flawless. This is a perfect example of standard procedure. Slytherin, ten out." Regulus nodded politely. "Thank you, Professor."

The others were unfazed, shrugged, and continued with their own lives.

Regulus points are like the sun rising in the east—nothing to be surprised about.

The Dismissal Bell, and most students breathed a sigh of relief.

Avery tossed the crucible into the pool, stretched, and Alex quietly tidied up his tools, repackaging the unused Lavender Buds. Hermes had already reached the door.

Slughorn's voice drifted from behind the podium. "Mr. Black, stay behind for a moment."