The first owl messenger burst from the Owlery rafters, and the spires of Hogwarts caught the first sweep of orange dawn.
The corridors filled again with footsteps and chatter—
a wave of first-years shuffling sleepily along the spiraling staircases toward the dungeons.
"I heard Professor Snape teaches Potions,"
Michael muttered, rubbing his bleary eyes.
He had spent half the night studying a quill, and was still yawning nonstop.
"Rumor from the Ravenclaw common room—upper-years say Snape is the professor who—"
He paused dramatically.
Terry leaned so close his ear practically pressed to Michael's mouth,
and the whispers around them fell quiet, hunger for gossip overtaking fear.
"—who deducts more House points than anyone else in Hogwarts."
His voice trembled slightly—and paired with the steadily dropping temperature as they descended, faces around them went pale.
Under this artificially cultivated tension, the group reached the Potions classroom.
It was a gloomy underground chamber, colder than the castle floors above.
Even in daylight, barely any sunlight reached here—
only floating candles illuminated the dim stone room.
Along the walls stood rows of glass jars, each filled with floating preserved creatures.
Sean chose a seat not far from them; turning his head, he could clearly see bat spleens suspended in murky liquid—
an ingredient for swelling solution.
He had barely sat down when a boy with dimples slid into the seat beside him.
"Sean, I knew you'd be here early."
Justin Finch-Fletchley beamed warmly and arranged his glass vials neatly on the desk.
Michael, who had been trying to claim that seat, stared in disbelief.
"Is this a hallucination? When did he even get here?"
He grumbled and wandered off to another desk to sulk.
Soon the class filled.
Whether because of the cold or Snape's terrifying reputation, not a single first-year dared speak above a whisper.
Then, in utter silence—
BANG!
The dungeon doors burst open.
A sallow-skinned man with a hooked nose strode inside, his black cloak billowing like bat wings.
In several swift, precise steps, he reached the front platform.
"Listen—"
His voice was low, icy, and controlled.
"This class requires no foolish wand-waving,
and no nonsensical incantations."
His tone grew sharper, cutting through the room.
"I do not expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making.
However, for those select few who possess the predisposition—
I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory,
and even stopper death—"
His voice slammed like thunder.
"Provided you are not the idiots I am used to teaching!"
The classroom froze.
"You—Hannah Abbott. Tell me—how does one prepare a slug?"
His storm-dark eyes whipped toward a girl with braided pigtails.
Her voice shook violently.
"S-simmer it, Professor."
She escaped disaster only because she had clearly pre-read the chapter.
"Sit down."
His expression didn't soften.
"Sean Green. How do you handle a slug with antennae?"
He leaned forward, blocking the candlelight with his silhouette.
"Simmer longer, about three minutes, Professor," Sean answered immediately.
"…Acceptable."
Snape swept away like a stormfront.
"Wayne Hopkins! What is bezoar?"
The short-haired boy sounded like he was forcing the answer out of a shrinking throat.
"I—I don't know, Professor."
"If your troll-sized brain still functions, you might recall that a bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat—useful as an antidote."
Snape's stare drilled into Wayne until the boy visibly trembled.
"Sit down.
Hufflepuff loses one point for the emptiness of Mr. Hopkins' skull!"
He scanned the room; no one dared meet his eyes.
"The rest of you—why aren't you taking notes?"
A frantic scratching of quills followed, as though ink could shield them from execution.
The storm continued—
"Ernie Macmillan!"
More panic. More trembling.
By the end of the questioning,
Ravenclaw had lost six points.
Hufflepuff, twelve.
A realization flickered across Sean's mind:
Six straight years of Slytherin winning the House Cup?
It might not have been coincidence.
Snape continued, voice razor-sharp:
"Listen carefully. If any of you dare alter a potion recipe—add, reduce, or swap ingredients—"
His gaze swept over the class like a guillotine.
"You will cause catastrophe."
He demonstrated the steps for the Boil-Cure Potion, a basic pus-removal remedy.
Within minutes, his cauldron bubbled into a thick, dark emerald brew.
"I do not expect success.
I only hope no one produces an explosion.
Now—pairs. Begin."
Justin's face was ghost-white.
His hands shook, but he forced himself to steady his breathing.
Sean wasn't shaking because of Snape—
but because he was terrified of discovering he had no talent for Potions at all.
"Slugs, dried nettles, crushed snake fangs, porcupine quills…"
Justin checked ingredients anxiously, eyeing Sean's calm expression like a lifeline.
Sean nodded.
"Follow the instructions step by step. First—the slugs."
Justin immediately lit the burner beneath the cauldron—preheating, exactly as the textbook described.
"Use mine?"
He offered timidly, gesturing toward his polished silver cauldron.
Sean glanced from the silver to his own cheap, dented brass third-tier cauldron, and nodded.
Quality didn't change everything—
but it certainly didn't hurt.
Having a hidden rich friend next to you is actually pretty great.
Sean admitted inwardly.
And with that unspoken alliance,
they began.
Advance Chapters available on Patreon