The first owl swooped out of the Owlery, and the spires of Hogwarts Castle caught the first rays of orange sunlight.
The corridors buzzed with life again.
A gaggle of young witches and wizards clattered down the spiral staircase toward the dungeons.
"I heard the Potions teacher is Professor Snape," Michael said, rubbing his sleepy eyes. He'd stayed up half the night fiddling with a quill and was still yawning. "Word on the street—well, in the Ravenclaw common room, anyway—is that Snape's the professor at Hogwarts who…"
He paused for dramatic effect, making Terry lean in closer, ears practically twitching. Even the whispers around them hushed.
"He's the professor who docks the most house points in all of Hogwarts."
His voice quivered, perfectly matching the chilly air, and the young students' faces paled.
In that carefully crafted tension, they reached the Potions classroom.
It was a dungeon room, a few degrees colder than the castle above. Even in daylight, barely any sunlight reached down here, leaving floating candles to cast a dim glow. Glass jars lined the walls, filled with preserved animal specimens. Sean picked a seat not far from them, close enough to spot a bat spleen—a key ingredient for Swelling Solution.
As he sat, a boy with dimples plopped down beside him.
"Sean, I knew you'd be here early," Justin said, flashing a warm grin. He pulled a glass vial from his bag and set it neatly on the desk.
Michael, who'd been aiming for the seat next to Sean, gaped. "Is this an illusion? When did he get here?" he muttered, before grumbling and slumping into a random spot.
Soon, the classroom filled up. Maybe it was the icy air or Snape's terrifying reputation, but no one dared raise their voice.
In the silence—
BANG!
The dungeon door slammed open. A man with sallow hair and a hooked nose strode in, his cloak billowing like black bat wings. In a few swift steps, he was at the podium.
"Listen," he said, his voice low and cold. "This class doesn't involve waving wands or muttering spells like fools. I suspect many of you won't appreciate the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. But for the rare few who do, I can teach you to bewitch the mind, ensnare the senses, win fame, and brew glory… provided you're not the usual idiots I deal with."
His voice, grim and commanding, silenced the room.
"Hannah Abbott!" His sharp gaze swept to her like a storm. "Tell me, how do you handle a slug?"
Hannah's voice trembled, her pigtails shaking. "Steam it, Professor."
She'd clearly read the textbook, even if it was just the first chapter. Lucky for her, she escaped unscathed.
"Sit," Snape snapped, his face still sour. "Sean Green, how would you handle a horned slug?"
He leaned forward, blocking the candlelight.
"Steam it longer, about three minutes, Professor," Sean answered quickly.
"Not bad," Snape said, already gliding away. "Wayne Hopkins! What is a bezoar?"
His presence loomed over Wayne like a dark cloud. The short-haired boy's voice squeaked. "I don't know, Professor."
"If your troll-sized brain worked, you'd know a bezoar is a solid mass from a goat's stomach, used as an antidote in potions," Snape sneered.
Wayne quivered under Snape's deathly stare.
"Sit! Hufflepuff loses one point for your empty head!"
Snape's gaze swept the room. No one dared meet his eyes. "The rest of you, why aren't you writing this down?"
In the stifling atmosphere, the students scribbled furiously, as if their quills could shield them from Snape's wrath. His roll call of doom continued.
"Ernie Macmillan!"
…
By the end of the questioning, Ravenclaw had lost six points, and Hufflepuff a whopping twelve. Sean couldn't help but wonder: Slytherin's six-year winning streak probably owed a lot to Snape's… efforts. In the books, Snape even memorized every student's name to dock points more efficiently.
The man was relentless.
Snape's next words made Sean listen closely.
"Listen carefully. If anyone dares tamper with a potion recipe or skips a step…" His cold eyes scanned every face, ensuring total attention. Then he began explaining the steps for a Boil-Cure Potion, a simple remedy for pustules.
Steam rose from the cauldron before him. In minutes, it bubbled into a thick, inky green potion.
"I don't expect any of you to get this right quickly," Snape said. "I only hope some idiots don't create a disaster. Pair up and start!"
Justin's face was pale, though he tried to stay calm as he followed the steps. Sean wasn't much better—not because of Snape's intimidation, but because he was nervous about his unknown talent for potions.
"Slugs, dried nettles, crushed snake fangs, porcupine quills… that's right, isn't it, Sean?" Justin asked, his voice still shaky as he watched Sean arrange the ingredients.
Sean's calm expression seemed to steady him. "Yeah," Sean nodded. "Let's start with the slugs."
Justin lit the fire under the cauldron, which needed preheating according to the book.
"My cauldron?" Justin asked softly.
Sean glanced at Justin's silver cauldron, then nodded. It was far better than the third-tier brass one Sean had grudgingly bought. A silver cauldron might boost their chances, even if just psychologically.
Having a secretly wealthy partner wasn't half bad, Sean thought.