Precise Minefield Stepping

The Potions class continued in an atmosphere of extreme oppression and tension. Professor Snape glided silently through the classroom like a volcano on the verge of eruption. Wherever he went, students held their breath, afraid that any small mistake they made would ignite the professor's wrath.

Even Silas was unusually restrained, diligently following the steps to brew his Itching Potion. Although he had countless ideas in his mind for optimizing the process and enhancing the potion's efficacy, he wisely chose the most standard and foolproof method. After all, he didn't want to provoke the Potions professor, who was already on the verge of losing it.

Finally, class was about to end. Students began bottling their brewed potions and bringing them to the front of the desk for Professor Snape's grading.

When it was Silas's turn, he carefully placed a bottle of Itching Potion, perfect in color and clarity, in front of Snape. He believed he had done an impeccable job this time, even better than the standard sample in the textbook.

Snape picked up the bottle, examined it closely in the dim light, and then brought his long nose near the opening to sniff it (a movement so subtle, as if he were afraid of being offended by his own hair?). His face remained expressionless, but a fleeting, almost imperceptible flicker of surprise flashed in his eyes—the quality of this potion was indeed unexpectedly good.

However, this surprise was instantly replaced by the accumulated rage and a certain obsession to "suppress this kid's arrogance." He put down the bottle and, in his characteristic icy tone that could belittle someone to dust, unceremoniously remarked:

"T (Terrible, or Troll). Mr. Cyril, your operation was filled with meaningless caution and rigidity, like a troll trying to embroider with its club. Lacking spirit, lacking creativity. Another five points from Ravenclaw for wasting such standard materials to achieve such a mediocre result."

This grading and comment were clearly unfair, purely a personal vendetta fueled by emotion. Several students nearby who heard the evaluation wore expressions of disbelief; after all, the potion looked genuinely good.

Upon hearing the comment, Silas was first stunned, then a look of understanding mixed with slight annoyance appeared on his face. Unlike the other students who lowered their heads and silently endured, he did something that surprised everyone.

He took a deep, exaggerated sniff, as if carefully smelling something in the air. Then, he quickly raised his hand and pinched his nose tightly with two fingers, his brow furrowed, and his face contorted into an expression of extreme disgust, as if he had smelled something unbearably foul.

The timing and direction of his action were too obvious—just as Professor Snape finished evaluating him and was so close! It was a silent protest through action.

"You—!" Professor Snape's face instantly turned from ashen to liver-colored. The hand holding his wand tightened, his knuckles turning white from the force. A surge of violent magical power was about to erupt uncontrollably from him! In that moment, several images of casting Unforgivable Curses flashed through his mind!

The classroom fell into a deathly silence. Everyone was terrified, forgetting to even breathe. Justin Finch-Fletchley had already closed his eyes in despair, bracing himself for Professor Snape's thunderous rage, perhaps even a "teacher-student duel" in the classroom.

However, Snape was Snape, after all. At the last moment, his powerful self-control forcibly suppressed the almost bursting rage and curses. He took a deep, violent breath (a movement that made him look more like a puffed-up bat) and then, in a voice that was almost hoarse and filled with extreme, suppressed danger, he squeezed out from between his teeth:

"Get...out..."

Silas, as if granted amnesty (or perhaps he hadn't realized he had just brushed past death), immediately released his pinched nose, resumed a normal expression, and even gave a polite(?) nod: "Yes, Professor."

Then, he turned and, with light steps (which, to others, looked like a desperate escape), slipped out of the dungeon classroom as if a monstrous beast were chasing him.

As soon as he left, the frozen air in the classroom seemed to begin flowing again. Snape stood in place, his chest heaving several times, before sweeping his icy gaze over the remaining students, who were as silent as cicadas, and hoarsely said, "Next!"

That "silent protest" and swift departure seemed to have sucked out the last bit of oxygen from the dungeon. The remaining students, especially the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students who hadn't been graded yet, were ashen-faced and dared not even breathe heavily. They felt as if they were standing on the edge of an erupting volcano, and Professor Snape was that volcano suppressing an immense fury.

The subsequent grading session turned into a one-sided, cold, and merciless "slaughter."

Professor Snape clearly poured all his rage into the grading. He barely inspected the potions anymore, merely casting a cold glance at each trembling student who handed him a potion bottle, then uttering one letter after another in his emotionless voice, like the tolling of a death knell:

"T." — To a Hufflepuff girl whose potion's color was only slightly too dark.

"T." — To a Ravenclaw boy whose potion's clarity was nearly perfect.

"T." — Another Hufflepuff.

"T."

"T."

"T..."

He was like a cold repeater, continuously uttering this lowest possible grade. Each "T" that fell was like a heavy hammer striking the students' hearts. The hourglasses of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw (though still empty) seemed to already hear the "rustling" sound of points being deducted frantically.

The little badgers and eagles felt like dying. They wanted to cry but had no tears, their hearts filled with despair and grievance. They knew this wasn't because they had performed poorly; they were purely implicated by the audacious Silas! They now deeply regretted attending Potions class today, and even more so for being in the same class as Silas.

Justin Finch-Fletchley handed over his potion bottle almost in tears. Snape didn't even look at it, merely squeezing out a "T." from between his teeth.

Justin nearly fainted on the spot.

The entire grading process concluded in an atmosphere of extreme oppression and terror. When Snape finally announced "Class dismissed" in his bone-chilling voice, the students felt as if they had been granted a great pardon, practically scrambling out of the suffocating dungeon classroom as if Dementors were chasing them.

Snape, however, stood alone in the empty classroom, filled with the strange smells of various potions, his face so dark it could drip water. He stared intently at the workstation where Silas had stood, his black robes billowing without wind. He knew his grading today was unfair, but he didn't care. His mind was now filled with how, in the next Potions class, and the one after that, he would make that ignorant boy... pay a real price.

"Silas Cyril..." he murmured the name, the chill in his voice more biting than the coldest dungeon.

This Potions class was destined to be the eternal nightmare's beginning for the 1991 batch of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students. And Silas, the instigator of it all, might now be leisurely lying somewhere in the castle, basking in the sun, or perhaps planning to cook something delicious in his cauldron... completely unaware that he had already become a "disaster star" in the eyes of the new students from two houses.