Lucan awoke early.
The greenish hue of the lake filtered through the dormitory's enchanted windows, casting soft ripples of light on the stone walls. Most of the other boys were still asleep, their snores echoing faintly. Lucan sat upright in bed, pulling a small leather-bound notebook from under his pillow.
He flipped it open with practiced hands. Inside were short lists, hand-drawn diagrams, and notes written in a tight, slightly slanted script. He hadn't written them for show, they were meant only for himself.
There was something strangely elegant about potions. A perfect potion didn't require brute force or flashy incantations, it required patience, timing, and understanding. And Lucan had all the time in the world to become great at it.
He slipped the notebook back into his bag just as Darius sat up in the next bed, yawning and ruffling his hair.
"You're up already?" he asked, voice still thick with sleep. "Don't tell me you're studying before breakfast."
Lucan smirked. "Just revising a few things."
Darius swung his legs out of bed and started getting dressed. "You're ridiculous. But I like it. Father says Snape respects discipline. And... well, he's not exactly gentle with idiots."
As they made their way down toward breakfast, Darius added, "He and my father knew each other when they were at school. I think they were in the same dueling club or something. Father says Snape values students who don't waste his time."
Lucan and Darius sat side by side at the long Slytherin table, joined by the usual faces: slim, pale Livia, poking suspiciously at her toast; her cousin Gaius, who was nursing a cup of tea like it had insulted him; and Ewan, the dark-haired boy who still looked half asleep and occasionally muttered things under his breath that made Claudia roll her eyes.
Lucan half-listened, flipping open his notebook again as he ate. He'd scribbled a few more potion terms during the night, things he'd remembered from old texts and fragments of his past life. Darius, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement.
"You think he'll be as strict as Father says?" Darius asked. "Snape, I mean. He's Head of Slytherin, after all. Maybe he'll go easy on us."
Soon, they were making their way down to the dungeons, cool, shadowy corridors lit by floating torches and the occasional flicker of green fire in sconces. The Gryffindors waited outside the classroom already, looking sleepy and slightly resentful.
The door creaked open.
Professor Snape stood there in his long black robes, expression unreadable, eyes sharp. "Inside," he said, sweeping into the room.
The classroom was colder than expected. Jars of preserved animal parts lined the walls, floating eerily in strange liquids. A blackboard behind the professor was still covered in chalk marks from a previous lesson, detailing what looked like ingredients for a boil-curing potion.
Snape stood at the front, arms folded. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began, his voice low and precise. "There will be no foolish wand-waving here. As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the delicate power of a simmering cauldron…"
Lucan felt oddly thrilled. This was exactly what he'd wanted.
Snape continued the speech, pacing slowly in front of them. "...I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death, if you aren't a bunch of dunderheads."
He called on Hale.
"What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
"The Draught of Living Death," came the boy's immediate reply.
No hesitation.
"And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"They're the same plant. Aconite."
Snape stared a moment longer than necessary.
"Ten points to Slytherin."
Snape's cold gaze shifted across the classroom.
"You," he said, pointing toward a freckled Gryffindor boy. "Mr. Dawlish, is it? What's the function of a bezoar?"
The boy blinked. "Uh—anti-poison, sir?"
Snape's brow twitched. "A bezoar can neutralize most poisons. Not all. Pay attention. Five points from Gryffindor."
He turned to the curly-haired girl. "Miss Roswell. What's the proper order for adding ingredients in a Shrinking Solution?"
"I—I think it's—nettles first, then shrivelfigs, then sliced daisy roots," she answered nervously.
"Almost. You forgot rat spleen. And the order of daisy root and shrivelfig is reversed."
Snape asked two more questions before the class moved to practical work. They were tasked with a simple potion, a Cure for Boils.
As they prepared their Cure for Boils, the room quickly filled with the smell of crushed snake fangs and porcupine quills. Cauldrons bubbled, some too violently. One Gryffindor boy added his horned slug too early, and a cloud of smoke erupted in his face.
Lucan's potion remained steady. He stirred with even rhythm, six counter-clockwise stirs, three clockwise, then simmer.
Snape swept down the row. He paused at Lucan's desk, eyes narrowed.
"Well-prepared. Stirring rhythm is consistent. Almost passable, for a first attempt," he said. "Five more points to Slytherin."
When the lesson ended, Lucan cleaned up quickly, hands faintly stained from beetle juice and ash.