The Potions Success
Oh, Harry. I have to admit, when I first saw him clutching that Potions book like it was some sort of magical treasure, I figured he’d end up setting the entire dungeon on fire. But somehow, much to everyone’s surprise—including mine—he started brewing potions like a pro.
Honestly, it was more than a little amusing. Here was Harry, who could barely get a simple potion right without causing an explosion, suddenly waltzing through his classes with a smirk on his face, as if he were a master of the craft. I watched, perched on the windowsill, pretending to be uninterested as he followed the Half-Blood Prince’s mysterious instructions, the boy practically glowing with pride.
"Look at me! I’m a genius now!" Harry said, grinning like he’d just discovered the cure for all wizarding ailments. His eyes sparkled with the type of overconfidence only an untested potion-brewer could have.
I, of course, knew better. It wasn’t Harry’s brilliance; it was the book. That Half-Blood Prince had a knack for getting things just right—though I couldn't care less about the book’s identity. I was more interested in the chaos it caused, and the fact that Harry was clearly forgetting one important thing: Hermione was getting increasingly frustrated. This was like watching a cat try to teach a mouse to fetch, and the mouse was winning.
Hermione, dear Hermione, had taken it upon herself to tutor Harry. Oh, how she tried. You could practically see the steam coming out of her ears as she adjusted her spectacles and lectured him on all the right ways to brew a potion. She was on the verge of pulling her hair out, but Harry? Harry was too busy soaking in his newfound “skills,” looking at his success like he was some sort of Potion King.
“Honestly, Harry,” Hermione sighed for the thousandth time, “you can’t just rely on the book for everything! You need to understand the principles behind the potions!”
Oh, Hermione, sweet Hermione. I loved her dearly, but it was becoming clear that she was officially done with Harry's cocky, potion-making ways. I couldn’t help but laugh. I mean, this was pure comedy gold.
As Hermione explained for the umpteenth time how the delicate balance of ingredients could ruin everything, I made my move. I had to test how much patience she really had left.
With the stealth of a seasoned predator, I hopped onto the desk and pretended to be interested in the various vials and bubbling concoctions. Naturally, that was the moment Harry was halfway through adding something suspiciously similar to essence of unicorn sweat (don’t ask me how I know that).
"Crookshanks!" Hermione shouted as I slid across the desk like some sort of furry tornado, knocking over Harry’s prized potion, which immediately exploded in a cloud of purple smoke. The room filled with a smell so strong that it made my whiskers twitch and my tail flick in annoyance. I couldn’t help but purr with satisfaction.
“Crookshanks!” Hermione repeated, shaking her head in exasperation. “This is why I can’t get anything done around here!”
I purred louder, stretching my back and making myself as obnoxious as possible. If there was one thing I knew, it was how to be a nuisance when the moment called for it. Hermione glared at me, her patience snapped thinner than a dried-up sprout.
Harry, on the other hand, looked entirely pleased with himself. "Look at that, Hermione," he said, grinning. "It worked!"
“Well, no thanks to you,” Hermione muttered under her breath, clearly ready to throttle both Harry and me. But Harry was too busy admiring the fumes of his bubbling potions to notice her annoyance.
And so it went. I made sure to “help” as much as I could—strolling across the table at the worst moments, pushing a vial of powdered dragon liver just a little too close to the edge, and sending everything flying. Oh, Harry and Hermione? They spent so much time bickering over whether or not the book was “right” that they never even noticed how unhelpful I was being.
“Honestly, Crookshanks, if you don’t stop, I’m going to lock you in the cupboard,” Hermione threatened, though it was clear she didn’t mean it. She was far too fond of me for that.
“Please,” I thought to myself. “I could open the cupboard with my eyes closed. Besides, you need me.”
I kept up my antics. At one point, I even knocked over a stack of cauldrons just to add a little extra drama. It worked—Harry jumped back, clutching his latest potion and looking like he was about to have a heart attack.
“You know, Hermione,” Harry said, with that infuriating smugness I was starting to grow very tired of, “I think I’m getting the hang of this. I could open a potion shop!”
I rolled my eyes. No, Harry. You couldn’t open a potion shop. You could barely open a bottle of pumpkin juice without creating a small disaster. But I let him dream. At least he was distracted, and I was enjoying my front-row seat to the circus.
And Hermione? Well, poor Hermione was exhausted. She finally gave up and stormed out of the room, muttering something about “studying in peace.” Of course, I wasn’t about to let her off that easily.
With Hermione gone, I stretched out on the desk, hoping they’d go back to their endless potion trials. I had a few ideas of my own for a little experiment, but first, I had to figure out how to knock over that vial without them noticing.
It was going to be a long semester. And I was absolutely going to make it my mission to add as much chaos to their lives as I possibly could.
“Just wait until the next session,” I thought, grinning to myself. “There’s always room for more fun.”
And so, life went on, with me playing the role of both pet and instigator, and Harry? Well, Harry continued to act like he was one potion away from being crowned the king of everything. Ah, the blissful ignorance of youth.