The first owl had left the owlery. The first glimmering ray of orange light bleeding through the curtain of the topmost spires of Hogwarts Castle.
The corridors were filling again.
A crowd of young witches and wizards wound their way down the moving staircases toward the dungeons.
"I've heard the Potions professor is Snape," Michael said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He'd spent half the previous night examining a quill with great scientific interest, and was still yawning. "Word around the Ravenclaw common room — the older students say Professor Snape is the single most—"
He paused deliberately. Terry craned his neck and angled his ear closer. The whispering around them quieted.
"—prolific deductor of house points in the entire school."
He delivered it with a tremor in his voice. Combined with the steadily dropping temperature, several faces in the group went perceptibly pale.
In this atmosphere of carefully cultivated dread, they arrived at the Potions classroom.
It was a dungeon — several degrees colder than the castle above, even in daylight, lit almost entirely by floating candles. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with glass jars containing specimens of various creatures preserved in murky liquid. Sheen chose a seat not far from these displays; if he turned his head, he could see a jar of dried boomslang skin. Useful in several brews, including Polyjuice Potion.
He had barely sat down when a boy with dimples dropped into the seat beside him.
"Sheen. I knew you'd be here early." Justin's smile was warm as ever. He reached into his bag and arranged his glass bottles neatly on the desk.
Michael, who had been angling for the seat on Sheen's other side, stared.
"Am I still asleep?" he muttered. "How did he get there so fast? Or ammi getting slow…" He grumbled his way to another seat.
The students settled. Whether it was the cold, or the weight of accumulated rumour, not one of them felt inclined to be loud. A hush held the room.
Then —
BANG.
The dungeon door flew open. A man with a sallow complexion and a hooked nose swept into the classroom with long, precise strides, his robes billowing behind him like the wings of a large black bat. He mounted the platform in a few economical movements and turned to face them.
"Listen carefully."
His voice was low and carried the temperature of the room even further down. It was testament to his presence that a class full of children were completely quiet.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. As such, I don't 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 to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory—"
He let the pause extend.
"—and even put a stopper to death. That is, if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
The room was thoroughly subdued. As if it wasn't already. Sheen felt it was a little excessive honestly.
"Hannah Abbott." His sharp gaze found her immediately. "What do you do with a bezoar?"
The girl with the plaited hair managed to keep her voice mostly steady: "You boil it, Professor."
She had clearly read ahead — even if it was only the first chapter. She was spared.
"Sit down."
Snape's expression did not shift.
"Sheen Green. What would you do with a horned slug?"
He leaned slightly forward, blocking the candlelight.
"Boil it for longer — approximately three minutes, Professor."
"Adequate." Snape had already moved on. "Wayne Hopkins. What is a bezoar?"
He loomed over the short-haired boy like a thundercloud.
"I — I don't know, Professor."
"If that considerable brain of yours were functioning, you would know that a bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, and will save you from most poisons. It is also used as an antidote base in numerous draughts."
His eyes remained fixed on Wayne, who had begun to tremble.
"Sit down. Five points from Hufflepuff — for Mr. Hopkins's spectacular emptiness of mind." He swept his gaze across the room. No one was brave enough to meet it.
"The rest of you — why aren't you writing this down?"
In the oppressive silence, quills flew across parchment. The students wrote as though the act itself might shield them. Snape's cold roll-call continued.
"Ernie Macmillan—"
By the time the questioning period ended, Ravenclaw had lost six points. Hufflepuff had lost twelve.
A thought passed through Sheen's mind with a kind of inevitability: Slytherin's six consecutive House Cup victories probably owe something to Professor Snape's dedication.
He had read, in the original story, that Snape kept a record of every student's name specifically to facilitate point deductions. Which meant that Professor Snape was, in his own way, extraordinarily committed.
Snape's next words brought Sheen's full attention back.
"Listen carefully. If anyone decides to improvise with the instructions — altering the recipe, skipping steps, adding ingredients not listed—"
He scanned every face in the room until he was satisfied that no one was distracted.
Then he began to walk them through the Cure for Boils — a straightforward potion, designed to treat exactly what it sounded like. The cauldron before him began to bubble within minutes, producing a thick, dark green liquid with a faint shimmer.
"I don't expect any of you to succeed quickly. I only hope certain individuals manage not to cause an explosion. What are you waiting for — pairs, now, and begin."
Justin had gone noticeably pale. He composed himself with visible effort and began following the steps.
Sheen was tense too — not from Snape's presence, but from uncertainty about his own aptitude. Potions had no system prompt. No proficiency counter. He would simply have to find out. After all, When you think of it, it wasn't really magic, it only had magical ingredients
"Horned slugs, dried nettles, ground snake fangs, porcupine quills..." Justin lined up the ingredients and looked across at Sheen. "That's right, isn't it?"
Something of the earlier fright was still in his face, but Sheen's calm, as usual, seemed to steady him.
"Yes."
Sheen nodded, then began to prepare the ingredients methodically, following the textbook standard. "Let's go in order. We'll start with the slugs."
Justin understood at once and began heating the cauldron.
The textbook specified it needed to be preheated.
"Shall we use mine?" Justin asked quietly.
Sheen glanced at the silver cauldron. Then he nodded.
The quality of a cauldron didn't dramatically affect the outcome of a potion — but Justin's silver one was noticeably superior to the pewter standard-issue Sheen had bought, wincing at the price, from Diagon Alley. It would improve their odds, if only in a psychological sense.
There are certain advantages, Sheen reflected, to sitting next to Mr secret richie rich
(End of Chapter)