Snape stared at Harry like he'd taken a Bludger to the mind.
For one disorienting heartbeat he wasn't in a dungeon; he was back in a corridor lit by torches, seeing Lily. The resemblance hit like a curse: the fall of the robe—vintage cut and all—the tilt of the chin, and those unmistakable green eyes. Not the same, no; not Lily. More like… Lily's daughter. And—Merlin save him—some treacherous part of his mind insisted there was a trace of him there, too.
The thought slammed against his Occlumency like a battering ram. The world tilted; a soft whine filled his skull. He pinched the bridge of his nose and forced the room to steady.
When his vision cleared, those green eyes were watching him with tentative concern.
"Professor Snape, are you all right?" Harry asked, just as Theo had rehearsed—careful, contrite, small. "We didn't mean to cut it so close. Please don't be angry. We'll be earlier next time. Could you… not take points from Gryffindor?"
Snape drew a long, thin breath, face reassembling into its customary chill. "Just this once," he said. "Point deductions withdrawn."
And then—against every instinct and decade of habit—words slipped out on their own.
"Harry Potter, though late, has shown an appropriately penitent attitude. There is… something to be said for that." His mouth tightened. "Gryffindor, plus one."
Silence detonated.
Gryffindor first-years gaped as if he'd grown a second head. The older students' whispered horror stories did not include Snape awarding Gryffindor points. Ron and Neville—who knew the con—turned to Theo with round, reverent looks. Prophet. Miracle-worker. House-saver.
Across the aisle, Slytherins looked like someone had hexed their ledger. The point gap had been widening in Gryffindor's favour all week; they'd come ready for a corrective bloodletting. Draco Malfoy nearly fainted. Then he rallied with an inward sniff.
No, no—that's to look impartial. A little sugar before the poison. Perfect cover before he guts Gryffindor in front of McGonagall. Brilliant, Godfather. Father was right to tell me to learn from you.
Theo, Harry, and the others took their seats. Gryffindors exhaled in a wave. Snape, however, still looked a shade unmoored, as if some essential script had slipped. He stood, silent, the famed opening monologue nowhere on his tongue.
Harry's nerves jangled. According to last night's battle plan, the monologue came first—then the targeted questions.
Theo flicked him a glance. Harry cleared his throat, meek as a mouse. "Professor… shall we begin? Perhaps… the introduction?"
Snape blinked, then remembered himself. He surveyed the class at last, voice dropping into that familiar velvet drawl.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death—if you are not, as I usually have reason to suspect, a bunch of dunderheads."
His gaze hooked Harry again.
"Harry—Potter—"
Long Harry, the Potter barely breathed. Draco grinned like a crocodile. Here we go. Flaying time.
"Harry Potter has, at least, the sense to prompt a tardy beginning. He is evidently familiar with the day's structure, which speaks to a—commendable—attitude towards the course." A fractional pause. "Gryffindor, plus three."
Draco's smile shattered. He began coughing meaningfully. Several Slytherins joined—a chorus of stage coughs, the universal student signal for Professor, you're breaking character.
Snape's eyes narrowed. The temperature in the room dropped three degrees. Draco relaxed. There it was—the ice he knew. Someone was about to suffer.
"Mr Malfoy," Snape said softly. "If I add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, what do I obtain?"
Draco's grin returned—until he realised the name called was his. He blinked, pointing dumbly at his own chest. "Me? Professor—you want me to answer?"
"One point from Slytherin for inattention," Snape said, lip curling. "Now. The asphodel and the wormwood."
Draco flailed. "I… don't know, sir."
"The bezoar," Snape went on silkily, "would be obtained where precisely? And the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Draco shook his head again and again, flushing Weasley-red. The disappointment in Snape's face curdled to disdain.
"It appears, Mr Malfoy, that not one book was opened before term. Fame and fortune, alas, do not steep into diligence." He let the class hear the click of his tongue. "Very well: asphodel and wormwood yield Draught of Living Death, a powerful sleeping potion. A bezoar is taken from the stomach of a goat and is an excellent antidote. Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant—aconite."
"For your failure to prepare, minus two from Slytherin."
A collective wince rippled down the green-and-silver benches. Draco sagged in relief when Snape turned away—straight to Harry.
"Harry—Potter."
Harry's spine tightened. Even Malfoy hadn't survived those questions. He had nothing—no pure-blood prep, no family tutoring.
Snape's eyes held his. "Tell me," he said, voice very quiet, "what do you obtain by adding powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
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