The morning of the first Potions class, Kevin walked in to find twenty-four second-years staring at him.
He knew what they were seeing: a fourth-year, two years their senior, one of the Triwizard champions, blue robes and cloak. Every student in the school knew his name this year.
The whispers ran through the room in the first five seconds. He let them.
"Questions about why a student is teaching Potions? Take them to Professor Dumbledore. He made this arrangement, not me."
He raised a hand. The room settled.
"Professor Snape gave me your grades and the second-year syllabus. I haven't spent much time with them yet."
This was technically true. He'd read everything twice and formed detailed opinions about all of it.
"Snape's approach is very effective — particularly for students with natural talent. For everyone else, it has limitations." He set his bag on the desk. "My approach will be different. You'll understand the why behind every step, not just the steps themselves."
Some of the tension in the room eased slightly.
Then he reached into his bag and distributed papers.
Twenty-four written tests, six pages each, landed simultaneously on twenty-four desks.
The room's temperature dropped.
"Covers your first half-year work and today's material." He walked to the front and sat on the edge of the desk. "The second half you should have previewed. If you didn't — now you know to for next time."
He gave them sixty minutes.
He patrolled. Slowly, deliberately, not hovering but present — close enough that every student knew they could be seen. Several people blanked on things they absolutely knew. That was expected. The pressure was part of it.
When the hour ended, the papers collected themselves.
"Three Slytherins interrupted the class during the test. Ten points from Slytherin each. Five Gryffindors made remarks. Five points from Gryffindor each."
Silence. Complete.
The Gryffindors stared. He'd just docked his own house without a flicker.
Kevin kept going. He set up the practical component — Swelling Solution, revision exercise — and watched them brew.
Some got it right. Some produced something that was technically a liquid and satisfied no further requirements. Nothing exploded. He made notes.
The class filed out buzzing. He heard surprise test and docked Gryffindor and did you see his face in various combinations.
He went back to the workshop, sat down, and graded.
Half the written tests had passed. Half hadn't. The Swelling Solutions ranged from competent to decorative.
He set aside the failures with notes on specific errors. After-school sessions, starting tomorrow. He'd work through each problem individually until they could pass a retest.
He was flat on the sofa with graded papers stacked beside him when Hermione knocked.
She had dinner. He sat up.
She set the plate down and looked at his face the way she did when she was assessing him honestly. "You look worn out."
"First class is always the hardest to calibrate. It gets easier."
"Everyone's talking. New teacher docked twenty-five points on day one. Surprise test. Mandatory remedial sessions."
"It works." He started eating. "You establish expectations immediately. If they take it seriously on day one, every subsequent class is simpler."
She sat beside him. "You're a complete terror, you know."
"I've been told."
She kissed the side of his head. He leaned into it briefly.
"Second task in a few days," she said. "Don't grind yourself flat before it."
"I'm fine." He looked at her. "I'm genuinely fine. This is just a heavy start."
She reached out and took his hand, turned it over, and held it for a moment.
"You're fine," she agreed. She kissed his palm, quick and light. "Eat your dinner."
He did.
Outside, the Hogwarts calendar was ticking toward February. The second task was three days away.
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