At exactly nine o'clock, the classroom door opened with a slow, deliberate creak — and in swept Professor Severus Snape, draped in his usual billowing black robes.
The fabric rippled behind him like a dark cloud as he crossed the dungeon floor, every step radiating an authority sharp enough to silence the chatter of three houses at once.
Alex Gunter couldn't help but wonder if this was the same robe Snape had worn when he'd visited his home before term started. Or maybe… the man just owned a wardrobe full of identical black ones.
Snape didn't speak as he passed the students, the faint click of his boots echoing off the stone walls. He reached the desk, set down a roll of parchment, and let his cold, dark eyes sweep across the room.
They lingered on Alex for three long seconds.
Then on Harry Potter — for five.
Without a word, Snape unfurled the roll and began to take attendance.
His voice was low, calm, and somehow cutting — like silk pulled taut over a blade. Each name rolled off his tongue with clinical detachment, every syllable laced with a hint of disdain.
When he reached "Gunter," he paused again. His eyes met Alex's, unreadable yet sharp enough to pin him in place.
Alex didn't flinch. He simply held Snape's gaze, his expression neutral — maybe even a little apologetic.
Because truth be told, he had felt bad.
Snape had gone out of his way to guide him during orientation, clearly expecting him to join Slytherin. Then Alex had gone and chosen Ravenclaw instead.
It wasn't Snape he disliked. It was Slytherin's suffocating culture of arrogance and ambition.
Snape seemed to catch something in his eyes — some wordless apology, or maybe pity. His lip twitched slightly before he looked away, continuing the roll call.
Then came, "Potter, Harry."
Snape's voice lingered on the name, slow and heavy.
"Oh, yes," he said softly. "Harry Potter. Our new celebrity."
A snicker came from the Slytherin side.
Alex turned just in time to see Draco Malfoy smirking between his two ever-loyal shadows, Crabbe and Goyle. Draco caught Alex's look and responded with a haughty glare.
Alex didn't bother. Let Potter deal with his soulmate-level rivalry. He had zero interest in baby drama.
Harry, however, shifted uncomfortably under Snape's gaze. He didn't yet know it, but this was only the beginning of his misery.
Snape, ignoring the whispers and laughter, finally addressed the room.
"You are here," he began, "to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there will be little foolish wand-waving in this class, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."
His voice grew softer, more deliberate. The classroom fell silent under its spell.
"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... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
For a moment, the words hung in the air — poetic, dangerous, captivating.
Then, with the abruptness of a whip crack, Snape turned his gaze toward Harry.
"Potter. Tell me — what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry froze.
Asphodel? Wormwood? Was that even English?
His face went blank, and he stared helplessly back.
Hermione's hand shot into the air like an arrow, but Snape didn't even glance her way.
Alex, watching the entire scene unfold, couldn't help but smirk. So it begins, he thought. The eternal dance between Snape and Harry — half hatred, half haunting grief.
Because Alex knew the hidden meaning behind those words.
In the language of flowers, asphodel meant "My regrets follow you to the grave."
And Snape, standing there, staring at Lily's eyes on James Potter's face — it was impossible to imagine what that did to him.
Was it anger? Guilt? The memory of love lost and a promise broken?
Alex felt a flicker of sympathy.
Snape, misinterpreting the look, suddenly stiffened. Something about that gentle pity — as if Alex were silently saying poor thing — made his jaw tighten.
His eyes flashed coldly.
"Mr. Gunter," he said, his tone dripping with frost. "Perhaps you can enlighten the class?"
Alex blinked. Fantastic. From spectator to target.
But he quickly composed himself. "If you add powdered asphodel root to wormwood infusion, you create the Draught of Living Death — a powerful sleeping potion. Bezoars are found in the stomachs of cows, and aconite — also known as monkshood or wolfsbane — are the same plant."
He said it all in one confident breath and even smiled politely at the professor.
For a moment, Snape forgot to breathe.
Not only had this boy answered everything, but he'd done it perfectly.
And worse — he smiled.
"Tell me, then," Snape said, voice dropping low, "if I were brewing a vitality potion, how would I prepare dried figs?"
"Peel them," Alex answered smoothly.
"And what use has powdered moonstone?"
"It's used in the Draught of Peace after being ground finely."
"The difference between the Draught of Dreamless Sleep and the Draught of Living Death?"
"The former induces hallucinations and mental instability. The latter is pure, complete stasis. You might consider comparing the first to Amortentia, Professor."
A stunned silence filled the dungeon.
Every other first-year sat frozen, their quills forgotten, their expressions lost between awe and confusion.
What language are they speaking?
Even Hermione's jaw had dropped slightly.
Snape inhaled sharply through his nose and straightened his robes. "Impressive, Mr. Gunter," he said with a thin smile. "The Gunter family's blood runs strong indeed. Of course, these are not topics suitable for first-years. Yet you seem ever eager to flaunt what you know."
Alex resisted the urge to roll his eyes. You asked me!
Snape, unwilling to leave empty-handed, turned his fury elsewhere.
"Did you hear that, Potter?" he sneered. "Not every new student is as ignorant and foolish as you."
Harry flushed. "But I—"
"Silence! One point from Gryffindor for your arrogance."
Snape's gaze flicked back toward Alex.
"And one point to Ravenclaw."
A heartbeat later, he added, "Forgetting your manners costs two points. Next time, say 'Yes, Professor.'"
Alex pressed his lips together. No point arguing. The man was baiting him, and he wasn't about to take it.
The rest of the class sat petrified. No one dared to breathe too loudly.
Snape scanned them all with eyes like cold oil.
"What are you staring at? Is the answer written on my face? Write it down!"
He slammed his hands onto the desk, voice cutting like a whip.
"You are — without question — the worst batch of students I've ever had."
And with that, the dungeon filled once again with the frantic scratching of quills… and the quiet, knowing smile of one Ravenclaw who'd just survived a duel with the bat of the dungeons — and lived to tell the tale.
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