Early the next morning, Ivan shuffled toward the Potions classroom with a bird's-nest of hair. Last night his Invisibility Charm had been sloppy again, and the Ancestral Master had drilled him until past midnight, leaving him seriously short on sleep.
As he walked, Ivan grumbled inside his head, "Ancestor Master, I'm still growing. Good sleep matters—if I don't rest I'll stay short forever."
He pushed open the dungeon door; a thick wave of herbal fumes hit him and wrinkled his nose. The room was already packed, students murmuring in twos and threes, their voices echoing off the stone and making the place feel rowdy. Ivan yawned, eyes half-shut, and staggered to the back row where he dropped into a vacant seat beside the window.
Professor Snape stood at the lectern, black robes hanging as immaculate as ever, eyes sweeping the class in a dark glower. His gaze lingered for a moment on Ivan's tangled hair, and his brows drew together; he prized neatness and detested untidiness.
"Mr. Efferi," Snape said, voice low and icy, laced with contempt, "your hair reminds me of a Blast-Ended Skrewt's nest—chaotic, without the faintest shred of aesthetics."
A ripple of laughter fluttered through the dungeon. Ivan glanced up, gave a shrug, and ignored the jab. He slumped back, lazily scanning the brewing steps chalked on the board—he couldn't decipher a single one. A sidelong look showed the Ancestral Master studying them with great interest.
Snape began the lesson, tone flat and hypnotic, as though intoning some ancient spell. Ivan's eyelids grew heavier; the symbols blurred into dancing blotches of light. His head bobbed once, twice, almost touching the desktop.
Suddenly a sharp prod in the back jolted him awake. He spun round to find a Gryffindor pointing frantically at Snape and whispering, "Mr. Efferi, the Professor's asking you!"
Only then did Ivan realize he'd drifted off. He rubbed his eyes and met Snape's glare—impatient, brow knitted, a cold glint in those black orbs.
"Mr. Efferi," Snape said, irritation undisguised, "what are the medicinal properties of belladonna?"
The dungeon fell silent; every gaze pinned Ivan. He hesitated.
"Er…" he faltered.
Snape's expression darkened further. His fingers drummed the lectern—tap, tap—like a countdown.
"Perhaps Mr. Potter can enlighten Mr. Efferi," Snape snapped, turning toward a Gryffindor boy.
Ivan followed the Professor's gaze to the student called Potter. Something about the boy's face struck him as odd: crow's-feet at the outer and inner corners of eyes impossible on an eleven-year-old—so his parents had died young. Yet a lightning-bolt scar on an otherwise narrow forehead made it seem broad, smooth, almost luminous. Early-death physiognomy sat side-by-side with the features of great fortune.
"Strange," the Ancestral Master murmured in Ivan's mind. "I sense something familiar in that scar, though I can't recall what."
"Save your breath, Ancestor Master; wasting obsession energy. Besides, this isn't our world—how could you know anyone here?" Ivan cut off the mental voice. A wisp of obsession had finite strength; once spent, it would dissipate unless, like a vengeful spirit, it fed on human flesh.
Potter merely shook his head at Snape's question.
Clearly intent on humiliation, Snape ignored a girl with her hand up and pressed on. "Which step is most critical when brewing the Confusing Concoction?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Where would you find a bezoar?"
"No idea."
After several more questions even Ivan could see Snape was targeting the boy.
"Slytherin loses five points, Gryffindor loses ten. Class dismissed."
The first Potions lesson ended amid that curt interrogation.
Ivan had learned nothing; only the Ancestral Master had savored the lecture.
The Slytherins filed out in clusters. Ivan walked alone, isolated—no one dared speak to him.
After all, the nickname "Mad Devil" was terrifying.
In the Great Hall Ivan carried his lunchbox straight to the Gryffindor table and sat opposite Potter and the small frizzy-haired girl.
A freckled red-haired boy objected, "This is the Gryffindor table—you're in the wrong place."
Ivan brightened. "You must be the legendary Red-Haired Shanks!"
He reached to touch the boy's hair—Second Dog had raved daily about how Shanks could silence sea monsters with a glare. This kid looked scrawny, but who knew—maybe this was Shanks in youth. Everyone had to start somewhere.
"I'm not any Red-Haired Shanks!" the boy barked, slapping Ivan's hand away. "I'm Ronald Weasley—Mr. Weasley to you."
Hearing he wasn't Shanks, Ivan lost interest. "Right, Mr. Weasley," he muttered perfunctorily, then turned to the girl. "Thanks for the heads-up in class. I'm Ivan Efferi—pleased to meet you."
She lifted her chin proudly. "I know who you are—the Mad Devil who decked Malfoy at the welcome feast. I'm Hermione Granger; this is Harry Potter." Ivan nodded toward Harry.
"Good day, Mr. Potter."
Ron frowned. "Typical Slytherin—so fake. How could you not know Harry Potter?"
Ivan was genuinely puzzled. "Why would I know him? Is he famous?"
Hermione gaped. In the wizarding world, someone unaware of Harry Potter?
"He's the Boy Who Lived—he defeated You-Know-Who," she whispered.
"Hermione, don't call me that," Harry muttered, uncomfortable with the title.
Listening, Ivan finally remembered. For a while Second Dog had dashed about clutching a broom, yelling, "I'm Harry Potter—I can fly on a broom!" Ivan had wondered if wedging the broom like that hurt, and how a stick could fly—back home only sword immortals rode swords through the sky.
So… I'm in the world of Harry Potter? What's the plot? Second Dog never explained—just babbled about the boy who lived. Day three without Second Dog: officially homesick.