Chapter 5
Felicia was making her way to breakfast when the sound of stifled laughter caught her attention. She paused, eyes narrowing, and glanced down the corridor to find the Gryffindor twins leaning around a corner, snickering like they'd just pulled off something spectacular.
They were tall—taller than Ron, and he was already lanky. Honestly, were the Weasleys secretly part giant?
"What's got you two laughing this early in the morning?" she asked, arching a brow.
Both boys perked up and turned toward the voice, prepared to toss a cheeky retort—until they realized who was speaking. It wasn't just any Slytherin. It was Felicia Forester.
The name gave them pause.
Everyone knew who her father was, and even the twins, who made a sport out of tormenting Slytherins, had to admit Galdur Forester was, objectively, cool. That made her… slightly more interesting than the rest of her house.
Fred tilted his head, studying her with a bit more interest than George. He recognized her—she was the one he'd winked at in the Great Hall. Her immediate scoff afterward had amused him more than it should have.
Still grinning, he motioned her over. "Come on, take a peek. You'll want to see this."
Felicia hesitated. Every instinct told her not to—never encourage Gryffindor mischief—but curiosity won out. She stepped forward and leaned around the corner.
Down the hall stood one of the Slytherin prefects. At first glance, nothing seemed out of place… until she spotted a small, nondescript box resting on the ground near his feet.
That was suspicious.
Snap! Pop!
The box burst to life with a loud crack, sending a cascade of magical firecrackers into the air. They zipped and exploded in a shower of color and sparks, far more than should've fit in a container that size. The prefect let out a startled yelp, stumbling back as tiny blasts erupted around him in chaotic succession.
The twins went from snickering to outright cackling.
"Glorious!"
"That was bloody brilliant!"
Felicia raised an eyebrow but couldn't stop the small smile tugging at her lips.
"It was a bit funny," she admitted, her voice dry but amused.
The twins paused, then turned to each other with twin grins before looking back at her.
"Well," George said, humming thoughtfully, "looks like Slytherin might have snagged a rare one."
"A Slytherin," Fred added, flashing a crooked grin, "who might actually be fun."
"Still," Felicia said, glancing over her shoulder as she continued down the corridor toward the Great Hall, "it was a bit too obvious."
The twins blinked, momentarily thrown off. No one had ever given them actual feedback on one of their pranks before—at least, not without yelling or laughing uncontrollably.
As she kept walking, they reappeared—one on either side—matching her pace effortlessly. Both leaned in, their curiosity piqued.
"Oh, you can't just say something like that—" Fred began.
"—and not explain," George finished.
Felicia arched a brow but didn't stop walking. Her sigh was soft, but there was amusement behind it.
"If you really wanted to catch someone of authority off guard," she said casually, "wouldn't it have been better if the box looked like contraband? Something they'd be tempted to investigate instead of ignore? Otherwise, you risk someone else picking it up—and not everyone has the constitution to be pranked."
Her tone remained calm, clinical even, as if discussing a strategy rather than chaos.
The implication wasn't lost on them. She wasn't condemning the prank—just improving it.
The twins straightened in perfect unison, as if she'd just uttered profound wisdom in the middle of their storm.
"Hmm… when you put it that way," George mused, tapping his chin, "we really should tailor the bait to the target."
"Yeah," Fred agreed. "Can't be setting off our masterpieces on just anyone—we're pranksters, not Peeves."
Felicia blinked. "Peeves?"
They both turned to her with matching grins.
"Oh," Fred said.
"You'll meet him soon enough," George finished.
Just then, a familiar sharp voice rang out down the corridor.
"Mr. Weasleys!"
George's eyes widened. "Time to go!"
"Lovely meeting you, Forester!" he called over his shoulder.
"Until next time," Fred added with a wink, and in perfect synchronization, the twins bolted around the corner.
Professor McGonagall appeared a moment later, her expression tight with irritation as she scanned the hall. She exhaled, clearly trying to compose herself, before turning her gaze to Felicia.
"Miss Forester, have you seen two tall young men with red hair—identical twins?"
Felicia looked up at her with a calm blink. "You mean the Weasleys?" She glanced around as if looking for someone, then pointed off in the distance. "There's one there."
Professor McGonagall followed her gesture and saw Ron heading toward the Great Hall. Her lips thinned.
"No… never mind. Thank you, Miss Forester."
She swept off down the corridor in pursuit of the actual culprits.
Felicia let out a soft laugh once the professor was out of sight. Those two were... unexpectedly entertaining.
Still, her thoughts drifted—Fred, in particular, seemed a little too comfortable. She huffed at herself, brushing the thought aside as she made her way toward breakfast.
Felicia sat quietly at the Slytherin table, idly eating a muffin as her gaze drifted across the Great Hall.
She spotted Harry seated with Ron and a small group of other Gryffindors, all chatting animatedly over breakfast. At the Hufflepuff table, Penelope was in full storytelling mode, her arms flailing dramatically with each exaggerated detail, drawing laughter from those around her.
Across the hall, Dedalus was already locked in a spirited debate at the Ravenclaw table, gesturing with calm precision as he argued some point Felicia couldn't quite hear.
It struck her how distinct the personalities of the houses already felt—each one its own little world. She found it both endearing and slightly amusing.
Her attention drifted to the parchment beside her plate. First class: Potions.
She glanced over at Draco, recalling their conversation from the night before. Year One potions was nothing special—just the basics. An introduction.
But Felicia wasn't approaching it like the others.
Her mother, Selene, was one of the Ministry's top Potions Masters, and naturally, expectations had followed. While Galdur had trained her in dueling from the time she could walk, it was Selene who had taught her to brew. Not just basic concoctions, either—Felicia had studied everything up through seventh-year theory. She couldn't brew all of them yet, of course—some required wandwork, and some ingredients were restricted—but she understood the alchemy, the chemistry, the structure behind the craft.
She could brew well beyond her year now. Not because she had to. Because it had been ingrained in her.
Still, she wouldn't show off. That wasn't the way to do things.
"If you feel the need to prove you're better," her father often said, "then you're already inferior in the mind."
And she took that to heart.
The Potions classroom was nestled deep within the dungeons of Hogwarts, down a winding stone staircase beneath the main castle. It wasn't far from the Slytherin common room—and just a short walk from the kitchens, though the aroma that lingered here was far from appetizing.
Dim torchlight flickered along the damp, cool stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows. The air was thick with the sharp tang of dried herbs, charred ingredients, and the acidic bite of lingering chemical reactions.
Felicia stepped into the room with the rest of the students, her eyes sweeping over the space. Long wooden tables were arranged in neat rows, scarred with scorch marks and stained from years of mishaps and experiments gone awry. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with dusty jars—each holding preserved creatures, withered roots, glowing liquids, or powdered substances that shimmered with quiet menace.
At the front of the room, the professor's desk rested on a slightly raised platform. It was set up with an iron cauldron, a stack of leather-bound books, various trays of ingredients, and weighing scales. The arrangement looked cluttered—but intentionally so, every vial and knife in its specific place. Behind the desk, a small cabinet gave off a faint, pungent scent that told Felicia it held rarer, more volatile ingredients—likely Snape's personal storage.
She found her seat at one of the shared tables, completing a group of four with Harry and two other Gryffindors. She'd intended to sit with Draco, but Pansy had beat her to it, practically planting herself beside him. Then again, Felicia didn't trust Crabbe or Goyle to safely mix sugar and water.
She cast a glance at Ron, seated nearby, before her attention shifted to the other Gryffindor girl at the table—a bushy-haired brunette with bright, intelligent eyes already glued to her Potions textbook. She looked utterly engrossed, lips moving slightly as she read ahead.
Felicia tilted her head slightly, intrigued.
The classroom fell silent as Professor Snape swept through the doorway, his arrival as quiet and ominous as a shadow slipping beneath the door. His black hair hung in inky curtains around his pale face, and his dark eyes were sharp, unreadable. His robes flowed behind him with effortless precision, every movement controlled—graceful and deliberate.
Felicia looked up immediately, sitting straighter.
Snape began without preamble, his voice low and cool as it sliced through the air.
"This class," he said, pacing slowly between the rows of tables, "will not be about waving wands to conjure lights or impress with flashy incantations. Potions is a subtle science. An exact art. Here, precision is your weapon. Discipline, your shield. And the rewards..." His gaze swept over the students, lingering for a breath too long. "…can be greater than what most magic could hope to offer."
With that, he moved to the register and began taking names, his tone crisp and economical.
When he reached Dedalus Bell, he paused, his eyes flicking up. "I trust you intend to meet the standard your family name implies," he said smoothly, though the words held an edge. "It would be… unfortunate if you did not."
He continued, calling out names until he reached Felicia Forester.
His dark gaze lifted again, settling on her. The golden eyes gave her away instantly.
Snape studied her in silence for a moment longer than the others. A quiet hum escaped him—more thought than sound. He, of course, knew both Galdur and Selene Forester. Each brilliant in their respective fields. He recognized the poise, the early training, the discipline already present in her posture.
A good fit for Slytherin.
The thought registered privately. No praise given aloud.
Then came Draco Malfoy. Snape didn't react outwardly—he had, after all, received a letter from Lucius well before the term began. He'd expected the boy. And the smug look that now settled on Draco's face was no surprise.
Snape's face remained unreadable, but he gave the boy a small nod of acknowledgment. Whether it was out of politeness or obligation was impossible to tell. Still, there was a flicker of hope beneath the silence—that the younger Malfoy had some talent, or at least enough to spare Snape the displeasure of disappointing Lucius.
He knew well how unpleasant the man could be.
Then Snape came to a sudden halt, his voice sharp with emphasis.
"Harry Potter..."
He looked up from the register and over to Felicia's table, his eyes narrowing slightly as they locked onto the boy in question.
"Our new… celebrity," he said, the word dripping with disdain.
Without warning, his tone snapped.
"Potter!" he barked, sharp and clipped. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
The girl beside Harry—Felicia now recognized her as Hermione Granger—immediately shot her hand into the air, eyes alight with anticipation.
Harry looked startled, clearly blindsided by the question.
Felicia glanced between him and Snape. She knew this was unfair. Harry had only just entered the wizarding world—he could hardly be expected to know the intricacies of potion-making yet. And though the answer danced on the edge of her tongue, she didn't dare whisper it. If caught, she'd be dragged down with him.
Snape clicked his tongue, tapping one long finger against his sleeve.
"Tut, tut—fame clearly isn't everything."
His arms remained crossed, gaze cold.
"Let's try again," he said, voice calm but cutting. "Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
Harry's voice was barely audible. "I don't know, sir."
Hermione's hand flew into the air again, practically vibrating with urgency. Felicia, equally impatient, sighed softly—she wanted to answer too.
Snape pressed on. "What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Hermione raised her hand again without hesitation.
Harry didn't even try to guess. "I don't know…"
Across the room, Draco leaned back in his seat, clearly enjoying every second of the exchange. His smirk grew wider with each of Potter's failures, and a few nearby Slytherins chuckled under their breath.
Pansy, seated next to him, caught Felicia's eye and gave her a smug look—one that seemed to say, this is exactly why we don't waste time on Gryffindors.
Meanwhile, Dedalus Bell observed the exchange with a look of quiet calculation. He wasn't sure what to make of Potions just yet, but he did know that understanding a professor's temperament was just as important as mastering the subject. And Snape, clearly, was one to watch.
Snape shifted his gaze—not to Hermione, whose hand was still in the air—but to Felicia.
"Miss Forester," he said evenly.
Felicia didn't miss a beat. Her tone was dry, but confident.
"Powdered root of asphodel combined with wormwood creates the Draught of Living Death," she replied. "A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat. Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant—also known as aconite—so there is no difference."
Snape regarded her for a long, quiet moment. Just as he suspected—sharp, precise, trained. A student worthy of attention… and perhaps wariness.
He said nothing further. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode to the front of the room.
"We'll begin with something simple," he announced. "A basic Cure for Boils."
He tapped the blackboard with his wand, and a list of ingredients and brewing steps appeared in elegant, spidery script.
"Let's see how well you follow instructions," he said, tone clipped. "Turn to page ten in your textbooks. Pair up—groups of two. There is adequate space. When you finish, place your completed potion on my desk. You may leave once your sample has been approved."
He paused for effect.
"Begin."
Harry and Ron quickly paired off, leaving Felicia with the only other student at their table—Hermione Granger.
Felicia regarded her calmly. "Granger. Pleased to be working with you."
Hermione looked up from her textbook, startled for only a second. "Oh! Yes, of course. Pleased to meet you, Forester." Her voice was polite, though there was a faint note of authority in it—subtle, but unmistakable.
"The potion's fairly simple," she added quickly, as if reciting from memory. "If you need any help, I'd be happy to explain the steps."
Felicia resisted the urge to correct her, to mention that she'd been brewing potions since she was old enough to hold a stirring rod. Instead, she merely nodded, keeping her expression neutral. Snape, quietly observing the room, noted the exchange with a flick of his eyes—but said nothing.
"I'll gather the ingredients," Felicia offered.
She walked to the shelves lining the walls, her eyes moving with practiced efficiency. She examined the bundles of dried nettles first—most were still too moist, likely harvested only recently for the new term. Toward the back, however, she found a separate group—fully dried and perfectly preserved. Likely overlooked by most students. She selected from that pile.
Next were the snake fangs. She passed over the chipped and irregular ones, choosing a set with clean edges and uniform shape. Then came the horned slugs—she opted for the glistening, healthy ones, slick with mucus. Finally, she picked porcupine quills—all identical in length, smooth and unbent.
Her mother always said: consistency makes for cleaner magic.
When she returned, Hermione leaned over the ingredients to inspect them, her eyes widening slightly in surprise.
"Oh wow," she murmured, clearly impressed despite herself. "You chose textbook-perfect ingredients."
Hermione glanced sidelong at Felicia as they worked, a frown of concentration on her face. Despite Felicia having answered all of Snape's questions with precision, Hermione had still—perhaps unconsciously—assumed she knew less. But now, watching her, she was beginning to realize just how much Felicia was holding back.
They worked side by side in near silence. Hermione followed the steps exactly, her technique crisp and clean—textbook perfect.
Felicia, however, paused midway through. She studied the potion with a sharp, analytical eye.
From the front of the classroom, Snape was still observing. While he occasionally swept through the room to correct another student's mistake—or prevent a small explosion—his attention kept drifting back to Felicia. From the way she'd selected her ingredients to her posture, her precision... she was clearly trained.
And now she had that look. He knew it well.
She was about to deviate.
Snape's eyes narrowed in interest. Should she be penalized for straying from the instructions? Or should she be rewarded for understanding the craft beyond them? He said nothing—choosing instead to wait and see.
Then he saw it.
Felicia carefully slit the horned slugs in half before dropping them into the cauldron to stew.
Hermione gasped beside her, nearly spilling a vial of dried nettles.
"That's not part of the instructions!" she whispered, eyes wide.
Felicia didn't even glance her way. Her tone was calm, clinical—focused entirely on the process.
"The instructions say to stew the horned slugs until they break down," she said. "But if you stew something too long, it starts to lose potency. Cutting them speeds up the breakdown while preserving the active properties."
She stirred slowly, the motion measured and steady.
Hermione blinked, clearly caught between indignation and awe.
Snape remained still, silent.
But inwardly, he was watching very, very closely.
Hermione looked as though she wanted to argue—but she didn't. The way Felicia barely glanced at the ingredient list and moved with practiced confidence said more than words could. With a resigned breath, Hermione fell into step behind her.
"Use gloves," Felicia instructed calmly, handing her a pair. "Snap the fangs in half before grinding them. It'll help release the venom more evenly."
Hermione hesitated. That wasn't in the instructions either.
But she did it anyway.
Meanwhile, farther down the table, Harry and Ron were struggling with their own potion. They were seated closer to Seamus and Neville—who looked equally lost.
Ron leaned in and muttered, watching Felicia and Hermione work in almost perfect unison.
"Two geniuses brewing together… that hardly seems fair."
Harry gave a quiet laugh. "Maybe we should've partnered with one of them instead of each other."
Felicia glanced toward their end of the table and raised an eyebrow at the bubbling mess in Harry's cauldron. With a small sigh, she moved to step over and offer help.
Before she could speak, a familiar voice cut in.
"Miss Forester," Snape said coldly from nearby, "leave Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley to sink or swim on their own."
Felicia stilled, glancing up at him. His gaze was flat, unreadable—but she could feel it: he wasn't just watching her. He was watching everyone—evaluating, assessing.
If she helped now, she'd skew the results. Snape needed to see what each student could do without intervention.
Still, he noted what she had been about to say.
"Mr. Potter," Snape said, shifting his attention, "your flame is too high. You're brewing a potion, not boiling water."
Harry quickly adjusted the flame, cheeks coloring slightly under the scrutiny.
Felicia and Hermione were the first to finish.
Thanks to Felicia's careful adjustments, the brewing time had been cut nearly in half—and the resulting potion was flawless. The texture, color, and consistency could easily be mistaken for a sample prepared by a professor.
Felicia approached Snape's desk and set the vial down without a word.
Snape immediately swept it up. Though he was well aware Hermione had assisted, the subtle enhancements told him exactly who had led the process.
He uncorked the bottle and brought it to his nose. The scent was correct—sharp, clean, and slightly bitter—but with a potency he hadn't expected. He poured a small amount onto a sample tray, noting the viscosity. Smooth. No separation. Perfectly reduced.
He didn't say a word.
"Ron! What did you do?!" Harry's voice suddenly rang out across the room.
Felicia turned in time to see their cauldron bubbling violently, steam pouring out as the potion hissed and foamed over the edges.
The flame was low. That wasn't the problem.
Then she saw it—the porcupine quills had been added too early.
The cauldron groaned before the bottom gave out with a metallic crack, melting into a warped mess.
Boiling potion splashed across the table.
Felicia's wand was in her hand in a heartbeat.
"Protego Alius!" she cast, projecting the shield with enough force to cover one of the boys—Seamus.
Neville, unfortunately, wasn't so lucky.
The potion hit him square in the face and arms. Within seconds, painful red boils began to erupt across his skin, swelling grotesquely.
He let out a pained yelp, stumbling back as the class gasped.
Felicia's gaze flicked to Snape. He had been watching the entire incident with his usual unreadable expression. But internally, he was already questioning how some students could manage to turn even the simplest assignment into disaster.
With a sharp sigh, he turned to Seamus.
"Escort Mr. Longbottom to the hospital wing," he said curtly.
Then he rounded on Harry and Ron.
"You two can't even follow basic instructions?" His voice was ice. "Ten points from Gryffindor. Each."
Ron flinched. Harry looked like he'd bitten into a lemon.
Snape's attention turned back to Felicia and Hermione. He regarded them a moment longer, then said with a clipped sigh, "Twenty points to Slytherin... and Gryffindor."
A stunned silence followed.
"Snape gave twenty points?" someone whispered. "I heard he barely gives fifteen to sixth-years in his advanced class…"
Murmurs spread across the room like wildfire—until Snape turned.
Silence dropped like a curtain.
"You have one hour left," he said coldly. "I expect your completed potions on my desk before then."
Felicia and Hermione gathered their things. Having completed their work early and successfully, they were dismissed. As they exited, Hermione kept her expression composed, but inwardly she knew—those points hadn't been for her. Snape had awarded them because of Felicia.
And Felicia knew it too.
Draco watched them leave, his pale eyes narrowing. He wasn't jealous of her exactly... but she was already making waves—earning favor, proving herself. He could feel it. And he refused to fall behind.
Meanwhile, Snape's thoughts lingered on the girl with golden eyes.
That shielding spell—he'd never seen it before. It wasn't standard. It wasn't from the curriculum. It was original.
Spell creation.
Brilliant, yes. But also dangerous. And troublesome.
Exactly the kind of student Hogwarts always remembers.