Professor Sprout's Herbology lessons weren't nearly as exciting as Charms or Transfiguration.
Because magical plants could be dangerous, the first few classes after the start of term had been nothing but theory: how to tell ordinary plants apart from magical ones, which poisonous magical plants were the most common, and so on.
Without any practical lessons, the little wizards' dreams of running around the huge greenhouses with tiny shovels, digging and digging to their hearts' content, remained just that—dreams.
But there were other ways to get close to magical plants besides Herbology.
Friday finally arrived, bringing the Gryffindor first-years the moment they had been waiting for (strike that)—the moment that filled them with dread: Potions class.
Severus Snape's reputation at Hogwarts was legendary, though hardly the pleasant kind. For Gryffindor students especially, surviving his lessons was always a challenge.
If they managed to lose fewer than five points in a single Potions class, it was cause for celebration.
And if no one got scolded… well, no Gryffindor would dare dream of such a miracle.
Zero multiplied by any number of ones is still zero. That's an immutable law.
Potions classes were held in one of the dungeons, far colder than the main floors of the castle. The underground levels of Hogwarts had once served as actual dungeons, personally designed by Salazar Slytherin himself. He and the other three founders had each overseen different sections of the castle, and as the one most deeply versed in the Dark Arts, Slytherin had enthusiastically stocked the dungeons with all manner of experimental materials.
A thousand years had passed. Even the vengeful spirits that once lingered here had long since faded with time. Yet the moment you stepped into the dungeons, the bone-chilling cold still pierced through your robes and crawled under your skin. The damp only made it worse, making you long to return to the sunlit surface—even if the September sun had already lost much of its warmth.
Following the eerie greenish light along the dungeon corridor, the little wizards filed into a narrow passage connecting the hallway to the classroom. Shelves lined both walls, holding jars of pale green liquid in which nameless limbs and organs floated slowly up and down, as though still clinging to the resentment of the day they were severed, waiting to drag the living down with them.
Every student who entered the Potions classroom pressed their lips together tightly and tensed their bodies. The slightest unexpected sound could send them leaping out of their skins and straight into the ceiling.
Even the Slytherin snakes felt their skin crawl in this room. Sure, the Slytherin common room might have a certain underworld aesthetic, but as a place meant for rest and relaxation, its decor never went too far. Here, though, nothing was held back.
Two minutes remained before class began, and every seat was already filled. Gryffindor shared Potions with Slytherin, yet even someone as arrogant and disdainful as Draco Malfoy had no intention of starting trouble right now. He simply stared at the back of Lynn's head in front of him, slowly chewing over the revenge plan he had been nursing for days.
He was going to get even for that humiliation and make Lynn look like a complete fool. But the time wasn't right yet.
In the oppressive silence, a faint, icy breeze swept into the room as the wooden door creaked open. A tall black shadow strode in, bringing with it a wave of freezing air. In that instant, the temperature seemed to plummet more than ten degrees.
The cold wind lifted the hem of Snape's robes and stirred his black hair. His deep, emotionless eyes swept across the room like twin abysses capable of swallowing every spark of life and warmth, draining what little human presence remained in the dungeon.
He stopped exactly on the line separating the specimen corridor from the main classroom. Half his face was shrouded in shadow, revealing only thin lips etched with coldness.
When those lips parted, there was no doubt they would spew frost capable of freezing body and soul alike, laced with deadly viper venom.
"Quiet."
Snape's voice rang clear in every ear, as though the sound of their very heartbeats had disturbed him. In that moment, every student's breathing stopped.
"Roll call."
Gliding to the podium like a wraith, Snape drew out a sheet of parchment—though it might as well have been the Death Book of the King of Hell. When your name was called, your time was up.
Every student who survived the roll call slumped slightly in relief, their minds blank from the thrill of brushing past death on a tightrope. The next second, they tensed again, praying this would be the last time.
"Harley Potter."
When Harley's name was called, Snape did not pause—surprisingly, he even spoke a fraction faster. His eyes narrowed slightly. Lynn had the vague feeling that Snape was deliberately keeping his gaze from lingering on Harley too long, as though eye contact might force unwanted memories to surface—something he had no intention of revealing in front of students.
And when the word "Lynn" left his lips, Snape's voice hitched ever so slightly.
A trace of coldness seemed to curl the corner of his perpetually frozen mouth, like a viper flicking its tongue before baring deadly fangs. The sudden shift in tone caught everyone off guard.
"I have heard your name from several professors."
"Photographic memory, outstanding talent in Transfiguration, first-rate control over magic, a mind far more meticulous than your peers, and—even more rare—a calm heart capable of enduring the tedium of deep magical study."
Every word from Snape's mouth sounded almost like praise. In fact, it really did seem as though he thought highly of Lynn.
The Slytherins' faces changed. Draco Malfoy in particular looked as if someone had forced him to eat a month-old burger from the infamous "Old Eight's Secret Recipe," utterly revolted.
Yet the more this happened, the more uneasy Lynn felt inside.
Snape's not following the script at all. Shouldn't he start by tearing me down, calling me worthless, nitpicking everything I do, and then—after I fight my way through and prove myself—I sweep the floor with his dignity, act all cool, and get worshipped like the protagonist of some novel? This plot is broken.
"You are well suited to the study of potions," Snape continued. "You possess the natural gifts required of an excellent potioneer—if the other professors' evaluations of you are accurate."
He paused again. "I look forward to your performance."
He gave Lynn a long, piercing look before moving on to the next name.
"Ron Weasley."
Ron, face already flushed for some reason, raised his hand in a panic.
"You are supposed to say 'here.'"
Snape's face grew colder—or rather, returned to its default state.
"Gryffindor loses one point. Next time someone refuses to speak, it will be five."
Ron's face drained of color. He collapsed back into his chair, looking utterly defeated.
The roll call soon ended, and Snape put away the parchment.
"Now then. You should all know why you are here."
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making." Snape's voice was barely louder than a whisper, yet in the deathly silent classroom, every word rang clear.
"Here, there is no foolish wand-waving, so many of you will scarcely believe this is magic. I don't expect you will truly appreciate the beauty of the 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 delicately pinched the air, as though gathering the white vapor rising from an invisible cauldron and winding it around his fingertips.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death—if you are not the bunch of foolish dunderheads I so often have to teach."
"Now then, Lynn."
As Snape called his name, Lynn thought to himself, Here it comes.
"If I provide you with the following ingredients and quantities, how many different potion recipes can you identify?"
With a flick of his wand, dozens of potion ingredient names and their exact weights appeared rapidly on the blackboard behind him.
The moment the little wizards saw how difficult the question was, they stared at Lynn in stunned silence.
"Yes, Professor."
Lynn stood, walked to the front, scanned the board, and began writing swiftly on the empty section.
The ingredients listed were all common ones used in potions, but because exact amounts were given, splitting and combining them into valid recipes was far from simple. Even if there were enough ingredients in total, the quantities might not suffice for the maximum number of different potions.
But as Snape himself had said, Lynn truly did possess a photographic memory. He had already memorized every potion recipe in the textbook, along with the precise quantities required for each.
The scratch of quill on blackboard never faltered. About a minute and a half later, Lynn stepped aside.
Neat rows of potion recipes now filled the board—complete with brewing steps and exact ingredient measurements, perfectly organized.
"I could only identify these recipes, Professor Snape."
Lynn returned to his seat and looked calmly at Snape.
"Cure for Boils, Calming Draught, Forgetfulness Potion." Snape glanced over the answers. "Only three?"
"Yes, Professor."
"If you split the ingredients for the Calming Draught and recombined the remainder with the leftover materials, you would obtain the ingredients needed for both a Wiggenweld Potion and a Sleeping Draught."
With another flick of his wand, two new lines of elegant script appeared beneath Lynn's answers. According to Snape, the maximum number of potions that could be made from those ingredients was four.
Although Lynn had fallen into the trap hidden in Snape's question, Snape showed no trace of mockery—only a calm nod.
"You have not done enough. Sit down."
"Yes, Professor."
Lynn sat, neither humbled nor resentful. Snape wasn't bullying him; he was testing him.
"Why are you not all copying down the Cure for Boils recipe right now?"
Snape suddenly addressed the rest of the class. "That is what we will be brewing today. The full instructions are already on the board."
A frantic rustling filled the room as the little wizards hurriedly pulled out quills and began copying onto their parchment.
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