There was, naturally, a reason for Snape's unusually foul temper that day.
After several days of discussions with Potions Professors from other magical institutions, a final decision had been reached: this year's Potions Tournament would be postponed until February 1994.
The justification sounded reasonable on the surface. Mahoutokoro's newly cultivated magical herbs had been damaged and would require more than a year to regrow to usable maturity. Meanwhile, both Uagadou and Koldovstoretz needed additional time to identify and train new candidates after unexpected setbacks among their students.
Following a series of formal consultations, reinforced by divination results that several Headmasters insisted on trusting, all four participating schools ultimately agreed that a two-year delay was the most appropriate solution.
Under normal circumstances, each school would begin preparing for the tournament well in advance. With four contestants selected per institution, the Potions Professor would typically spend one to two years observing students after the previous competition. Once a preliminary shortlist was finalized, another four to five years would be dedicated to rigorous training, ensuring that each contestant reached peak proficiency.
Snape was intimately familiar with this process.
Although he currently appeared indifferent toward teaching Potions, things had been very different during the previous tournament. At that time, he had only recently transitioned from his past as a former Death Eater into his role as a Hogwarts Professor. He had inherited a group of pre-selected students from the former Head of House, Slughorn, who had retired shortly before.
Back then, Snape had needed results—tangible achievements to solidify his position and reputation within the school.
And he had delivered.
Through disciplined training and relentless standards, he had guided his assigned students to victory in the last Potions Tournament. It had been one of the few occasions where his efforts translated into visible recognition.
For this upcoming tournament, he had already begun preparations. He had selected two promising students from Slytherin and one from Ravenclaw, intending to provide them with additional monthly tutoring sessions. His goal wasn't necessarily to dominate—but at the very least, to avoid humiliation by ranking near the bottom.
Then came the postponement.
Worse still, the chosen delay of two years introduced an entirely new complication.
According to the Headmasters, the revised timeline would better reflect each school's baseline teaching quality in Potions. Rather than relying on long-term grooming, each institution would now need to identify three suitable candidates from their fourth- and fifth-year students. These students would then compete when they reached their sixth or seventh year.
From an academic evaluation standpoint, the logic was sound.
From Snape's perspective, it was disastrous.
He knew the general level of Hogwarts students in Potions all too well. His teaching style—hands-off, demanding, and often unforgiving—did not produce consistently outstanding results. Unless a rare, self-driven genius emerged, most students only achieved competence sufficient to pass their examinations.
Previously, contestants had the luxury of time. With years of gradual refinement, supported by Hogwarts' extensive resources, even average students could evolve into respectable competitors.
But two years?
That margin was far too narrow.
Without significant personal investment on his part, achieving a competitive ranking would be extremely difficult.
And that, precisely, was one of the reasons for his anger.
In his view, Dumbledore had compromised far too easily. Given the setbacks faced by the other schools, Hogwarts could have insisted on proceeding as scheduled. Under those conditions, victory would have been almost guaranteed.
Instead, Dumbledore had conceded without resistance.
All the effort Snape had poured into training his previous candidates had effectively been wasted. Worse still, the new arrangement meant additional work for him over the next two years—work he had neither the time nor the inclination to undertake.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
The true source of his irritation lay in something far more personal.
Before departing, the Potions Professor from Mahoutokoro—a man with an oddly shaped toothbrush mustache and an even more awkward command of English—had made an unsolicited suggestion to Dumbledore.
In his halting, heavily accented speech, he had proposed that Hogwarts might consider respecting the teaching preferences of its professors more closely. Specifically, he had alluded to certain individuals who had repeatedly applied to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts over the years but had never been given the opportunity.
Perhaps, he suggested, those professors could finally be allowed to try.
Surely, with Hogwarts' thousand-year reputation, finding a replacement would not be difficult.
The remark had been indirect.
But its meaning had been unmistakable.
Snape.
Even now, he could recall the faint, knowing smirk in the man's eyes.
The implication was infuriating. These outsiders had only been at Hogwarts for a few days. How had they learned of such internal matters?
It was no secret within the school that Snape had long desired to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts instead of Potions. But that was strictly internal knowledge—something shared among colleagues, not to be exposed to foreign visitors.
Yet somehow, it had been.
To have it pointed out so openly, and in front of others, felt like a deliberate insult.
Humiliation, thinly veiled as casual suggestion.
Under these circumstances, failure in the upcoming tournament would carry consequences far beyond academic rankings. It would invite rumors—whispers that he had neglected his duties, that he lacked commitment, that he was unfit to teach.
The thought only darkened his mood further.
By the afternoon, his patience had worn dangerously thin. He had spent the entire day trying to identify the source of the leak—who, exactly, had spread this information.
Then, unexpectedly, Ryze appeared before him.
The boy had come directly to ask about the Potions Tournament.
Snape's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the first-year student standing before him. There was no hesitation in the boy's posture, no trace of fear in his expression.
That alone was enough to irritate him.
Most professors would have avoided using Legilimency on an unfamiliar student.
Snape was not most professors.
Especially not in his current state.
However, he exercised restraint. Ryze was known to be under the protection of an Ancient Elf. Directly invading his mind would be reckless.
Instead, Snape employed a subtler variation of Legilimency.
This method did not involve penetrating memories. Rather, it skimmed the surface—reading emotional responses, gauging sincerity, distinguishing truth from deception.
What he sensed surprised him.
There was no deceit.
No hesitation.
Only a firm, unwavering resolve.
The boy genuinely wanted to participate in the Potions Tournament.
When Ryze described it as a "once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," the words carried absolute conviction. There was no exaggeration, no pretense.
Even more troubling, Snape sensed something else.
Determination.
The kind that would not fade with refusal.
Even if he rejected the boy now, Ryze would not abandon the idea. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not even in two years.
Snape found it perplexing.
Why was this student so fixated on the tournament?
Was it truly a love for Potions?
The thought brought to mind a series of small but persistent observations. Despite knowing that Snape rarely awarded points outside Slytherin, Ryze consistently took the initiative to clean up potion residues after class. He followed instructions meticulously, never cutting corners.
It was… bothersome.
In ten years of teaching, Snape had encountered many types of students—ambitious, lazy, arrogant, brilliant.
But this one?
He was something else entirely.
And not in a way that inspired confidence.
From a technical standpoint, Ryze was unremarkable. He followed textbook procedures precisely but displayed no creativity, no innovation, no instinctive flair.
There was no spark.
Given enough time—four or five years, perhaps—he might develop into a competent potion brewer through sheer persistence.
But in two years?
The notion was unrealistic.
Snape had neither the time nor the desire to invest additional effort into a student who, in his judgment, lacked the necessary talent.
A cold sneer formed on his lips.
"It seems," he said slowly, his voice cutting through the air like a blade, "that you still fail to recognize your own limitations."
"In my estimation, your talent is only marginally superior to that of a troll."
He let the words settle, watching for a reaction.
There was none.
"I do not have the time," he continued, "to waste on an arrogant young wizard who overestimates his abilities."
Then, raising a finger, he pointed it directly at Ryze. His pale nail, slightly sharpened, seemed almost accusatory in its precision.
"However," he added, "since you insist on calling this your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I will grant you exactly one chance."
The classroom fell silent.
"I do not know how far you have progressed in your self-study of Potions," Snape said, his tone measured but cold, "nor do I particularly care."
"I will not assign you a task beyond your supposed capabilities."
A brief pause.
"Third-year curriculum. The Shrinking Potion."
His gaze sharpened.
"Whether you have studied it or not is irrelevant. By tomorrow night—Friday—you will present to me two successfully brewed Shrinking Potions."
He leaned forward slightly.
"They must exhibit different properties."
The implication was clear: not merely correct, but distinct in effect or refinement.
"If you succeed," Snape concluded, "I will permit you to apply for participation in the Potions Tournament."
A faint, almost cruel smile touched his lips.
"But if you fail…"
His voice dropped, colder than before.
"Then you will abandon this foolish ambition entirely."
"From that point onward, every time you mention the Potions Tournament in my presence, I will deduct ten points from Ravenclaw for disrespecting a professor."
"And," he added, "you will serve no less than one week of detention for each offense."
The ultimatum hung heavily in the air.
One chance.
No more.
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