Chapter 7 Punishment

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"Ten points from Gryffindor," Snape said silkily, "for your cheek, Mr. Blackwood. And detention. Tonight."

As they left Potions, a cloud of misery hanging over them ("A point from Gryffindor, Longbottom, for existing too loudly near my cauldrons!"), Ron turned to Jonathan. "That was mental! Brilliant, but mental!"

"You shouldn't have antagonized him," Hermione fretted. "He's a professor!"

"He's a bully," Jonathan retorted. "Just because he can brew a mean potion doesn't give him the right to be a mean person."

Harry hadn't said much, but now he spoke up. "Thanks, Jonathan. For... you know."

Jonathan shrugged, but inside, he was glowing. He'd stood up to Snape. Okay, it had cost him points and earned him detention, but still. Progress.

That evening, after a dinner where he barely tasted the shepherd's pie, Jonathan trudged down to the dungeons. Detention with Snape. Joy.

The Potions Master was waiting, a cauldron of something foul-smelling bubbling nearby. "Mr. Blackwood," he drawled. "Your little performance today was... noteworthy."

Jonathan braced himself for a tirade, but Snape just gestured to a pile of slimy horned slugs. "You will remove the horns, without magic. They're needed for a student's project. A seventh-year Slytherin," he added with a cruel smile.

For the next two hours, Jonathan dehorned slugs. It was gross, tedious work. His hands were slimy, his back ached, and he was pretty sure he'd never look at escargot the same way again.

But as he worked, his mind wandered. He thought about Harry, about the challenges ahead. Quirrell and the Stone. The Chamber of Secrets. Sirius. The graveyard. It all seemed so huge, so daunting.

"You seem pensive, Blackwood," Snape's voice cut through his thoughts. "Regretting your Gryffindor bravado?"

Jonathan looked up, his hands covered in slug goop. "No, sir," he said quietly. "Just thinking."

"A dangerous pastime," Snape sneered. But there was something in his eyes, a flicker of... not kindness, but maybe understanding.

"You knew the answers," Snape said after a pause. "Beyond simple memorization. How?"

Jonathan hesitated. "I... I read a lot, sir. And I practice."

Snape studied him, his black eyes boring into Jonathan's. For a moment, Jonathan feared he was using Legilimency, that he'd see the truth - the books, the movies, the strange sorcery.

But Snape just nodded curtly. "Knowledge without discipline is useless, Blackwood. Remember that."

As Jonathan left the dungeons, his hands raw and his robes smelling like a seaside garbage dump, he pondered Snape's words. Knowledge and discipline. Wasn't that what Strange had said too? Learn both magics, master them.

Speaking of Strange...

He made his way to the seventh floor, to that blank stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. 'I need to find the Sorcerer Supreme,' he thought, pacing back and forth. 'I need to learn.'

A door materialized, ornate and ancient-looking. With a deep breath, Jonathan pushed it open.

The Room of Requirement had outdone itself. It was a vast, circular chamber with a domed ceiling painted with constellations. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes in languages Jonathan didn't recognize. At the center was a raised platform, and hovering above it...

"Ah, the slug wrestler returns," Strange said, his ghostly form flickering like a candle in a draft. "I'd offer you a towel, but, well..." He gestured to his incorporeal self.

"It's fine," Jonathan said, trying not to drip slug slime on the ornate rugs. "I've had worse."

Strange chuckled. "I bet. Now, let's see what you've got, kid. Show me that sigil again."

Jonathan concentrated. The golden light appeared in his palm, forming the sigil. It was steadier this time, less like a flickering light bulb and more like a neon sign.

"Not bad," Strange said. "Your connection's growing. But a fancy light show won't stop a Death Eater. Or worse."

"Worse?" Jonathan asked. "Like, Voldemort worse?"

"Kid, Voldemort's a snake with a wand and daddy issues," Strange scoffed. "I'm talking multiversal threats. Things that make your average Dark Lord look like a toddler with a temper tantrum."

Jonathan swallowed hard. Great. As if saving the wizarding world wasn't enough, now he had to worry about cosmic baddies too?

Strange must've seen his panic. "Relax, Merlin Junior," he said. "That's why we're training. Now, first lesson: Sorcerers don't just cast spells; we shape reality."

He waved his hand, and a shimmering portal opened in midair. Through it, Jonathan saw a bustling New York street. A yellow cab honked, narrowly missing a hotdog vendor.

"Whoa," Jonathan breathed. "Is that... real?"

"As real as Dumbledore's sweet tooth," Strange confirmed. "Sorcerers are the cosmic parallel parkers of the universe. We find the space between spaces, the paths unseen. Watch."

Strange gestured, and the portal shifted. Now it showed the Hogwarts grounds. With another wave, it moved to the kitchens, where house-elves were preparing what looked like treacle tart.

"You're not just moving through space," Jonathan realized, his eyes wide. "You're... folding it. Like a map!"

"Bingo," Strange said, looking pleased. "Wizards apparate, sorcerers stroll. We find the shortcuts, the cosmic alleyways. Handy when you need to be in two places at once, or get a late-night snack without risking Filch's wrath."

For the next hour, Strange drilled Jonathan on the basics. Sensing the energy around him, visualizing pathways. By the end, Jonathan managed to open a tiny portal - just big enough for Mr. Whiskers to poke his head through from the dorm room.

"He's a natural," Strange said, as the cat meowed in confusion. "Must be the sorcerer in you."

Jonathan grinned, exhausted but exhilarated. He'd done it. Real sorcery, not just wand-waving. Take that, Voldemort!

As he left the Room (after Strange warned him about the risks of portaling into occupied bathrooms), Jonathan felt a new spring in his step. Wizard and sorcerer, with friends like Harry and mentors like Strange. Maybe, just maybe, he could pull this off.

Back in the dorm, everyone was asleep. Everyone except Harry, who was sitting by the window, a pensive look on his face.

"Hey," Jonathan said softly. "You okay?"

Harry started, then relaxed. "Yeah, just... thinking. About Snape, my parents, all of it."

Jonathan sat down beside him. "It's a lot, huh? One day you're just Harry, the next you're Harry Potter, the wizard who lived."

"Exactly," Harry said. "And now everyone expects... I don't know, greatness? But I'm just me."

"Well, 'just Harry' stood up to the greatest Dark wizard of all time as a baby," Jonathan pointed out. "I'd say that's a pretty great start."

Harry smiled, a real, genuine smile. "Thanks, Jonathan. For everything today. Standing up to Snape, this... you're a good friend."

Friend. The word warmed Jonathan more than a Weasley Christmas sweater. "Anytime, Harry. We've got to stick together, right? Us dimension-hopping, destiny-defying, slug-wrestling wizards."

Harry laughed, not quite getting the joke but appreciating it all the same. As they headed to their beds, Jonathan felt a surge of determination. Hogwarts, Voldemort, multiversal threats - bring it on. He had magic, he had sorcery, and most importantly, he had friends.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges: more classes, Quidditch tryouts, maybe even a troll. But for now, in the quiet of the Gryffindor tower, with Mr. Whiskers purring at his feet, Jonathan Blackwood - boy wizard, sorcerer-in-training, and official slug de-horner - slept the sleep of the magically exhausted.

And somewhere in the castle, in a room that was and wasn't there, a ghostly sorcerer smiled. The game was afoot, and the pieces were finally moving.

... ....

Stones pls?