Monday morning arrived with a fresh timetable and a palpable sense of nervous energy among the first-years. Jake's own excitement was tempered with a healthy dose of apprehension. His first class of the day was double Potions, down in the dungeons, shared with the Slytherins.
He knew of Severus Snape, of course. The feared Potions Master, Head of Slytherin House, and a man renowned for his acerbic wit and absolute lack of tolerance for foolishness. Jake's methodical nature felt suited to the precise art of potion-making, but he knew that Snape himself would be the most volatile ingredient in the room.
As the Ravenclaws filed down the cold stone steps into the dungeons, the temperature dropped noticeably. The classroom was gloomy, lined with shelves of pickled animals and strange ingredients floating in jars, their shadowy forms distorted by the glass. The air was heavy with the scent of bitter herbs and chemical tang. The Slytherins were already present, clustered together at the heavy wooden tables, whispering amongst themselves and casting disdainful looks at the newcomers.
Jake chose a table near the back, hoping to remain inconspicuous. His roommate, Michael, sat beside him, looking pale. Before they could even unpack their things, the door at the front of the classroom slammed open and then shut with a resounding boom that echoed off the stone walls.
Severus Snape swept into the room, his black robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud. He was a man who commanded presence. Sallow-skinned, with a great hooked nose and greasy, shoulder-length black hair, he moved with the predatory grace of a panther. He came to a halt before the class, his black eyes sweeping over the rows of nervous eleven-year-olds, missing nothing.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," he began, his voice a low, menacing drawl that was barely more than a whisper, yet carried to every corner of the room. "As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. However, for those select few," he paused, his gaze lingering for a moment on the Slytherin tables, "who possess the predisposition... I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death."
The silence in the room was absolute, thick with a mixture of awe and fear. Jake, however, felt a flicker of genuine academic interest. This was a man who, for all his intimidating theatrics, was clearly a passionate master of his subject.
Snape's dramatic monologue was cut short as his eyes fell upon two Slytherin boys at a nearby table who were snickering quietly. They were bulky, with brutish faces, and Jake vaguely recognised them from the Sorting Ceremony.
"Nott. Avery," Snape's voice was dangerously soft. "Is there something amusing about bottling fame?"
The two boys, Cormac Nott and Cassian Avery, immediately fell silent, their faces paling.
"No, Professor," Nott mumbled.
"Five points from Slytherin for your lack of decorum," Snape said silkily, before turning his attention back to the class at large. "Today, you will be brewing a simple Boil-Cure Potion. The instructions," he waved a hand towards the blackboard, where instructions appeared in neat, white chalk, "are on the board. You will find your ingredients in the student store cupboard. You may begin."
What followed was a controlled chaos. Students scurried to the store cupboard, clanking glass vials and jostling for position. Jake, however, waited. He read the instructions on the board twice, committing them to memory. He identified potential points of failure: the crushing of the snake fangs, the precise timing of adding the horned slugs, the specific number of stirs, and the direction.
Only when he had a clear mental map of the process did he rise and calmly retrieve his ingredients. As he returned to his table, he noticed Nott and Avery watching him, their eyes narrowed. He ignored them, laying out his ingredients and lighting a small, magical fire beneath his pewter cauldron.
He worked with quiet, unhurried precision. He crushed the snake fangs with a pestle and mortar, not with brute force, but with a steady, grinding motion until they were a fine, uniform powder, just as the instructions specified. He added them to the cauldron, stirring exactly seven times, clockwise. He felt a quiet satisfaction as the potion turned a satisfying shade of turquoise.
It was then that the trouble started. As he leaned over to add the horned slugs, he saw Avery nudge Nott, who 'accidentally' stumbled near his table. Out of the corner of his eye, Jake saw Nott's hand move towards a small pouch on his belt, his fingers pinching something small and spiky. Porcupine quills. Adding them now would cause the cauldron to melt into a foul-smelling, congealed mess.
An eleven-year-old would have panicked, shouted, or shoved. Jake did none of these things. He had been running every morning, his body was becoming more coordinated. He had been training his focus, his mind was sharper. He saw the clumsy, telegraphed movement for what it was.
Without looking up from his cauldron, and in one smooth, economical motion, he shifted his weight, bringing the handle of his own cauldron ladle up in a neat, vertical block right into the path of Nott's descending hand.
There was a soft thud. Nott yelped, more in surprise than pain, and jerked his hand back, the porcupine quills scattering harmlessly across the stone floor. It was over in a second.
A voice, colder than the dungeon stone, cut through the quiet bubbling of the classroom.
"Mr Nott."
Every student froze. Nott, who was scrambling to retrieve the quills, went rigid. Snape was still at the front of the classroom, not having moved an inch, yet his presence suddenly filled the entire room.
"It seems you have a problem with... gravity," Snape said, his voice a venomous whisper. "And with keeping a firm hold of your possessions. Perhaps you and Mr Avery would be so kind as to explain why you were carrying porcupine quills, an ingredient not required for today's potion, and why you felt the need to inspect Mr Bloom's cauldron at such a close and personal range?"
"I-I tripped, Professor," Nott stammered, his face a blotchy red.
"You tripped," Snape repeated, savouring the lie. "How unfortunate. Twenty points from Slytherin for your staggering incompetence. And another ten from Mr Avery for his role as a silent, gormless accomplice. Now, clean up your mess and return to your own, undoubtedly failing, potion before I am tempted to test how well your skulls resist being pickled."
The two boys, utterly humiliated, scurried back to their desk without another word. The threat hung in the air, chilling everyone to the bone.
But as Snape dismissed them, his cold, black eyes flickered back to Jake for a fraction of a second. He had seen the entire exchange. He had seen the approach, the intent, and the preternaturally calm, efficient way Jake had neutralised the threat before the professor had even needed to intervene. A flicker of something unreadable passed through Snape's dark eyes. It wasn't approval, not exactly. It was... intrigue. The analytical gaze of a master observing a specimen that had just behaved in a completely unexpected way.
Jake met his professor's gaze for a fraction of a second, his expression neutral, before turning his attention back to his cauldron as if nothing had happened. He carefully added the horned slugs, one by one. The atmosphere in the dungeon was now thick with a silent, simmering tension.
The rest of the lesson passed without incident. At the end of the class, Snape swept through the room, criticising, sneering, and vanishing imperfect potions. When he arrived at Jake's table, he dipped a small glass vial into the perfectly smooth, steaming blue liquid. He held it up to the light, sniffing it once.
"Passable," Snape drawled, though the potion was flawless. He didn't award any points, nor did he offer any praise. But as the students packed their bags to leave, he spoke again, his voice carrying across the now-bustling room.
"Bloom. A word."
The last of the students scurried out, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the dungeons. The heavy wooden door clicked shut, leaving Jake alone with the Potions Master. The silence that descended was heavier than any he had experienced at Hogwarts. The only sounds were the faint bubbling of a few abandoned cauldrons and the soft rustle of Snape's robes as he moved from behind his desk.
He didn't approach Jake directly, but instead began to prowl around the tables, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey.
"Explain your actions, Mr Bloom," Snape's voice was dangerously quiet.
Jake kept his gaze respectfully fixed on the professor's desk, not allowing himself to be intimidated by the circling. "I prevented my potion from being sabotaged, Professor." He kept his tone even and factual, devoid of accusation or panic.
Snape came to a halt in front of him, his black eyes boring into Jake's. "You anticipated Mr Nott's sudden bout of clumsiness?" The sarcasm was a tangible thing in the air between them.
"I observed his behaviour, and that of his partner," Jake replied calmly. "Their posture and focus were directed at my station, not their own. His stumble seemed... choreographed. A non-disruptive, pre-emptive countermeasure seemed the most logical course of action to protect my work."
Snape's expression didn't change, but a flicker of something new entered his eyes. The words Jake had used—'choreographed', 'non-disruptive', 'pre-emptive countermeasure'—were not the words of a typical eleven-year-old.
"Logical," Snape repeated, the word tasting like an insult on his tongue. He resumed his slow pacing. "And your potion. It was brewed with a precision I have not seen from a first-year in a decade. You did not rush to the store cupboard like your dunderheaded classmates. You waited. Why?"
"I wanted to ensure I understood the process before I began, Professor," Jake said. "Identifying potential points of failure beforehand minimises the chance of error during execution."
"Indeed." Snape stopped dead behind him; Jake could feel the cold intensity of his gaze on the back of his neck. "A bezoar is a well-known antidote, a simple and effective cure for most common poisons. You will cover it in chapter twelve. Tell me, Mr Bloom, as you seem to have a penchant for preparation, name a poison for which a bezoar is useless."
The question was a test, thrown like a dagger. It was not part of their current lessons, but it was well within the bounds of their first-year textbook, Magical Drafts and Potions. A test of diligence. A test to see if his earlier performance was a fluke. Jake had, of course, read the entire textbook from cover to cover the day he received it.
He paused, not for effect, but to formulate the answer precisely. "According to Arsenius Jigger, Professor, a bezoar is ineffective against the venom of the Basilisk. The poison is too powerful and acts too quickly for the bezoar's slower, neutralising properties to take effect."
The silence stretched. Jake could hear his own heartbeat in the stillness of the dungeon. Snape slowly walked back around to face him, his face a perfect, unreadable mask. He stared at Jake for a long, unsettling moment, his black eyes seeming to pierce right through him, searching for something.
"Arrogance in a first-year is a common and tedious failing," Snape said finally, his voice a silken threat. "Intelligence to substantiate that arrogance is… rare. See to it that the former does not outpace the latter."
He turned his back, a clear dismissal. "Get out."
Jake didn't need to be told twice. He gathered his bag, gave a respectful nod that went unseen, and walked out of the classroom, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft click. As he walked up the cold stone steps, away from the gloom of the dungeons, his mind was racing.
He had survived his first encounter with the Dungeon Bat. More than that, he had succeeded. He had brewed a perfect potion, deftly handled an attempt at bullying, and held his own in a battle of wits with the most intimidating professor in the castle. But he had also painted a target on his back. He had gained the attention of a very powerful, very dangerous, and very intelligent man.
For better, or for worse.