The Potions classroom was located deep beneath Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—cold, shadowy, and faintly damp.
Along the stone walls stood rows of glass jars filled with preserved creatures—some recognizable, some better left unnamed. The long wooden tables were lined with brass scales and jars of mysterious ingredients. Between them stood more than twenty cauldrons. In the corner, a stone basin rested under a gargoyle-shaped spout, presumably for washing hands and spoons.
Ark hurried in just before nine o'clock. Even so, he wasn't the last to arrive.
A handful of other Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students rushed in right behind him, sliding into seats with the panicked air of those narrowly escaping disaster. No one had time to greet anyone else before—
Bang!
The classroom door burst open at exactly nine o'clock.
A tall, dark figure swept in—greasy black hair, hooked nose, sallow skin, black robes billowing around him like a giant bat. His cold eyes scanned the room, and a thin, mirthless smile curved his lips.
"So, no one was foolish enough to be late on the first day," he drawled softly. "Pity."
A nervous ripple went through the class. Several students stiffened in their seats.
Ark, however, wasn't one of them. He watched the man with keen interest, studying him the way one might study a particularly dangerous potion.
Severus Snape—Professor of Potions, Head of Slytherin House, and one of the youngest in Hogwarts history to hold that title. A Potions Master respected by both Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort.
A man deeply entangled in the tragic history of Harry Potter's parents.
While Ark observed him with fascination, Snape dropped the roll of parchment he'd been carrying onto his desk and began to speak in his usual cold, deliberate tone.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."
"Since there will be no foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic at all. I do not expect you to truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses..."
His black eyes glittered.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death—if you are not as great a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
The room fell silent.
Potions—magic in liquid form. They could heal, harm, or alter body and mind in strange and marvelous ways. It was one of the most vital skills a young wizard or witch could master.
Swish!
With a flick of Snape's wand, a blackboard slammed down from the wall. Lines of neat white writing appeared across its surface.
"A simple Cure for Boils," he announced flatly. "Useful for treating pustules, measles, boils, and various lymphatic infections. A single bottle works in seconds."
His eyes flicked over the class.
"Dried nettles, snake fangs, horned slugs, porcupine quills. Four ingredients. If your brains aren't still back in your dormitories, you might manage to produce something vaguely drinkable."
Dozens of students held their breath, frozen under his gaze. Then—
"What are you waiting for?" Snape suddenly barked. "Do I have ingredients written on my face? Move!"
His shout sent a jolt through the class. Everyone scrambled to their feet, rushing to the supply cabinet like startled rats.
"Two to a cauldron," Snape said icily. "One set of ingredients per pair. Begin. You have plenty of time—today's lesson is a double period."
"The process is written on the board. Read it carefully. Memorize it. If anyone ruins the ingredients..." He trailed off, a thin smirk curling his mouth.
The threat hung heavy in the air. Students swallowed hard and hurried to work.
In only a few minutes, Snape had managed to establish himself as one of the most terrifying figures in the hearts of every first-year Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff present.
Some of them even wondered if, should they fail, the Professor might actually throw them into a cauldron next.
Merlin forbid.
Soon, a chorus of nervous clinking and bubbling filled the dungeon as tiny witches and wizards lit their fires and began brewing, hands trembling.
Ark turned his attention back to his own workstation.
"Um… Bryne, is there something I can do to help?" came a small, hesitant voice beside him.
His partner was a dark-haired girl with warm brown skin and wide, anxious eyes.
Padma Patil—Ravenclaw, like him. She was of Indian descent and, if Ark remembered correctly, had a twin sister, Parvati Patil, Sorted into Gryffindor.
He remembered the name well. In the original story, the Patil twins were among the prettiest girls in their year. During the Triwizard Tournament, they were Harry's and Ron's dates to the Yule Ball, to the envy of many.
For now, though, Padma was still just a nervous first-year with her hair in neat braids and an expression that screamed please don't let me explode anything.
Ark had no idea how she'd ended up as his partner, but he wasn't complaining. The rest of the class had paired off at random, desperate to avoid Snape's attention.
"Alright," Ark said after a moment's thought. "You handle the snake fangs—grind them into fine powder. Measure out the dried nettles. I'll steam the horned slugs and cut the porcupine quills."
"Got it!" Padma nodded quickly and began working, hands trembling only slightly.
Ark focused on his own task.
He already knew this potion—the Cure for Boils—from reading Magical Drafts and Potions. He'd memorized the recipe but had never brewed it himself. Potions ingredients were expensive, and he'd never had the money for practice materials.
Without proper supervision, self-study could only take him so far. Timing, stirring direction, temperature—all of it required experience and precision.
So this time, he intended to take it seriously.
Just preparing the ingredients took him nearly half an hour. Finally, he arranged them in order, double-checked the steps, and began adding them into the bubbling cauldron.
Soon, a soft glooping sound filled the air, and faint pink smoke began to rise.
"Hmph."
Ark froze as Snape's shadow loomed behind him. The Professor had been standing there for a full ten minutes, silent and watchful.
Seeing the pink vapor, Snape gave a curt sniff.
"Careless—but at least it worked. Don't forget to bottle it."
Without another word, he swept away, cloak billowing like wings, leaving a trail of scathing remarks in his wake.
"That's powdered snake fang, not chunks! Hufflepuff, minus two points!"
"The horned slug needs steaming, not rinsing—trying to drown it, are you? Ravenclaw, minus two points!"
"'A pinch of dried nettles'—do you know what a pinch is? Hufflepuff, minus three points!"
"And you—if you add the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire, I'll personally let you eat lunch with a face full of boils! Ravenclaw, minus five points!"
"You're the worst batch of students I've ever had!"
As the deductions piled up, Ark's mouth twitched.
With a Head of House like that, it would be a miracle if Slytherin didn't win the House Cup every single year.
What a bloody snake.