The first messenger owl shot out of the Owlery, and the spires of Hogwarts Castle caught the day's first orange light.
The corridors grew lively again as a stream of first-years wound down the spiral stairs toward the dungeons.
"I hear the Potions professor is Professor Snape," Michael mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes—he'd spent half the night tinkering with a quill and was still yawning. "Gossip I picked up in the Ravenclaw common room: upperclassmen say Snape is the most—"
He paused on purpose, making Terry crane his neck and press an ear closer. Even the surrounding whispers dropped.
"—the most point-deducting professor in all of Hogwarts."
He put a tremor in his voice, and with the air growing steadily chill, several faces blanched.
In that carefully stoked tension, they reached the Potions classroom.
It was underground, several degrees colder than the castle above. Even by day, little sunlight reached here; floating candles provided the light. Glass jars lined the walls, each steeping some preserved creature.
Sean chose a seat not far from the specimens; if he turned his head he could see bat spleens—an ingredient for Swelling Solution.
He'd barely sat when a boy with dimples took the chair beside him.
"Sean, I knew you'd be early." Justin's warm smile spread as he lifted a neat row of glass vials from his bag and set them on the desktop.
Michael, who'd aimed for the seat next to Sean, stared, then checked again in disbelief. "Am I seeing things? When did he get here?" Grumbling, he grabbed another spot.
Soon the students had all arrived. Whether it was the cold or Snape's reputation, not a single first-year tried to shout or show off.
Into the hush—
BANG—
The dungeon door slammed. A sallow-faced, hook-nosed man swept in, his robes billowing like bat wings as he took the dais in three quick, precise strides.
"Listen—"
His voice was low and cold.
"In this class you will not be muttering foolish incantations or waving wands at random. So I suspect very few of you will appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. But to the very few who do—who truly intend to learn—I will teach you to bewitch the mind and deceive the senses. I will teach you to win renown, to forge glory…
"On one condition: that you are not the dunderheads I so often encounter."
The chill weight of his voice pinned the room.
"Hannah Abbott! Tell me—how do you prepare slugs?"
His gaze swept over like a storm and struck the little witch. Her voice shook. "S-simmer them, Professor."
Hannah had clearly read ahead—even if it was only chapter one—and escaped.
"Sit."
Snape's expression didn't soften.
"Sean Green. How would you handle horned slugs?"
He leaned a fraction; even the candlelight disappeared behind him.
"Simmer longer—about three minutes, Professor."
"Acceptable." He slid away like a shadow. "Wayne Hopkins! What is a bezoar?"
The short-haired boy spoke as if squeezing the words out: "I don't know, Professor."
"If that troll-sized brain of yours could function, you'd know a bezoar is a solid mass taken from a goat's stomach and serves as an antidote in many potions."
Snape's death-stare never left Wayne; the boy had begun to tremble.
"Sit. Hufflepuff, minus one point—for Hopkins's empty head."
He swept the room; no one dared meet his eyes.
"The rest of you—why aren't you writing this down?"
Under that pressure, quills scratched furiously, as though ink might shield them from the storm Snape was whipping up. The roll-call of doom continued.
"Ernie Macmillan!"
…
He was like a merciless point-deducting machine. By the end of the questioning, Ravenclaw was down six points, and Hufflepuff had lost a full twelve.
Which made a thought drift through Sean's mind: Slytherin's six-year streak at the House Cup might not be unrelated to Professor Snape's… efforts.
In the original accounts, Snape even kept every student's name logged to streamline point deductions. Professor Snape really did…
What came next made Sean listen hard.
"Attend carefully. If anyone dares alter a recipe at will, or add or omit steps—"
Snape's eyes raked every face until none of them dared drift.
Then he began the steps for the Cure for Boils—a simple healing draught. Steam curled up from his cauldron; in minutes it bubbled into a thick, ink-green potion.
"I do not expect any of you to succeed quickly. I merely hope certain idiots won't create hazards. What are you waiting for? Pairs—begin."
Justin had gone pale, but forced himself to follow the steps. Sean didn't feel much better—not from Snape's pressure, but from nerves over his unknown talent for Potions.
"Slugs, dried nettles, crushed snake fangs, porcupine quills… Sean, that's the lot, right?" Justin eyed the ingredients Sean had stacked, asked with a trace of lingering fright, then relaxed at the calm on Sean's face.
"Mm." Sean nodded and started prepping by the book. "Let's go step by step—start with the slugs."
Justin caught on and lit the fire beneath the cauldron. The text said to preheat.
"Use my cauldron?" Justin asked softly.
Sean glanced at Justin's silver cauldron, then nodded. Cauldron quality wouldn't decide a potion's fate, but Justin's silver was indeed better than the third-grade brass Sean had gritted his teeth to buy. It might add a bit to their odds—even if only in his head.
Sitting next to a hidden rich kid had its perks, Sean thought.