After the tournament, Hogwarts's young wizards naturally returned to normal life. They were only spectators at the Triwizard Tournament, after all.
Plenty of them envied the Champions. No exams, no homework—what child wouldn't be jealous? Except for one particular Champion...
"Pot...ter! If you turn your potion into a steaming pot of rubbish again, I'll have you preparing Potions ingredients until next Christmas!" Professor Snape stood beside Harry, his voluminous black robes almost blending into the shadows of the dungeon.
"Two points from Gryffindor! You clearly weren't listening, or you would have stirred the potion as instructed."
Having taken the points, Snape strode away with his head held high, looking thoroughly satisfied.
But when he saw Will fast asleep in a broad armchair on the other side of the room, his expression darkened again.
He put a hand on Will's shoulder. "Mr. Behrens, your Transfiguration is impressive, and that armchair looks comfortable. But this is Potions Class. Shouldn't you be paying attention?"
Will rubbed his eyes and explained drowsily, "Ah, Professor, I've already taught Sylvia how to do it. She's practising now, and I don't want to disturb her."
"You had better be telling the truth, Mr. Behrens. You can drink the potion Miss Lestrange brews later." Snape patted Will's shoulder, sounding rather helpless.
What else could he do? Take points from Slytherin?
Make Will sit through class and brew potions properly?
What a joke. At Will's level, did he really need to take lessons alongside this lot of fourth-year Forest Trolls, Mountain Trolls, and Swamp Trolls?
Of course not.
By now, the fourth-year curriculum was like a book Will had read countless times.
Take Snape's Potions Class. Even if Will jumped straight to seventh year, the complex potions those students considered nightmares would be nothing more than revision to him.