Harry Potter and the Cataclysm

Carnie never expected to hear that name.

"Draco Malfoy," Snape announced.

Wait, what? That wasn't in the script. Who swapped the actors? Where was his usual Snape?

Carnie felt like the entire world had glitched.

"If I add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, what would I get?" Snape asked.

Ron looked overjoyed at Harry's misfortune—until he realized he wasn't the target.

Malfoy smoothly replied, "Powdered asphodel root and wormwood infusion create a strong sleeping potion, also known as the Draught of Living Death."

Carnie mentally swore. So this was the difference between pure-blood aristocrats and the rest of them.

(Peasant squad: Harry, Ron, Neville, Carnie, Seamus)

Even Crabbe and Goyle, who had been waiting for Harry to get roasted, went through three stages of realization: first schadenfreude, then shock, and finally pride—as if they had answered it themselves.

Malfoy, however, remained relatively composed. After a brief moment of surprise, he delivered his answer with practiced ease.

So that was it. A true noble. Not just an arrogant brat—he had the knowledge to back it up.

Carnie reconsidered his assumptions. This world wasn't following a fixed script, and its ending wasn't necessarily set in stone.

Snape continued, "Let's try again. If I asked you to find a bezoar, where would you look?"

Malfoy answered without hesitation, "A bezoar is a stone taken from a goat's stomach. It is a powerful antidote."

"Sit down. It seems some family reputations are well-earned," Snape remarked.

Malfoy looked positively delighted to have reclaimed some of his dignity. His family name was not just for show.

Snape's gaze darkened slightly. "Now then, let's see how our celebrated celebrity performs."

Here we go.

"Potter, tell me—what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry, having just memorized the notes Carnie forced on him, confidently answered, "Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant. They are both known as aconite."

Snape's expression barely flickered, but he continued, "Dry nettles, crushed snake fangs, and porcupine quills—what potion would that create?"

Carnie mentally blanked. Shit, what was that one? He had studied the textbook, but this one wasn't in his emergency cheat sheet.

Hermione's hand shot up so fast it nearly dislocated.

Harry, meanwhile, was completely lost.

"I don't know, sir," he admitted.

Snape tsked. "We'll try again."

"If I need a bezoar stone, where should I look?"

Damn it, Harry, look at your notes! Carnie screamed internally. That was literally the question before this.

Hermione's hand wobbled under the sheer weight of her knowledge, but Snape didn't even glance her way.

"I don't know," Harry repeated.

Snape clicked his tongue. "Tsk, tsk—fame clearly does not equate to intelligence."

Malfoy and his goons trembled with barely contained laughter.

Harry, in a last-ditch effort, muttered under his breath, "Hermione obviously knows. Why didn't you just ask her?"

Some students snorted, and Malfoy nearly collapsed from silent laughter.

Snape exploded.

"SIT DOWN, YOU SILLY GIRL!" he barked at Hermione, who flinched at the unexpected verbal assault.

Then he turned back to Harry. "Let me enlighten you, Potter. Dry nettles, crushed snake fangs, and porcupine quills, boiled together, create a Cure for Boils. A bezoar is found in a goat's stomach and is a powerful antidote."

He sneered. "Now, why aren't you all writing this down?"

A flurry of quills scratched against parchment.

Snape returned to his desk, picking up his own quill and writing very deliberately.

"Draco Malfoy answered correctly. Five points to Slytherin. Potter, for disrespecting a professor, five points from Gryffindor."

The last part was spoken in a dangerously low voice.

And that was just the beginning.

The rest of the class consisted of Snape finding every possible excuse to deduct points from Gryffindor, especially Harry.

Snape maxed out his deduction quota for the lesson. His insults were works of art—cutting, precise, and all delivered without a single curse word.

By the time he was done, even Neville, who had spent most of the lesson trying to avoid direct eye contact, was on the verge of tears.

Carnie, however, had noticed something strange.

Snape never called on him. Not once.

Huh? Why am I getting ignored?

For a moment, Carnie entertained a paranoid thought.

Could this be some new psychological torment technique? Like how middle school teachers "forget" about problem students so they fail naturally?

Snape, meanwhile, had zero such complex intentions. He simply assumed Carnie was a lost cause—a background extra who wasn't worth the effort. He figured it was better to just ignore him rather than risk provoking a potential Obscurial.

Because, you know, Obscurials tend to explode and murder everyone.

Snape had zero interest in dealing with that.

The class moved on to brewing.

Students were paired up, and Snape assigned them a simple Cure for Boils potion—the very one he had grilled Harry about.

Carnie immediately made sure Neville didn't touch anything too critical.

Neville, who was usually a magnet for disasters, managed to get through the class unscathed, largely because Carnie kept him away from all important tasks.

Meanwhile, Snape slithered through the classroom, watching over students like a shadowy vulture.

His boots swept dramatically over the stone floor.

Carnie focused.

Alchemy was like chemistry, right?

And he had aced chemistry in his past life.

He carefully adjusted the flame beneath his cauldron, ensuring it was steady but not too high.

Adding the ingredients in precise proportions, he stirred gently—not too fast, not too slow.

The mixture gradually turned the correct pale blue hue.

When Snape reached their table, he stared into Carnie's cauldron for a long moment.

He stirred it with a slow, calculating motion.

Finally, Snape gave the slightest nod.

"...Acceptable."

That was high praise from Snape.

When the class finally ended, Gryffindor had suffered monumental losses in house points.

Ron groaned, "I swear, Snape wakes up every morning and asks himself, 'How can I make a Gryffindor's day miserable?'"

Harry sighed. "I should've read the book."

Carnie patted him on the back. "No worries, Harry. Snape was always going to hate you. But hey, we survived our first week."

Ron groaned. "Barely."

Carnie stretched. "And next week? Flying lessons. That should be fun."

As the first week came to an end, Carnie felt satisfied.

His magic was improving. He had survived Snape's class without becoming a target. And he had started his own unique training method.

But one thing was certain.

This world was not following a script.

And he had a feeling things were only going to get more unpredictable from here.