Chapter Text
The dungeon classroom was a crypt of flickering torchlight, its stone walls slick with damp and etched with the ghosts of countless potion mishaps. The air was thick with the sour tang of shrivelfigs and the faint, metallic shimmer of powdered moonstone. Scarred wooden tables sagged under brass scales, pestles, and vials of syrupy liquids that gleamed like forbidden promises. At the front, Professor Reginald Hawthorne's lean figure loomed, his voice a clipped, aristocratic drawl as he announced the day's task: the Draught of Peace, a potion so delicate it made even seasoned seventh-years tremble.
Dunk hunched over his cauldron, sweat prickling his scalp despite the dungeon's chill. His Gryffindor robes were askew, one sleeve dusted with ash from a prior misadventure with dragon liver. Across the table stood Joong, the serpent prefect, his Slytherin crest glinting like a badge of dominion.
Joong's movements were a study in precision as his silver knife parted a bezoar with the steady cadence of a pendulum. Each slice was flawless, the stone's chalky surface yielding slivers thin as parchment. Dunk, meanwhile, wrestled with his own bezoar, the blade slipping, carving uneven chunks that crumbled into grit.
"Accuracy, Dunk," Joong said softly, his green eyes glinting with amusement, teeth like pearls flashing in a subtle smirk, his broad shoulders steady as he worked. His voice was smooth, like frost on glass, but it carried a razor's edge.
"The Draught of Peace requires harmony. Too much bezoar, and you'll send the drinker into a stupor. Too little, and they'll twitch like a niffler in a Gringotts vault."
Dunk bit back a retort with his jaw tight and amber eyes narrowing at Joong's taunt. He knew the theory that bezoars countered toxins and stabilized the potion's volatility, but his hands faltered.
The blackboard's instructions were a maze: stir four times counterclockwise, add two drops of hellebore syrup, simmer for precisely seven minutes. One error, and the potion would congeal into sludge. Or worse, erupt. Last week, a Hufflepuff's cauldron had spewed crimson fumes, earning her a month of detentions. Dunk had no desire to follow suit. He sprinkled a pinch of boomslang skin into his cauldron, the brittle flakes catching the torchlight. The potion should have shimmered silver, but his was a dull gray, bubbling like a swamp.
Dunk scowled, glancing at Joong's cauldron, which glowed like molten moonlight. How does he manage it? Dunk wondered. Same ingredients, same tools, yet Joong's potion was a masterpiece, as if the cauldron itself obeyed him.
Dunk's eyes narrowed further, his creamy skin prickling as Joong reached for a vial of powdered unicorn horn with fingers grazing the shared ingredient tray. For a fleeting moment, Joong's green eyes darted to Dunk's cauldron with a faint smirk flickering. It looked like a secret he hadn't meant to share.
Dunk's gut churned. He's tampering. It wasn't the first time he'd suspected sabotage. Last month, his Wit-Sharpening Potion had frothed over after he'd added what he knew was the right measure of scarab beetles. The week before, his Pepperup Potion had soured, reeking of burnt parchment, despite his careful adherence to the recipe. Each time, Joong had been there, his face impassive, handing out detention slips with that infuriating half-smile.
Dunk angled his body to shield his cauldron, adding the hellebore syrup with a trembling hand. The potion hissed, steam curling upward.
He stirred four times counterclockwise, exactly as Professor Hawthorne had instructed. However, the liquid thickened, turning tarry and viscous. Across the room, Hawthorne's head snapped up with his pale eyes pinning Dunk's table like a curse.
"Mr. Dunk," Hawthorne said, his voice dripping with disdain as he strode toward them, his robes rustling like dry leaves.
"What travesty have you inflicted upon the Draught of Peace? Your cauldron looks fit for brewing dragon dung."
Dunk's cheeks flushed while his creamy skin burned and red lips parted in protest.
"I followed the steps, sir. I swear it."
"Clearly not," Hawthorne interrupted, peering into the cauldron with a grimace.
"This is a disgrace to the art of potion-making. You will report to detention this Saturday to scour every cauldron in this dungeon until they gleam. Perhaps labor will instill some respect for precision."
Joong remained silent, his quill scratching notes in his textbook. But Dunk caught the glint of satisfaction in his green eyes, there and gone like a shadow, his shoulders subtly tensing with triumph.
He did something to it, Dunk thought, fists clenching. Swapped the hellebore for mandrake extract, maybe, or slipped in extra moonstone. But there was no proof, only the gnawing certainty that Joong was pulling strings. As Hawthorne swept off to berate another student, Joong leaned closer, his broad shoulders looming, green eyes piercing, cedar-amber cologne sharp in the air.
"Careful, Dunk. Potions don't forgive mistakes. One slip, and you're scrubbing cauldrons until your fingers blister." His tone was almost gentle, but the words stung like venom. Dunk glared, his amber eyes blazing with defiance.
"Maybe if someone wasn't meddling with my ingredients, I'd stand a chance."
Joong's eyebrow lifted, a flicker of amusement cracking his icy mask, his pearl-like teeth glinting faintly. "Suspicion doesn't become you, Gryffindor. Mind your work. You'll need to." He turned back to his cauldron, leaving Dunk seething.
The bell tolled, and students hurried to bottle their potions. In Dunk's case, he had to scrape the gummy residue from his cauldron. Joong handed him the detention slip, his muscular and veiny hands brushing Dunk's with deliberate slowness. A spark ignited as his green eyes locked on Dunk's amber ones, revealing his pearl-like teeth in a sharp half-smile.
Saturday evening found Dunk in the dungeon's scullery, elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing cauldrons until his arms ached. The air was damp, the only sounds the drip of a leaky pipe and the scrape of his brush against pewter. Joong presided over the detention with his usual cold efficiency, seated at a desk near the door, his prefect's badge catching the torchlight. He didn't speak, didn't need to.
His presence was enough. His green eyes tracked Dunk's every move while his broad shoulders filled the space as if weighing his worth in some unspoken trial. Dunk scrubbed harder, the bristles biting into his palms. He felt Joong's gaze like a physical weight, his skin prickling under the relentless scrutiny. He wondered why Joong cared and what he was after.
The suspicion of sabotage gnawed at him. Had Joong slipped something into his cauldron to ensure this moment, to watch him toil under that piercing stare? Joong's quill scratched against parchment, the sound maddeningly rhythmic. He hadn't spoken since issuing the detention, but his silence was louder than words.
Once, Dunk glanced up and caught Joong's green eyes. They were unblinking like a snake sizing up its prey, and his pearl-like teeth twitched in that familiar half-smile.
Dunk's blood boiled, his amber eyes flashing defiance.
"Keep scrubbing, Dunk," Joong said at last, his voice low, almost intimate, green eyes never wavering.
"Those cauldrons need to be spotless. Professor Hawthorne will check."
He leaned back, folding his arms, his gaze unrelenting. Dunk gritted his teeth, plunging another cauldron into the suds.
He wouldn't give Joong the satisfaction of a reply. But as the hours dragged on, the weight of that silent scrutiny pressed harder. Dunk couldn't shake the feeling that Joong was testing him not just as a student, but as something more. It was something he couldn't yet name.
The sky over the pitch felt like an omen. Lead-grey clouds roiled overhead as if the heavens themselves knew Gryffindor was about to be humiliated. When the final Quaffle sailed through the Slytherin hoops, the scoreboard blinked 210 to 50 in cold, merciless digits.
Dunk had managed a single, breath-stealing goal, but beyond that, he'd been outmaneuvered at every turn. He remembered the sting of the Bludger that caught him by surprise, the sickening thud as it slammed into his ribs. He tasted blood and defeat, his amber eyes reflecting despair.
In the locker room, the silence was suffocating. Dropped brooms, bruised egos, and ragged breaths filled the air. A captain's voice crackled over the PA, trying to rally them, but Dunk couldn't focus on encouragement. He stared at his shaking hands, the same hands that had once flown him to victory now feeling useless.
That night, the Great Hall was subdued. Gryffindor House sat under the enchanted ceiling with downcast eyes, plates of untouched food steaming before them. Dunk slipped away, heart heavy, and wandered the corridors until he reached the entrance to the Restricted Section.
While Dunk sat in the Great Hall, an owl swooped low over the Gryffindor table, dropping a folded parchment into his lap with a soft rustle, its precise delivery unnoticed amidst the clatter of goblets and chatter. The words were written in a careful, unfamiliar hand:
"‘Arcane Brews for the Bold' by Thaddeus Vex, in the Restricted Section, page 237." His amber eyes widened, his long neck tensing with resolve.
His first instinct was to tear it up, toss it into the nearest trash bin. But the ache in his chest told him this was more than a prank.
Gryffindor had one more match against Slytherin this term which was a rematch that could salvage their pride. Dunk knew he needed an edge. Because Joong Archen never stopped watching, he needed to outsmart him.
Dunk's distrust of Joong was absolute, his mind conjuring the Slytherin, always scheming. How could a prefect, a Slytherin no less, be making mistakes? How could he not suspect Joong of deliberately tripping him up? Yet every time Joong glanced his way, Dunk felt raw, blistering rivalry, hotter than any dragon's breath, his skin tingling as if under a spell. That endless stare from Joong felt exactly like an attempt at Legilimency, prying into his mind, that snake!
As midnight approached, Dunk pocketed the note and gripped his wand tighter. He would face the Restricted Section. He would find whatever secret lay on page 237 of Arcane Brews for the Bold . All Dunk felt was rivalry, his amber eyes blazing with determination. And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what Joong wanted.