By the time the others drifted off toward their dormitories, the corridors had begun to quiet. Blake peeled away toward the Ravenclaw stairs with a brief wave, her figure disappearing into the moving staircases. I turned in the opposite direction.
Down.
Toward the dungeons.
Professor Snape's office was still lit when I arrived. A thin line of greenish light seeped out from beneath the door, and I could hear the faint scratch of quill against parchment. I knocked once.
"Enter."
Snape sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, several parchments spread out before him. He didn't look up immediately.
"Hey, Uncle Snape."
That earned me a pause. His quill stopped mid-word.
"What brings you here?" he asked dryly. "You should be practicing."
"Just finished," I replied. "Curfew's about to start."
He raised his wand and murmured, "Tempus."
A translucent clock shimmered briefly in the air.
"Hm," he said. "Fair enough."
His eyes flicked to me properly now. "What are you looking for? Did your potions go well?"
"Yes," I said, reaching into my bag. "That's why I'm here."
I placed the vials on his desk—neatly arranged, corked and labeled. He didn't comment. He simply reached out and began inspecting them one by one, lifting each to the light, swirling the contents, occasionally tapping the glass with the tip of his wand.
The silence stretched.
Finally, he set the last vial down.
"These are…" he paused, clearly choosing his words, "…acceptable."
From anyone else, that would've sounded lukewarm.
From Snape, it was praise.
I allowed myself a small smile. "Then could you send them to Madam Pomfrey?"
He gave a curt nod. "Of course. She'll appreciate having a proper stock so early in the term."
He waved his wand, sealing the crate that had appeared beside the desk to hold the vials.
"You should return to the dorms," he added. "Curfew won't wait just because you've had a productive day."
"I was about to."
As I turned to leave, he spoke again.
"Oh—and Fawley came by earlier. Asked about the dueling hall."
I paused but didn't turn around.
"I told him," Snape continued evenly, "that the entire Slytherin House currently has permission to use it."
I nodded once. "Thank you."
"Don't make me regret it," he said, already turning back to his notes.
"I won't."
I left his office and headed back through the dungeons, the stone corridors familiar now, grounding. By the time I reached the Slytherin common room, it was nearly empty—only the faint crackle of the fire and the distant sound of water pressing against the lake-facing walls.
I went straight to my dormitory.
As I lay down, Chromis stirred.
She slid from my hand and unfurled smoothly, her body expanding until she was nearly a meter long. With practiced ease, she coiled herself atop my chest, her weight familiar rather than heavy—anchoring, reassuring.
Chromis was never overly active. A day or two each week she would roam curious and alert, tasting the world beyond me. The rest of the time she preferred this—staying close, wrapped around my wrist like a living bracelet, or resting against me as if listening to my heartbeat.
I reached up and gently patted her head.
She flicked her tongue once, content, and settled further, her coils warm and steady. The tension of the day eased beneath that simple, grounding presence.
With Chromis curled against me and the dungeon quiet around us, I let my eyes close.
Sleep came easily.
Tomorrow would be the first real day of classes.
The next morning, the Slytherin common room was already awake when I arrived.
Everyone was there.
Not lounging. Not half-asleep. Sitting or standing in small clusters, wands tucked away, bags ready. There was a quiet anticipation in the air—most visible in the first years. Not nervousness exactly. Expectation.
Good.
We didn't waste time talking.
We moved together to breakfast, the group tighter than usual, and then straight to the dungeons for Potions.
The classroom was already prepared when we entered—cauldrons polished, ingredients laid out, the air heavy with that familiar, sharp undertone of brewing magic.
Pairs formed naturally.
Blake sat beside me without comment. We'd agreed beforehand to share a cauldron—our role today wasn't just to perform well, but to set a standard. Around us, the others paired off smoothly.
All except Warrington.
He hovered for a moment, then reluctantly moved to sit with a Ravenclaw first year. The contrast was… noticeable. No one commented on it. No one needed to.
Then—
The door slammed open.
Professor Snape swept in, robes billowing like a living thing, black eyes immediately taking in the room. He moved to the front with his usual predatory grace and turned to face us.
"You are here," he began silkily, "to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."
The words were familiar. Canonical. Almost comforting in their sharpness.
"As there is little foolish wand-waving here," he continued, voice dripping with disdain, "many of you will hardly believe this is magic."
He paced slowly.
"I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron… the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses."
His eyes flicked briefly across the room.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame," he said quietly, "brew glory… even put a stopper in death."
Same speech.
But not the same man.
There was something different beneath the coldness today. The sharpness remained, the bite, the intimidation—but behind it was something steadier. Resolve. Purpose. As if he wasn't simply enduring another year, but actively choosing to be here.
Then he turned his attention to us fully.
Questions began.
Not random ones.
Foundational.
"What does a color shift in a potion indicate: ingredient reaction or magical stabilization?"
Hands shot up—Roger Davies' among them, as always.
Snape ignored him.
His gaze fixed instead on the Slytherin side.
"Mr. Pucey."
Adrian answered cleanly.
"Two points to Slytherin."
A ripple went through the room.
Another question.
"Miss Rosier."
Selene answered—precise, confident.
"One point to Slytherin."
Snape's eyes moved again—this time to Ravenclaw.
"Miss Badeea Ali."
She answered correctly. Snape paused, just a fraction longer than usual.
"Two points to Ravenclaw."
That—
That caused whispers.
It wasn't loud. But it was there.
Slytherins who answered correctly were rewarded immediately—one or two points, depending on clarity. Ravenclaws, when they answered, were only given points if their answers went beyond the basics. It wasn't equal.
It wasn't meant to be.
The Ravenclaw first years noticed. A few frowned. Some exchanged glances.
It felt unfair.
Snape giving points to Ravenclaw first years. Not grudgingly. Not sarcastically.
If any senior from any house had been present, they would have been stunned. This wasn't just rare—it was borderline unprecedented.
The questions continued.
Then came the last question.
"Miss Rosier," Snape said, turning back to Selene.
Roger Davies' hand shot up again, nearly leaping off his arm.
"Mr. Davies," Snape said coldly, without even looking at him, "in my classroom, if a question is not directed at you, raising your hand will not compel me to choose you."
Roger froze.
"You raise your hand to ask meaningful questions," Snape continued, voice cutting, "not to display enthusiasm."
A pause.
"Next time," he added softly, "you will lose house points. Sit down."
Roger did.
The room went silent.
Snape turned back to Selene.
For a brief moment, I thought he might launch into one of his infamous tirades. He didn't.
Selene answered.
Snape listened.
Then—he nodded.
Once.
No sarcasm. No insult. No deduction.
He turned toward the blackboard, raised his wand, and tapped it sharply.
Chalk scraped against slate as the recipe for the Cure of Boils appeared in clean, precise script.
Crush six snake fangs into a fine powder.Add the crushed fangs and water to the cauldron, then heat until the mixture changes color—usually red or orange.Add stewed horned slugs and dried nettles, stirring appropriately.Crucially, remove the cauldron from the fire before adding the porcupine quills.Add two porcupine quills and stir carefully—five times clockwise.Return the cauldron to the flame and heat again until the potion reaches the desired color.
It was the standard Cure for Boils recipe.
There was no modification written on the board.No added notes.No subtle hints.
Professor Snape didn't explain a single step.
"Gather your ingredients," he said coldly, "and begin brewing."
That was all.
I felt the Slytherin side glance at me almost immediately—quick, questioning looks, silent but sharp. Are we following the modified version?
I gave a single nod.
That was enough.
We moved.
Blake and I gathered our ingredients and began processing in perfect synchrony—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Our cutting rhythm matched. Timing aligned naturally, as if we'd done this a dozen times before.
Selene and Celia were close behind us, efficient and focused.
The rest followed more cautiously.
As the class progressed, it became clear who had prepared and who was simply following instructions for the first time. Steam thickened. Cauldrons shifted hues. The sharp scent of snake fang powder mixed with nettles filled the room.
Blake and I finished first.
Selene and Celia completed theirs shortly after.
The others were still brewing when Snape began prowling the aisles, black robes whispering against the stone floor.
Thankfully, with Ravenclaw present, there were no explosions—only a few near misses and one cauldron that hissed ominously before settling.
When the potions were evaluated, Blake's and mine were the best—clean color, proper viscosity, minimal residue. Selene's and Celia's were nearly as good, though Celia's showed signs of a minor processing error—likely uneven crushing of the fangs.
Slytherin potions were, almost without exception, store-grade.
Almost.
Warrington and his Ravenclaw partner produced the worst potion in the room—murky, uneven, and barely stable.
The Ravenclaw potions overall were technically edible, but none would have passed inspection anywhere reputable. At best, they'd sell on a shady street stall to someone desperate or foolish.
Snape said nothing while grading.
Then—
"Twenty points to Slytherin."
A pause.
"And five to Ravenclaw," he added, eyes flicking briefly to Blake, "for exemplary execution."
The Ravenclaw table stiffened—surprised more than pleased. Points from Snape were rare. Points awarded fairly were rarer still.
"For homework," Snape continued, already turning back to the board, "a review of common mistakes made while brewing the Cure for Boils. One parchment. Concise. Accurate."
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped back. Bags were packed. Conversations erupted as students filtered out.
As I passed the door, I heard the Ravenclaw boy paired with Warrington hissing furiously at him—blaming him for every mistake, loudly pointing out that he was the only Slytherin whose potion had failed.
I didn't look back.
I just let out a quiet chuckle and followed Blake into the corridor.