"Blaise, you misread the timetable!" Sean groaned, rubbing his temple as they stood outside the Potions classroom, the dungeon's chill seeping through their robes.
Blaise shrugged, his grin sheepish but unapologetic. "Anyway, we're not late, we just came a little early. Can't we just wait in the classroom for a while?"
"Did you forget what this class is?"
Blaise opened his mouth, then froze, realization dawning. "Wait… this is… our head of house's class, isn't it?"
Sean nodded, exasperated. "Yes, this is Potions class."
Blaise's bravado faltered. "Well… we're Slytherins, not Gryffindors. Arriving early shouldn't be an issue… right?"
Even Slytherin's own students quailed at the thought of Professor Severus Snape's class. His icy glare and biting tongue spared no one, house loyalty or not.
The man's presence could make a Blast-Ended Skrewt rethink its life choices.
Blaise coughed, shifting uncomfortably. "How about we head back to the Great Hall for a bit?"
Sean considered it, then shook his head. "Nah, we're here now. Let's go in, sit, maybe crack a book. If Snape quizzes us, I might score some points to chip away at my debt."
"Hey, sorry," Blaise muttered. "Won't happen again."
"No big deal. Snape won't dock points for being early." Sean's voice dropped to a mutter. "Probably."
He half-hoped Snape wasn't even there. Pushing open the heavy door, they stepped into the Potions classroom, its air thick with the tang of simmering cauldrons and musty herbs.
But there he was—Snape, looming at the podium, slicing potion ingredients with surgical precision. His hollow eyes snapped up at the creak of the door, pinning Sean and Blaise like moths under glass. Both froze, a shiver racing down their spines.
He's here.
Blaise's jaw worked silently. Sean swallowed hard and stepped forward.
"Professor, we misjudged the time and arrived early. We'd like to wait here, but if we're disturbing you, we'll step outside until class starts."
Snape's gaze lingered, a flicker of recognition—likely recalling Sean's role in yesterday's point fiasco—crossing his face. The corner of his eye twitched, but his voice was flat, emotionless. "It's up to you."
He resumed grinding his ingredients, the pestle's rhythm steady as a heartbeat. Blaise, already darting to a back-row seat, shot Sean a relieved glance. Sean started to follow, then paused, a bold idea sparking.
Under Blaise's wide-eyed stare, he turned back to Snape. "Professor, may I try?"
Snape halted, his eyes narrowing. "Handling potion ingredients demands patience, focus, and precision. Botch it, waste my materials, and even I'll deduct points from Slytherin."
Sean held his gaze, unfazed. His knowledge of Snape came from tales of his past life—stories skewed through Harry Potter's eyes. But as a Slytherin, Sean saw a different side: Snape's coldness softened, ever so slightly, for his own house.
The man was still a wall of ice, but there was patience beneath the frost.
"Professor, I studied potions before term," Sean said. "I'm no expert, but I know the Cure for Boils potion well—snake fangs, porcupine quills, the lot."
He wasn't bluffing. His grandfather Gideon's old notes, half-filled with potion recipes, had been Sean's summer obsession.
Gideon's passion for brewing rivaled Snape's own, and Sean had absorbed every scribbled detail.
Snape's hands stilled at the mention of the Cure for Boils. He studied Sean, then stepped back, yielding the podium and tools without a word.
Sean shot a glance at Blaise—whose jaw hung open—before taking the pestle. With steady, clockwise motions, he began grinding snake fangs in the mortar, the faint crunch echoing in the silent room.
Snape observed, arms crossed, as Sean reduced the fangs to a fine powder, each grain uniform.
When Sean moved to the porcupine quills, trimming them with careful slices, Snape gave a faint nod, then swept out of the classroom, his black robes billowing like a storm cloud.
Blaise hurried to Sean's side, eyeing the sweat beading on his friend's forehead. He stayed quiet, watching Sean work with a newfound respect.
Blaise had first approached Sean for his nerve—punching Draco Malfoy was no small feat. But today, Sean's poise in Transfiguration had drawn Samuel, a fifth-year prefect, to seek him out, sensing potential. Now, this? Blaise's estimation of his friend climbed higher.
The podium was piled with ingredients—snake fangs, quills, dried nettles. Snape could've polished them off in minutes, but Sean, though meticulous, lacked the professor's speed.
As he worked, Gryffindor and Slytherin students trickled in, their chatter dying as they spotted Sean at the podium.
Harry and Ron, free of grudges, gaped with admiration. Hermione's eyes gleamed, itching to join in.
Draco and Miles Bulstrode, however, scowled, their faces darkening at Sean's spotlight. The room buzzed with whispers until Snape strode back in, his robes flaring dramatically.
He inspected Sean's work, his expression unreadable. "The ingredients are processed to an exemplary standard," he announced, voice low but clear. "I am pleased to find such competence in this Slytherin class. Ten points to Slytherin."
Sean nodded slightly, a spark of satisfaction in his chest.
He stepped down, joining Blaise, and rubbed his aching wrist, the pestle's weight lingering in his hand. First day, and I'm racking up points—Transfiguration, now Potions. Charms is next.
As he plotted his next move, Snape turned to the class, his eyes locking onto Harry Potter with predatory focus.
Just as Sean recalled from those old tales, Snape's interrogation began, each question a barb aimed to unravel the Boy Who Lived.
Sean had once wondered if the tales from his past life painted Snape and Harry's feud too harshly.
Perhaps Snape's targeting of Harry was a misunderstanding, colored by Harry's perspective. Snape had protected Harry, even sacrificed himself in those stories—surely his hatred wasn't rooted solely in Harry's mother, Lily Evans.
But as Sean sat near Harry in the Potions classroom, the air heavy with cauldron steam, he caught Snape's gaze.
The raw hatred and bitterness in those hollow eyes shattered his hopes. Snape's loyalty to Lily's son didn't erase his loathing for James Potter's heir.
Sean sighed inwardly, the dungeon's chill sinking into his bones. This wasn't his fight to fix. The scars of past bullying—James Potter's teenage cruelty—had carved too deep a wound in Snape.
To the world, James was a hero, a martyr who defied Voldemort and died for his family. But to Snape, he was the arrogant tormentor of his youth, and Harry bore the weight of that grudge.
"Harry Potter…" Snape's voice slithered through the room, soft but laced with venom.
He clutched the roll sheet, his eyes locking onto Harry. "Oh, yes, the legendary savior, a famous figure."
Draco Malfoy, flanked by Goyle and Crabbe, snickered from the Slytherin side.
As the son of Snape's ally, Draco could flout rules in this classroom without a flicker of Snape's wrath. Sean glanced at him, unimpressed. Spoiled, smug, and not worth his time unless provoked.
Snape swept to the front, his black robes billowing. "You are here to master the precise art of potion-making—a science, not some foolish wand-waving.
Many fail to see its magic." His voice dripped with disdain. "I don't expect you to grasp the allure of a simmering cauldron's haze…"
After his brief lecture, Snape's gaze snapped back to Harry, who met it with a defiant stare. "Potter!" Snape descended from the podium, looming over him.
"What do I get if I add powdered asphodel root to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry's face crumpled, confusion etching deep lines.
The words made sense alone, but together? Gibberish. Hermione, beside him, shot her hand up, eager to prove her worth, but Snape ignored her, his eyes boring into Harry.
"I, I don't know, sir," Harry stammered.
Snape's lip curled in a mocking sneer. "Tsk tsk, fame doesn't grant omniscience, it seems. Let's try again. Potter, where would I find a bezoar?"
"I don't know, sir."
Harry's voice tightened, anger simmering beneath his restraint. Snape pressed on, relentless. "Third question, Mr. Potter, who clearly neglected his textbook. What's the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Hermione stood, hand raised high, desperate to answer, but Snape's focus never wavered. Harry's frustration boiled over.
"I don't know, sir! I think Hermione or someone else should know, why don't you ask them?"
Snape stepped back, a triumphant glint in his eyes, as if he'd won a duel. "Mr. Bulstrode," he said softly, "enlighten Potter with the answers."
Sean hesitated, reluctant. Harry had been kind, even helped him in the brawl with Goyle and Crabbe. Answering felt like betraying a friend.
But before he could rise, another figure shot up—Miles Bulstrode.
Snape's eyes flicked to Miles, who froze under the weight of that stare. His face reddened, then paled, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish.
"Professor, I'm sorry," he mumbled, sinking back into his seat.
"Sorry?" Snape's voice was a low hiss. "Is that your answer, Mr. Bulstrode? As Slytherin's head, I'm deeply disappointed."
Miles' shoulders slumped. He'd misheard Snape's call, thinking it was for him, only to recall Sean's earlier potion work. Unable to answer, he'd humiliated himself. His eyes darted to Sean, burning with misplaced resentment.
"Sit down, Mr. Bulstrode," Snape snapped.
"Next time, at least skim your textbook, unlike certain celebrated Gryffindors." He turned to Sean. "Bulstrode… Sean, answer the questions."
Sean stood, no longer able to delay.
"Powdered asphodel root and wormwood infusion combine to create the Draught of Living Death, a potent sleeping potion. A bezoar is found in a goat's stomach, a powerful antidote. Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, also called Aconite."
"Very good." Snape's voice was a low drawl, his eyes flicking from Harry to Hermione, then settling on Sean. "A thorough and precise answer. Five points to Slytherin."
His gaze sharpened, zeroing in on Harry. "Potter! Your insolence in speaking out of turn costs Gryffindor one point. And Ms. Granger, standing without permission? Another point from Gryffindor. Next time, curb your eagerness to flaunt your shallow knowledge when I haven't called on you."
Hermione's jaw dropped, her eyes wide with disbelief, but Snape turned away, his black robes swirling like a storm. He strode to the podium, the faint hiss of cauldrons filling the dungeon's gloomy air. Ignoring Hermione's stunned silence, he began his lesson on the Cure for Boils
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