The next morning broke gray and cool, the castle stones still slick with the night's mist. Eira dressed carefully, straightening her Slytherin robes before slipping her quill and parchment into her satchel. Tracey Davis—who had taken to trailing after her almost everywhere—wandered into the common room with a loud yawn, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"Potions, first thing," Tracey muttered, rolling her eyes. "Not exactly the most cheerful way to start a morning."
"On the contrary," Eira said, her voice steady. "It's a fascinating subject. I want to see how it's taught here at Hogwarts—I'm really eager to learn potions."
"You'll see," Tracey said darkly, tugging at her sleeve. "Wait until you meet Professor Snape up close. He's not exactly sunshine."
The dungeons were cool and dim as the students filtered into the Potions classroom. Long wooden tables stretched across the room, and a faint scent of crushed herbs and simmering brews lingered in the air, clinging to the stone. The Gryffindor fourth years were already trickling in, chattering among themselves. Harry Potter sat beside Ron and Hermione, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Draco Malfoy leaned lazily against the edge of his table, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, already smirking at the sight of their house rivals.
Tracey tugged Eira toward a bench midway down the room. "Here. If we're lucky, Snape won't notice us."
But Eira had no intention of going unnoticed. She smoothed her parchment, uncorked her inkwell, and glanced around, calm and collected, waiting.
The door creaked open and, with a swish of heavy black robes, Professor Snape swept into the room. His expression was unreadable, though his dark eyes darted from student to student with a quick, cutting glance. The low hum of conversation died at once, as if the very air had been sucked out with his arrival.
Eira watched him with quiet, almost analytical interest. She had heard the rumors—his merciless discipline, his sharp tongue, his loathing for Gryffindors whispered about in every common room. Yet seeing him in person was different. There was something coiled and deliberate in the way he moved, like a shadow slipping through the light. His black eyes, gleaming and pitiless, swept over the room as if weighing and discarding each student in turn. Every flicker of his gaze felt like a silent judgment, and though he hadn't spoken a word yet, the classroom seemed to shrink under the weight of his presence.
"You will submit your assigned homework to my desk," Snape said without preamble, his voice low, silken, and cutting. "Now."
A shuffle of parchment followed as students reluctantly filed forward to place their essays on the desk. Snape's dark gaze followed each of them with mild disdain. When Ron dropped his parchment, nearly crumpling it, Snape's lip curled faintly.
"Pathetic," he muttered.
Ron flushed red, glaring at the floor. Draco smirked openly, elbowing Crabbe.
Snape turned on his heel, sweeping back to the front. "Today, we will be brewing a potion useful in its simplicity but easily ruined by incompetence—the Shrinking Solution. A fourth-year should find this manageable." His voice dripped with skepticism. "Should."
He waved his wand, and the instructions appeared on the board in neat, spidery script.
"You will follow these directions precisely. I will not tolerate carelessness. At the end of this lesson, I expect properly brewed solutions. Fail, and you will redo them until you succeed."
A faint groan rose from the Gryffindor side. Snape's eyes cut toward them instantly. "Ten points from Gryffindor, for complaining before even attempting the task."
The groans died immediately.
Eira bent over her cauldron with Tracey, calmly measuring her ingredients. Her movements were smooth, precise, without wasted motion. She diced daisy roots with even strokes, her face serene, her breathing steady. Tracey followed her lead, sneaking glances at Eira's calm efficiency.
Tracey leaned closer, watching the way Eira's hands moved with practiced precision as she sliced and measured. "Your handling of the ingredients is really good," she whispered, a note of admiration slipping into her voice. "I haven't seen anyone else do it quite like that. You're so… clean with it, even using different methods."
Eira gave a small, composed smile. "Yes, well, it seems the way French students handle ingredients is a bit different than the British approach."
Tracey stifled a giggle, lowering her voice even further. "Alright, alright—don't go showing off just because you spent time in France."
Eira only smiled in reply, the expression enough to make Tracey grin back, as if they'd shared a small private joke.
At the next table, Neville Longbottom fumbled with his ingredients, his hands shaking slightly. He knocked over a jar of leeches, and they slid wetly across the table. His face paled.