MeowthTL
patreon
HP: I have a Proficiency Panel -
🕑 Added 2025-10-07 20:11:46 +0000 UTCChapter 10: Potions Class
The first messenger owl flew out from the Owlery as the first ray of orange sunlight crept onto Hogwarts Castle's highest spire, gilding the stone in warm gold. Within the castle, corridors came alive with the shuffle of feet and sleepy chatter.
A large group of first-years made their way down the spiral staircases toward the dungeons, their robes swishing against stone steps worn smooth by centuries of students.
"I heard the Potions professor is Professor Snape," Michael said, rubbing his bleary eyes. He'd spent half the previous night researching the enchantments on a particular quill and was still yawning repeatedly. "Inside information—I heard it in the common room last night. The older students said Professor Snape is the professor who deducts the most house points in all of Hogwarts."
His voice carried a theatrical tremor. Combined with the increasingly cold air as they descended, every young wizard's face looked several shades paler.
In this artificially created atmosphere of dread, they arrived at the Potions classroom.
The underground classroom was several degrees colder than the castle above—cold enough that breath might have misted if not for the dim warmth from floating candles. Even during daylight hours, virtually no sunlight penetrated these depths. Glass jars lined the stone walls, their murky contents preserving various animal specimens in yellowish fluid. The smell was medicinal and faintly unpleasant—formaldehyde mixed with ancient dust and something vaguely sulphurous.
Shawn chose a seat near these specimens, close enough that he could examine them if needed. Turning his head, he could see bat spleens suspended in their jar—a material for making Swelling Solution, according to his memorised textbook.
He'd barely settled into his seat when a boy with dimples slid into the chair beside him.
"Shawn, I knew you'd arrive early." Justin's face radiated his characteristic warm smile. He immediately began removing glass bottles from his bag, arranging them with meticulous care on the desk.
Michael, who had been heading directly toward the seat next to Shawn, stopped mid-stride and blinked in disbelief. "Is it an illusion? When did he even get here?"
Muttering to himself about Hufflepuff stealth tactics, Michael found another seat with theatrical resignation.
Soon all the students had arrived—a mix of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs for this particular class. Perhaps because of the oppressively cold environment, or perhaps because of the terrifying legends surrounding Professor Snape, not a single young wizard dared to shout or joke. An unusual silence settled over the normally chatty first-years.
In that heavy quiet—
"BANG!"
The dungeon door slammed open with explosive force. A man with greasy black hair and a hooked nose strode into the classroom with predatory grace. His black robes billowed behind him like bat wings, the fabric flowing dramatically with each purposeful step. In mere moments, he'd crossed the room and swept onto the raised platform at the front, his dark eyes already scanning the assembled students with evident displeasure.
"Pay attention." His voice was cold and low, cutting through the silence like a blade. "This class does not require you to recite spells foolishly or wave your wands around like imbeciles. I don't expect many of you will appreciate the subtle science and precise art of potion-making."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across their faces with calculated menace. "However, for those select few who possess the predisposition, I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can show you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death."
Another pause, longer this time, letting the weight of his words sink in. "There is only one condition—that you are not one of the dunderheaded dolts I so frequently encounter in these dungeons."
His voice was simultaneously gloomy and powerful, commanding absolute silence. Not a single student dared to move.
"Hannah Abbott!" Snape's sharp voice cracked like a whip, his gaze fixing on a Hufflepuff girl with blonde pigtails. "Tell me—how should slugs be processed for use in potions?"
Being targeted by those cold, black eyes made Hannah's voice tremble audibly. "B-boil them, Professor."
Hannah had obviously read the textbook in advance—this was only from the first chapter—and so she narrowly escaped disaster.
"Sit down." Snape's expression remained sour, as if her correct answer had somehow disappointed him.
"Shawn Green." His attention swivelled immediately. "Tell me—how would you process horned slugs differently from common slugs?"
He leaned forward slightly, his considerable height blocking out even the candlelight, casting Shawn in shadow.
"Boil them for approximately three minutes longer due to their tougher integument, Professor," Shawn answered immediately, his voice steady.
"Acceptable." Snape swept away without praise, already targeting his next victim.
"Wayne Hopkins! What is a bezoar?"
He loomed over Wayne like a thundercloud about to break. The short-haired Hufflepuff boy's voice sounded strangled: "I don't know, Professor."
"If your troll-sized brain could still function at even minimal capacity, you would know that a bezoar is a stone taken from a goat's stomach. It can serve as an antidote to most poisons." Snape's withering glare remained fixed on Wayne until the boy began trembling visibly. "Sit down! One point from Hufflepuff for your classmate Wayne's catastrophically empty skull!"
He surveyed the entire classroom with predatory satisfaction. No one dared meet his gaze directly.
"The rest of you—why aren't you writing this down?!"
In the oppressive atmosphere, quills scratched frantically against parchment, as if the act of taking notes might provide protection from Professor Snape's wrath.
The brutal questioning continued. "Ernie Macmillan!" Each name was delivered like a curse; each answer was scrutinised for the slightest imperfection. He was completely merciless—a house point deduction machine operating at peak efficiency.
When the interrogation session finally ended, Ravenclaw had lost six points while Hufflepuff had haemorrhaged twelve. This naturally led Shawn to a disturbing realisation: Slytherin's six consecutive House Cup championships seemed directly attributable to Professor Snape's systematic bias.
In the original timeline, Snape had memorised every student's name specifically to facilitate more efficient point deductions. Professor Snape, he really was... dedicated to his house, at least.
Professor Snape's next words commanded every student's complete attention.
"Listen carefully." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the dungeon. "If anyone dares to arbitrarily change potion formulas or add or remove steps without authorisation, the consequences will be severe."
He swept his gaze across every face, ensuring no student was distracted even for a moment.
Then he began demonstrating the Cure for Boils—a simple healing potion for treating skin eruptions. The cauldron before him began steaming almost immediately. Within minutes, it bubbled energetically, producing a pot of dark green, viscous potion that gave off a faintly minty smell.
"I don't expect any of you to succeed quickly," Snape said, his tone suggesting he expected most of them to fail spectacularly. "I only hope certain idiots don't create dangerous situations. What are you waiting for? Pair up and begin!"
Justin's face had gone pale, but he forced himself to remain calm and began gathering ingredients methodically. Shawn wasn't much better—not because of the oppressive atmosphere Professor Snape generated, but because of genuine nervousness about his unknown Potions talent. This would be his first real test.
"Slugs, dried nettles, crushed snake fangs, porcupine quills..." Justin laid out each ingredient carefully, then glanced at Shawn for confirmation. "These are correct, right?"
Seeing Shawn's calm expression and measured nod, Justin relaxed considerably.
"Yes. Let's follow the instructions precisely," Shawn said. "We'll process the slugs first while the cauldron preheats."
Justin immediately understood and began lighting the fire beneath their cauldron. The textbook emphasised that cauldrons required proper preheating for optimal results.
"Should we use my cauldron?" Justin asked quietly, gesturing to his gleaming silver vessel.
Shawn glanced at Justin's expensive silver cauldron, then at his own third-grade brass one—purchased through gritted teeth and careful budgeting—and nodded appreciatively. While cauldron quality wouldn't dramatically affect the potion's outcome, Justin's superior equipment would certainly provide some advantage, even if only psychological.
Having a wealthy friend sitting nearby was proving quite convenient, Shawn thought with quiet satisfaction. He picked up his knife and began carefully slicing the slugs into uniform pieces, determined to brew a perfect potion and prove he possessed at least some talent in this demanding subject.
