Chapter 22: The Bottleneck of Breathing Techniques**

After a brief interruption, the Potions class resumed smoothly. Professor Snape, having covered some basic concepts, paired the students up and instructed them to brew a potion to cure boils. Snape was in a foul mood. He was itching to find fault with the students to ease his own anxiety. Especially with Harry. And Edward. However, after Snape's earlier outburst, the students were on high alert. They focused intently on their cauldrons, whispering among themselves with their heads down. "Edward's got some serious guts. I couldn't have said what he did even if I studied at Hogwarts for ten years!" Ron muttered as he weighed dried nettles, glancing back to make sure Snape was out of earshot. Harry felt his cheeks flush slightly. He'd always sensed Edward was different—more principled than the typical Slytherin. But he never expected Edward to openly challenge Snape in class. And for his sake, no less. Truth be told, Harry rarely dwelt on what his identity as "the Chosen One" meant. All he wanted was for his parents to be alive, to grow up with them, not stuck suffering at the Dursleys'. What baffled him most was that Snape hadn't exploded. Or, at least, not as much as expected. Harry was dying to talk it over with someone—Ron, Edward, anyone—but the only person nearby was Hermione, who was huffing silently, completely focused on grinding snake fangs to add to her cauldron. She seemed determined to redeem herself through this potion. "Some people don't seem to understand what 'powder' means, do they, Miss Patil?" Snape sneered. "Four horned slugs, Miss Parkinson. Adding more or fewer won't improve your potion. I trust you've mastered counting within ten?" [Bookmark the fastest novel site: 101kan.com] "Well done, Mr. Malfoy. At least one student in this room knows how to stew slugs properly. Three points to Slytherin." Snape prowled the classroom, his robes billowing, critiquing nearly every student—except Malfoy. Then he reached Edward's cauldron. Pink smoke rose gently from it, shifting to a soft blue. Snape stared at the near-perfect Boil-Cure Potion, lost in thought. He'd planned to mock Edward for being all talk and no skill in practical work. But the words caught in his throat. For Edward, brewing this basic potion was a breeze. First, he had the textbook steps memorized cold. Second, even for tricky details, he could rely on his heightened senses—almost like a sixth sense—to guide him. "For a beginner, it's... adequate," Snape muttered after a long pause, his tone barely resembling praise. "Thank you, sir," Edward replied politely. Malfoy, overhearing, felt his own slug-stewing potion lose its appeal. This guy again? Stealing my spotlight even in Potions? Snape didn't notice Malfoy's sour mood. He kept hunting for other students' mistakes. But by the end of the class, he hadn't managed to deduct a single point. Thanks to Edward. He quietly warned Neville to remove his cauldron from the flame before adding porcupine quills, preventing a potion disaster. Otherwise, Seamus's cauldron would've been destined for the trash heap. Though, even without Neville's mistake, Seamus might've turned his potion into an explosive concoction and blown up the classroom. In the end, Snape couldn't find a single excuse to dock points. Yet he refused to award Edward any, even though it would've benefited his own house. After half an hour, both teacher and students were relieved to escape the grueling lesson. The Gryffindors hurried up the dungeon stairs. Harry quickly thanked Edward before disappearing around the corner. "Sometimes I really don't get how your mind works. I've had more shocks this week from you than in my entire eleven years combined," Daphne grumbled over lunch. "You could always sit somewhere else. Might lower your stress levels," Edward offered sincerely. He wasn't sure if the problem was him or Hogwarts itself. "No way. You've got to know your rival to catch up," Daphne replied coolly. "Instead of that, you should figure out how to deal with Snape tonight." Her tone carried a hint of mockery. "Has the great knight finally fallen off his horse? Watch yourself, Bedivere. Keep this up, and you'll be expelled before you know it," Malfoy taunted as he passed by with Crabbe and Goyle. He kept a safe distance, using his goons as a shield, clearly wary of Edward lunging at him. Edward's physical prowess had left a deeper mark on Malfoy than any spell. Edward ignored the jab but couldn't shake the feeling that Snape's detention—sorting potion ingredients for next week's lessons—wasn't just a punishment. If it was only about discipline, why not send him to Filch? Why the Potions classroom? Did Snape have something else to say? Whatever the case, Edward didn't mind. He'd challenged a teacher in class, and by school rules, he deserved some punishment. Whether it was scrubbing for Filch or detention with Snape, he'd take it in stride. Sorting ingredients even sounded mildly interesting. Plus, Edward had questions for the Potions professor. Namely, he'd hit a wall with his Knight's Breathing Technique. He'd noticed it during Herbology, when he used the technique to charge into the Devil's Snare. His physical condition and the technique's progress hadn't improved. It felt no different from practicing at home. No matter how hard he trained or refined the technique, its benefits—enhancing his body and controlling magic—seemed stuck, unable to progress further. Merlin's Manual of the Magical Knight offered no clear explanation. Just a vague note: "Proceed gradually." Utterly unhelpful. Classic riddle nonsense! Edward mulled over those words repeatedly, arriving at one conclusion. This bottleneck might be tied to his age.