Harry only refrained from dueling him out of respect for Dumbledore.
Otherwise, he might have already done it — if only to preserve his sanity.
That man was truly a pervert — equal parts self-love and self-loathing. It wasn't even subtle. Perhaps Snape himself knew what he was, trapped in his own spiral of disgust and obsession. His mind seemed twisted, his emotions violent and unpredictable.
Harry sometimes thought the man had a hidden desire for self-destruction. It was terrifying — the kind of darkness you didn't want to be near. Honestly, Harry would have preferred to pretend Snape didn't exist at all.
Unfortunately, he couldn't.
Snape was the Potions Master — and Potions was a required course.
The class took place in a cold, dim chamber beneath the castle. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and chemicals. Glass jars lined the walls, each containing some grotesque specimen preserved in yellowish liquid — eyes, organs, tentacles, things with too many teeth.
Like Professor Flitwick, Snape began by taking attendance. But where Flitwick had greeted his students with cheerful energy, Snape did the opposite.
When he reached Harry's name, he paused. His dark eyes gleamed with something unreadable — amusement? resentment? longing? Then his lips curled.
"Oh, yes," he murmured. "Harry Potter — our new celebrity. The boy who, on his very first day, mistook the school for a gladiatorial arena, fought ghosts, and even drew Gryffindor's sword."
The words were steeped in sarcasm. Normally, when Snape mocked someone, a few young Slytherins would echo him with sycophantic laughter. Today, though, the classroom was silent.
No one dared join in.
Only Draco Malfoy looked uncertainly at his Head of House, clearly debating whether to laugh.
Harry, who could read people frighteningly well, instantly saw the connection — Snape and Malfoy had some kind of unusually close bond. Mentor and protégé? Extended family? Whatever it was, Malfoy worshipped him.
Draco waved frantically at Crabbe and Goyle, signaling them to laugh. Normally, those two would have roared on command. But Harry had already beaten the fear of God into them once, and now they both stared straight ahead, pretending not to exist.
Abandoned by his backup, Malfoy forced an awkward chuckle.
"Hahaha! Foolish Gryffindor! I laugh at… Potter's lack of wisdom!"
The weak laughter sputtered out like a dying fire.
Then — bang! Snape slammed his hand against the desk, shattering the silence.
His gaze swept over the room, cold and empty. For a moment, Harry almost pitied him. There was a kind of tragic determination in those black eyes — the look of someone clinging to a purpose long after life had lost its meaning.
Harry sighed quietly. What a complicated man.
Snape, oblivious to Harry's inner analysis, launched into his usual opening speech for first-years:
"Enough. You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making.
As there will be no foolish wand-waving here, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the delicate beauty of this craft.
However… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren't the dunderheads I usually have to teach."
The room went dead silent.
Harry and Ron exchanged glances.
"I bet he gives that speech every year," Harry whispered. "To be fair, it's not bad."
"Not as good as your speeches," Ron whispered back.
Hermione was perched at the edge of her seat, practically trembling with anticipation — desperate to prove she wasn't a "dunderhead."
"Potter!" Snape barked suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Here we go again, Harry thought. His feelings toward this man were a tangled mess — irritation, suspicion, a touch of empathy… and that uncomfortable, unspoken undercurrent of affection that made his skin crawl.
He answered calmly. "The Draught of Living Death — a powerful sleeping potion."
Snape's eyes flickered. His expression softened almost imperceptibly.
"Tsk, tsk… seems you've done some reading," he muttered.
Hermione's hand shot up, eager to participate, but Snape ignored her completely.
"Let's try again," he said. "Where would you find a bezoar, Potter?"
Hermione nearly levitated off her seat, arm raised higher.
"In the stomach of a goat, Professor," Harry replied easily. "Honestly, these are simple questions. Why not ask someone else? Hermione looks like—"
"Do not pass your responsibility to others, Potter!" Snape snapped. "I'm asking you."
Harry met his eyes — dark, emotionless, yet burning beneath the surface.
How strange. Snape didn't seem to be bullying him for sport this time. In fact, he looked… almost pleased. Like he was testing Harry and secretly thrilled that the boy could keep up.
It wasn't Harry's imagination — Snape's favorability really had ticked upward. And that was the most confusing part of all.
No, Harry decided. It's not me who's weird. It's definitely him. Maybe we met before? Some tragic love-hate drama in a past life? No — impossible. My instincts must be malfunctioning.
Still ignoring Hermione's trembling arm, Snape fired the next question.
"Potter, tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane."
Hermione couldn't contain herself anymore — she stood up, arm stretched straight toward the ceiling.
"Sit down, Granger!" Snape roared, deducting five points from Gryffindor. "I didn't ask you!"
Harry sighed, glancing back at the devastated girl. "Professor, there's no need to shout," he said softly. "You'll scare her." Then, turning back, he answered, "They're the same plant, sir — both are aconite."
Snape froze. For an instant, genuine satisfaction crossed his face. "Good. Very good."
Then, realizing his own lapse, he scowled even more fiercely.
"Why aren't you all writing this down?"
Instantly, the room filled with the frantic rustle of parchment and quills.
As the noise died down, Snape added coldly, "Potter, because you talked back to a professor, Gryffindor loses one point."
Harry didn't care. He'd come mentally prepared for massive point deductions. Losing only one felt almost merciful.
Still, something about Snape gnawed at him. The man was a contradiction — sad, sharp, frightening, and strangely human.
Harry resolved to investigate. If he couldn't figure it out on his own, he'd talk to Dumbledore. Anything was better than enduring this emotional whiplash every week.
Honestly, he'd rather duel Snape outright — one clean fight, winner and loser both getting closure. The loser would probably need therapy afterward, but at least things would be simple.
The lesson continued. Snape paired students up to brew a basic boil-cure potion.
He swept through the classroom, his long black cloak billowing dramatically behind him, watching them weigh dried nettles, crush snake fangs, and stir cauldrons in slow, uneven circles.
Almost everyone earned a scolding — except Draco Malfoy, of course.
Harry, however, had spent part of his summer practicing. After "liberating" a modest fortune from Gringotts, he'd stocked up on ingredients and brewed every beginner potion he could find until his skill level rivaled a professional shop-hand.
Now, under Snape's watchful gaze, his technique was nearly flawless.
Snape prowled behind him, searching for something to criticize — anything. But there was nothing. Harry's cutting, grinding, stirring — all perfect.
So Snape shifted tactics, offering quiet suggestions instead.
"Crush the fangs counter-clockwise — finer texture prevents clumping. Heat five seconds longer before the nettles. You'll get better viscosity."
Harry blinked. Those tips weren't in any textbook. And annoyingly — they worked.
He tested the advice in silence, then nodded, almost impressed. Snape's method produced cleaner results with less residue.
Maybe, Harry thought reluctantly, there was more to this man than sarcasm and emotional chaos. His potion-making skills were genuinely brilliant.
He could probably figure it all out eventually through trial and error — his skill panel practically guaranteed that — but Snape's precision saved him time. A good teacher, even a hostile one, could accelerate learning tenfold.
Stand on the shoulders of giants, Harry mused. Even if the giant in question glares like he wants to kill you.
Around him, students fumbled with cauldrons, coughing as smoke filled the air. Hermione's potion looked almost textbook-perfect — of course. Ron's, meanwhile, had turned a worrying shade of purple and was beginning to bubble violently.
"Merlin's beard, Ron, what did you do?" Harry muttered, pulling the cauldron off the heat just before it exploded.
Snape appeared instantly, his black cloak whispering across the floor.
"Ten points from Gryffindor," he said sharply, though his gaze lingered on Harry a moment too long. "You prevented a disaster — but still, Mr. Weasley, try not to brew bombs in my classroom."
Ron flushed crimson, muttering an apology.
The rest of the period passed in tense silence. Snape continued stalking between rows, occasionally offering grudging corrections to Harry, biting remarks to everyone else.
By the end of the class, most cauldrons were either smoking or leaking. Only Harry's and Hermione's potions met Snape's impossible standards.
When the bell finally rang, Snape dismissed them with a curt, "Clean your workstations before you leave."
As Harry wiped down his table, he glanced toward the front. Snape stood there, pale face half-lit by torchlight, expression unreadable.
For a second — just a second — Harry thought he saw gratitude. Or regret.
Then the man blinked, and the moment was gone.
Harry slung his bag over his shoulder and whispered to Ron, "See? Total pervert. But brilliant. Probably hates himself more than anyone else ever could."
Ron shuddered. "That's… comforting, I guess?"
Harry sighed. "I just wish he'd pick a side — hate me, love me, or duel me. This emotional roller coaster is exhausting."
Hermione, still sulking over her lost five points, huffed. "You shouldn't provoke him so much."
Harry smirked. "Maybe. But if he really wanted peace, he shouldn't stare at me like that."
They left the dungeon together, the heavy door closing behind them with a soft metallic clang.
Somewhere deep below, among jars of pickled horrors, the Potions Master lingered — staring at the spot where Harry had stood, expression flickering between fury and something far more fragile.
For more chapters : patreon.com/Tobii959