The Owlery's first messenger took flight as the first orange rays of sunlight crested the spires of Hogwarts Castle.
The corridors buzzed with life once more,
a throng of first-years clattering down the spiraling stairs toward the dungeons.
"I hear the Potions master's Professor Snape,"
Michael mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes—he'd tinkered with a quill till the wee hours, and was still yawning,
"Word from the common room, picked up from the older Ravenclaws: Snape's the most feared prof in all Hogwarts..."
He trailed off on purpose, drawing Terry to crane his neck and cup an ear,
even hushing the whispers from the other first-years nearby.
"He's the one who docks more house points than anyone."
His voice quivered, syncing with the chill deepening around them, leaving the first-years' faces drained of color.
In that contrived tension,
they reached the Potions classroom.
A dank underground chamber, several degrees cooler than the castle above,
even in daylight, starved of sun and lit only by hovering candles.
Glass jars lined the walls, brimming with pickled specimens of all sorts,
Sean picked a seat not far from them, close enough to spot a bat spleen with a twist of his head—
prime for brewing Swelling Solution.
He'd just settled when a dimpled boy dropped into the spot beside him.
"Sean, knew you'd be early."
Justin's face bloomed with a warm grin, and he unpacked his glass phials, lining them neatly on the desk.
Michael, who'd aimed for the seat on Sean's other side, gawked, then checked again in disbelief:
"Hallucinating? When'd he sneak in?"
He grumbled and flopped into a random spot nearby.
Soon the class filled up, but whether from the creeping cold or Snape's grim legend, not a soul dared shout or scuffle.
In that heavy hush—
Bang—
The dungeon door slammed open, and a sallow-faced, hook-nosed man strode in,
his cloak billowing like great black bat wings,
mounting the dais in three swift, precise steps.
"Listen—"
His voice slithered low and cold,
"This class has no waving of wands or recitation of idiotic spells...
So I doubt many of you will appreciate the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,
but for the rare few with the inclination,
I can teach you to bottle fame, brew glory,
even stopper death—
if—and oh, if—you aren't the insufferable know-it-alls I usually have to teach!"
His gravelly baritone quelled the room in an instant.
"Hannah Abbott! Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
His gaze lashed out like a gathering storm, pinning the plaited girl.
Under that glare, her voice trembled:
"Stewed, Professor."
Hannah had clearly previewed the textbook—even if it was just chapter one—
so she dodged the hex.
"Sit!"
Snape's scowl didn't budge.
"Sean Greene, and what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of horned slugs?"
He loomed closer, eclipsing the candlelight.
"Stew it longer—about three minutes, Professor."
Sean fired back without missing a beat.
"Not bad,"
Snape swept away like smoke,
"Wayne Hopkins! What is bezoar?"
He hovered over Wayne like a thunderhead, the short-haired boy's answer squeaking out:
"I don't know, Professor."
"If your troll-sized brain could work for once, you'd know a bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, serving as an antidote to most poisons."
Snape's killing stare bored into Wayne, who began to quake.
"Sit! Hufflepuff, minus five points—for your classmate Wayne's empty head!"
He raked the room with his eyes; no one met them,
"Now, the rest of you, why don't you write that down!"
In the stifling air, the first-years scribbled madly, as if the quill could ward off the tempest Snape unleashed,
but his roll call of doom rolled on:
"Ernie Macmillan!"
...
He was a merciless point-docking machine, and by the end of questions,
Ravenclaw had shed six points, Hufflepuff a whopping twelve.
It sparked a stray thought in Sean's mind:
Slytherin's six straight Cup wins... Snape's got a hand in that, doesn't he?
In the books, Snape kept a roster of every student's name just to dock points more handily.
Snape, he really...
Snape's next words yanked Sean's focus sharp.
"Pay attention now—if any of you dare tamper with a potion formula or alter steps on your own—"
Snape's gaze prowled every face, ensuring rapt attention.
Then he launched into the Cure for Boils—a simple remedy for boils.
Steam curled from his cauldron, bubbling to a thick, inky green potion in minutes.
"I don't expect you lot to manage it on your first go, only that certain dunderheads don't blow us all up—
What are you waiting for? Pair up and begin!"
Justin's face blanched; he steeled himself and followed the steps.
Sean wasn't faring much better—not from Snape's gloom, but nerves over his untested potion knack.
"Slug, dried nettles, crushed snake fangs, porcupine quills...
Sean, that's right, yeah?"
Justin eyed the ingredients Sean had arrayed, his lingering fright easing at Sean's steady calm.
"Mm-hm."
Sean nodded, then processed them to the book's specs,
"Step by step—slug first."
Justin caught on, igniting the cauldron.
The book said to preheat it.
"Use mine?"
Justin asked softly; Sean glanced at the silver cauldron, then nodded.
A cauldron's make didn't ruin a brew, but Justin's silver one beat the mid-tier brass Sean had gritted his teeth over by a mile.
It'd boost the odds—even if just in his head.
Handy, having a closet tycoon for a partner,
Sean thought.