If Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom felt like a stern academic temple, then Professor Snape's Potions dungeon was the goblin-run black market of nightmares—cold, damp, and thick with the mingled stench of stale herbs, rotting roots, and something suspiciously alive.
Glass jars hung from the ceiling, filled with gruesome specimens: webbed fingers, swollen eyeballs, and one grey mass that seemed to twitch if you stared too long.
Julien followed the Ravenclaw line inside. The Hufflepuffs were already seated like obedient little badgers. Liriya sat in the corner, still wrapped in her feathered cloak, blending perfectly into the gloomy atmosphere.
Hannah Abbott was frantically flipping through Beginner's Potions, lips moving silently. Clearly the Hufflepuffs had already heard what happened to Gryffindor that morning.
"Hope I don't blow up my cauldron," Casen muttered behind Julien. "I don't fancy ending up pickled in formaldehyde like a frog."
"Shut it, Moretti," Edgar hissed, pushing up his glasses with deadly seriousness. "Concentration! Remember what McGonagall said!"
At that exact moment a cold, oily voice slithered out of the shadows like a snake across wet stone: "If your mouths cannot stay closed long enough to discuss potion ingredients, I will be happy to sew them shut permanently."
Every student froze.
Professor Snape materialised out of the darkness as if he had stepped straight from it, black robes swirling.
His robes were even blacker than yesterday. Thin lips pressed into a merciless line beneath that hooked nose. His eyes swept the room like searchlights, and wherever they landed the air seemed to freeze.
His gaze passed over the Hufflepuffs, then the Ravenclaws. When it landed on Liriya's wildly inappropriate cloak, his mouth twitched in clear disapproval.
But when his eyes reached the new face among the Ravenclaws and met a pair of clear olive-green eyes, he stopped dead.
The boy had slightly wavy dark hair, pale skin, and a posture far too steady for his age.
Those eyes… green as rain-washed olive leaves… just like the ghost that haunted the deepest part of Snape's memory.
Snape's pupils contracted sharply. Then the surname registered and his expression turned even darker.
He tore his gaze away as though burned and spoke in a low, venomous drawl: "Potions is not a subject for waving wands and hoping for the best like some lumbering troll."
Snape paced slowly, eyes raking the room. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet it reached every ear in the deathly silent dungeon.
"I do not expect many of you to possess the subtlety required to appreciate the delicate art of potion-making," he continued, "but I do expect you not to sully these sacred cauldrons with your stupidity."
He stopped behind the desk. "Today we will be brewing a boil-cure potion. The instructions are on the board and on page fifty-nine of your textbook. I expect—"
His voice sharpened. "—that none of you will treat this classroom like the stage some other houses used this morning to parade their ignorance!"
"Begin." The word was a whip-crack. Snape turned and swept back to his desk, black robes billowing like storm clouds.
The dungeon filled with the frantic rustle of pages and clatter of equipment. Some students were only now unwrapping their cauldrons for the first time.
Julien, having memorised the textbook like Hermione, immediately noticed the tiny differences between Snape's instructions on the board and the printed book—subtle changes in how to crush the dried nettles, for example.
Where they differed, he followed Snape's version exactly. A master had reasons. At the same time he could feel Snape's gaze drifting over him now and then—appraising, complicated, almost hungry.
"Mr Black," Snape's voice suddenly cut through the room, quiet but impossible to ignore, "you seem very confident in your technique."
Julien looked up with an innocent smile. "I'm simply following the precise steps you wrote, Professor. You did say precision is the first rule of potion-making."
Snape narrowed his eyes and glided over. He loomed above Julien's bubbling purple cauldron.
"Precision?" he sneered. "Then explain why your porcupine quill slices are half a millimetre thicker than the standard? Poor eyesight or clumsy hands?"
The whole class held its breath. Just like the Gryffindors had warned—picking nits.
No first-year could guarantee perfectly uniform slices.
Julien didn't flinch. He picked up one slice and answered calmly, "Because today's porcupine quills are slightly drier than usual, Professor. At standard thickness they would absorb too much moisture when the tentacle juice is added later, ruining the potion's uniformity. I made them a fraction thicker to preserve structural integrity during simmering."
Snape froze.
He had not expected a first-year to notice the ingredient's condition and adjust accordingly. This went beyond rote learning and touched the true heart of potion-making—understanding and adaptation.
He stared hard into those olive-green eyes, searching for arrogance or deceit. All he found was clear confidence and genuine respect for the craft.
"Hmph." Snape finally gave a single cold snort and turned away. "Let us hope your finished potion lives up to that silver tongue of yours, Mr Black. Otherwise Ravenclaw will pay for your arrogance."
The threat of point deduction was still there, but the venom had noticeably lessened. Julien knew he had passed the first test.
For the rest of the lesson Snape returned to his usual "fair" self—circling like a vulture and deducting points from every mistake, regardless of House. With no Slytherins present he showed zero restraint.
"Miss Bones!" he snapped. "Are you feeding those nettles to a troll? Far too coarse! One point from Hufflepuff!"
"Mr Boot," he hissed behind Terry Boot, "your flame is three degrees too high. The potion is already scorching. Two points from Ravenclaw!"