Professor Sprout's Herbology lessons weren't exactly the most thrilling classes compared to Charms or Transfiguration. Because magical plants can be downright dangerous, the first few weeks after the start of term were nothing but theory: how to tell a regular plant from a magical one, the most common poisonous varieties, that kind of thing.
Without any hands-on greenhouse time, the first-years' dreams of toddling around with tiny shovels going "dig-dig-dig" in the dirt stayed firmly on hold.
But don't worry, there are other ways to get up close and personal with magical plants.
Friday finally rolled around, and the Gryffindor first-years were about to face the class they'd been waiting for (scratch that) the one that had them all tied up in knots: Potions.
Severus Snape had a reputation at Hogwarts, and it wasn't the warm-and-fuzzy kind, especially not for Gryffindors. Surviving his class without losing at least five points felt like a major victory. If nobody got personally ripped into by Snape? Yeah, Gryffindors wouldn't even dare dream that big.
Zero points is still zero no matter how many fancy extras you tack on the end. That's just an unbreakable law of the universe.
Potions took place down in one of the dungeons, way colder than the main castle. The lower levels of Hogwarts used to literally be dungeons back in the day, built on the bones of Salazar Slytherin's old family castle. He donated the place when the four founders started the school. A thousand years later, even the nastiest lingering ghosts had faded away, but the second you stepped underground, that bone-chilling cold still wormed its way through your robes. The damp didn't help. You just wanted to bolt back upstairs to the sunlight, even if the September sun wasn't exactly toasty anymore.
Following the creepy greenish light along the corridor, the first-years shuffled into a narrow passageway that connected the hallway to the classroom. Shelves lined both walls, holding jars of pickled things, animal bits, organs, floating slowly in pale green liquid like they were still holding a grudge from the day they got chopped up and bottled. One wrong noise and every kid in the line looked ready to jump out of their skin and hit the ceiling.
Even the Slytherin first-years got the creeps in here. Sure, their common room was moody and gothic, but it was still a place to relax. This classroom? Zero chill. It went all in.
Two minutes before class was due to start, every seat was already taken. Gryffindor shared Potions with Slytherin, but right now even Draco Malfoy, the kid who acted like the world owed him a throne, wasn't in the mood to start anything. He just sat there glaring at the back of Lynn's head, slowly chewing over the revenge plot he'd been cooking up for days.
He was determined to get even and make Lynn look like an absolute idiot in front of everyone, but the timing wasn't right yet.
In the heavy silence, a cold draft swept in as the wooden door creaked open. A tall black shadow strode in with it, dropping the temperature another ten degrees in a heartbeat.
The icy wind lifted the hem of Snape's robes and made his black hair dance. Those dark eyes, flat and emotionless, swept across the room like twin black holes that could suck the life right out of you. Whatever tiny bit of warmth had been in the dungeon vanished instantly.
He stopped right at the line where the specimen hallway met the main classroom, half his face hidden in shadow, only the thin, pale line of his lips visible, cold as frost.
When those lips finally moved, you just knew the words would be pure venom.
"Quiet."
His voice wasn't loud, but it landed in everyone's ears like he'd heard their heartbeats and found them annoying. Half the class forgot how to breathe for a second.
"Roll call."
He drifted up to the desk like a ghost and unrolled a piece of parchment that might as well have been the Death Ledger. When your name got called, it felt like your number was up.
Every kid who survived their name being spoken sagged in relief, then immediately tensed up again, praying that was the last time death brushed past them today.
"Harry Potter."
Surprisingly, Snape didn't linger on the name. If anything, he said it a little faster than the others. His eyes narrowed slightly. Lynn had the faint feeling Snape was deliberately keeping his gaze from resting too long on Harry, like eye contact might make him remember something he didn't want the class to see.
Then came "Lynn."
The name left Snape's mouth, and his voice hitched, just for a fraction of a second.
Something cold flashed across his usually frozen face, like a snake flicking its tongue right before it strikes.
"I've heard your name from several professors already."
"Photographic memory. Outstanding natural talent in Transfiguration. First-rate control over your magic. A mind far more careful and precise than most of your peers. And, apparently, the rare patience to sit still and actually study magic deeply."
Every word sounded like praise. Actual praise. Coming out of Snape's mouth.
The Slytherins' faces darkened, especially Draco's. He looked like someone had just forced him to eat a month-old burger from Ollivanders' secret menu.
The nicer Snape was being, the more Lynn's stomach twisted.
This isn't how the script goes! You're supposed to trash me right out of the gate, dock points for breathing, then I brilliantly prove you wrong, slap your ego around a little, and walk out looking like the second coming of Merlin while everyone cheers. Something's seriously wrong with this plot!
"You would do very well in Potions," Snape continued. "You appear to have the raw talent required of an exceptional potioneer, assuming everything I've heard is accurate."
He paused again. "I look forward to seeing what you can do."
He gave Lynn one long, piercing stare, then moved on.
"Ronald Weasley."
Ron, face already red for some reason, shot his hand up in a panic.
"You're supposed to say 'here,'" Snape said, his expression icing over again.
"Gryffindor, minus one point. Next time someone decides to stay mute, it'll be five."
Ron went sheet-white and practically melted into his chair, looking like his soul had left the dungeon without him.
Roll call finally ended. Snape rolled the parchment back up.
"Now then. You should all know why you're here."
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began, voice barely louder than a whisper, yet every syllable carried perfectly in the dead silence. "Since there is little foolish wand-waving involved, many of you will hardly believe this is magic at all. I don't expect you to appreciate the beauty of a gently simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…"
His long fingers moved through the air as if gathering invisible steam from a cauldron and winding it around them.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death, if you aren't the usual bunch of dunderheads I'm accustomed to teaching."
Then, without warning:
"Lynn."
Lynn had literally thought called it the second Snape started the speech.
"If I gave you the following ingredients in these exact quantities, how many different potion recipes could you identify?"
With a flick of his wand, dozens of ingredient names and measurements appeared on the blackboard behind him.
The rest of the class stared at the board in horror, then turned to stare at Lynn like he was about to be sacrificed.
"Yes, Professor."
Lynn stood, walked calmly to the board, scanned it once, and started writing fast.
All common ingredients, but the trick was the amounts. You had to split and combine them perfectly, or you'd run out of something critical halfway through. It was a nightmare puzzle.
But like Snape had already pointed out, Lynn really did have a photographic memory. He'd memorized every recipe and exact measurement in the first-year textbook weeks ago.
The quill never stopped moving. A minute and a half later, Lynn stepped aside.
Neat rows of potion names, ingredients, measurements, and brewing steps covered the board.
"These are the only complete recipes I could find, Professor."
He went back to his seat and looked straight at Snape, perfectly calm.
"Boil-Relief Potion, Calming Draught, Forgetfulness Potion," Snape read in one glance. "Only three?"
"Yes, sir."
"If you split the materials listed for the Calming Draught and recombine the remainder with the rest, you also have complete recipes for a Wakefulness Potion and a Sleeping Draught."
Another flick of the wand, and two new lines appeared below Lynn's work. With Snape's breakdown, the ingredients made five potions total, not three.
So yeah, Lynn had walked right into the trap built into the question, but Snape didn't smirk or gloat. He just gave a small nod.
"That wasn't good enough. Sit down."
"Yes, Professor."
Lynn sat, neither humbled nor smug. It hadn't felt like bullying; it felt like a test.
"Why aren't the rest of you copying down the instructions for the Boil-Relief Potion?" Snape suddenly snapped at the class. "That's what we're brewing today. It's already on the board."
A mad rustle of parchment and quills filled the room as everyone scrambled to catch up.
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