"What are you lot still doing here? Planning to retake Potions from scratch?"
Snape's cold gaze swept over the Beaters, his words dripping with sarcasm as he sneered. "Oh, right, I forgot—some of you couldn't even pass your N.E.W.T.s. Otherwise, you'd be wearing Auror uniforms instead of those ridiculous armbands."
The Beaters' faces flushed red, and one raised a hand, only to be quickly restrained by a companion who shook their head in resignation.
"Professor Snape, you can look down on us, but say one more word about the armbands, and I won't care about old times' sake," said the Beater who'd been standing by Edward's side, stepping forward to meet Snape's eyes with a grim expression, each word deliberate.
"Don't call me Professor. But I suggest you lot get your heads checked at St. Mungo's—after all, the person you're following came from there," Snape replied, his expression unchanging, his cold stare fixed on the man.
Only when the other professors led the Beaters out of the dungeon classroom did Snape turn and head to the lectern.
Adam let out a sudden chuckle. He'd noticed several glaring footprints on the back of Snape's robes, placed at a particularly cheeky angle. Clearly, some of those Beaters had long held a grudge against their former Potions professor.
Snape spun around at the sound, his face expressionless as he stared at Adam. The other young witches and wizards who'd been about to laugh instantly sat up straight, their faces betraying odd, suppressed expressions.
"Open your textbooks to page fourteen, the section on Boil-Cure Potion…" Snape began.
…
Shirley stirred her cauldron, whispering to Adam, who was lazily preparing ingredients beside her. "That spell you mentioned—is it real?"
"Of course it's real. It's a Forbidden Curse-level spell," Adam replied, hunched over the desk, idly carving notches into a venomous lizard claw with a small knife.
The textbook advised slicing four to five vertical cuts along the claw's natural grain to prepare it. But Snape's instructions on the blackboard were different: tap the claw with the knife's back to create fissures, then make at least ten irregular cuts.
Adam recalled a Hufflepuff senior's notes mentioning this technique, which sped up the potion's formation and slightly boosted its potency. Yet here he was, carving at the claw for over ten minutes, unnoticed by anyone.
The other students were frantically brewing their potions. Some, under Snape's scathing glares, were restarting their cauldrons for the third time. Their once-neat robes were creased from darting between the supply cupboard and their cauldrons.
Many struggled with the ingredient preparation, like the first step: preparing wormwood solution. It required grinding the wormwood over twenty times until a faint bitter smell emerged, then slowly pouring it into a measuring cup.
Adam glanced at the Hufflepuff first-year at the next table, fetching wormwood for the sixth time. Snape's face was as dark as the bottom of a cauldron.
"But your spell doesn't seem to work," Shirley said, eyeing Adam's small coin pouch curiously. Ever since she'd given it to him before term started, she had no idea what odd things he'd stuffed inside. "And I'm still wondering—where'd you get that phoenix feather?"
The feather looked familiar, like she'd seen it somewhere before.
"It took twelve dried long-whisker sprats to trade for that," Adam said without looking up.
"Wait, you don't mean the yarn ball Amy plays with, do you?" Shirley asked, her eyelid twitching uncertainly.
"Well, it's something Amy and Fawkes left behind during their… playtime. Though Fawkes probably didn't think it was playing," Adam said. "And how do you know I didn't cast it successfully?"
He turned to her, opening his palm to reveal a handful of silver whiskers, each of varying lengths with irregular ends.
Shirley's mouth twitched. "Professor Dumbledore's going to be heartbroken. Every time I see him, his beard's so neatly groomed."
Before she could say more, a blinding flash erupted from the cauldron at the table in front of them.
Adam's face paled. He yanked Shirley down as a deafening explosion rocked the dungeon classroom.
"What in Merlin's name are you doing?!" Snape roared, his composure shattered. He waved his wand, halting the cauldron hurtling toward the ceiling and casting a cleaning charm on the floor.
But the students who hadn't ducked in time weren't so lucky. Scalding potion splashed onto their skin, sprouting clusters of tiny red boils that would've sent anyone with trypophobia into a panic.
A braided witch glanced at her reflection in the cauldron and let out a blood-curdling scream.
The Slytherin first-year at the table ahead of Adam stood frozen, wand still poised over the cauldron as if stirring. "Sorry, Professor Snape, I was just passing the ingredients. It exploded before I even put them in. I don't know…"
Aiden climbed to his feet, sheepishly stepping forward to apologize.
Snape didn't even glance at him. He rushed to the table, leaning so close his hooked nose nearly touched the prepared ingredients. "Everything's fine…" he muttered in disbelief, then whirled on the Slytherin first-year, his face darkening. "Castor! How long were you stirring?!"
But Castor stood dazed, muttering, "How could it be a boy…"
Adam suddenly recalled Snape's earlier instruction that potions required partners. This Slytherin had boldly left his seat to join Aiden, standing close. Adam didn't want to guess what had just happened, but he could almost hear the sound of a young heart shattering.
"Get out! Report to Filch for detention!" Snape bellowed, his expression thunderous.
After this incident, every young witch and wizard double-checked their ingredients with trembling hands.
When Snape finally inspected the submitted potions, his expression softened slightly.
Adam watched enviously as the other Hufflepuffs left, finally raising his hand to signal he'd finished brewing. But Snape didn't even glance at him, continuing to check other tables.
At last, Snape approached Adam's cauldron, giving the potion a cursory glance without a word.
Seeing no reaction, Adam grabbed his textbook and headed for the door, eager to get to the Great Hall. He was certain the fried chicken legs were already claimed by the swarm of hungry badgers.
"Wait. You haven't answered my question," Snape's low voice called after him, as if he'd been mulling it over. "How many ounces of bezoar powder are needed for Felix Felicis?"
Adam turned back, blinking innocently. "I don't—"
"Correct," Snape cut him off impatiently. "Felix Felicis requires no bezoar powder."
Expressionless, he pulled something from his robes and tossed it to Adam from across the room. Adam caught the small vial, filled with shimmering golden liquid that gleamed like molten gold in the candlelight.
"Felix Felicis!" Aiden, waiting to head to the Great Hall with Adam, gasped in shock, his voice drawing the attention of nearby students.
"Professor, did you grab the wrong thing?" Adam called, holding up the vial as Snape turned to leave.
The black robes trailing on the floor paused, and Snape spun back. "That bottle of shampoo last time—was it from you?"
Adam quickly pocketed the Felix Felicis, grabbed his books, and yanked the still-stunned Shirley toward the door.
"The moment your left foot steps out of this classroom, Hufflepuff loses ten points!" Snape's voice echoed behind him.
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