Potions Class

If Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom was a solemn hall of academia, then Professor Snape's Potions classroom in the dungeons was a black market run by goblins – cold, damp, and filled with an air that mingled aged herbs, rotting roots, and some suspicious, complex scent.

Glass jars hung from the ceiling, containing all sorts of gruesome specimens: webbed fingers, bulging eyeballs, and a mass of what looked like wriggling grey matter.

As Yulian followed the Ravenclaw group in, the little badgers of Hufflepuff were already seated obediently. Lyria, still wrapped in her cloak, sat in a corner, as if merged with the eerie environment.

Hannah Abbott was nervously flipping through Beginner Potion Making, muttering to herself. It was clear the little badgers had also heard about what happened to Gryffindor that morning.

"I hope we don't blow up any cauldrons today," Kayson muttered quietly behind Yulian, "I don't want to end up as a frog pickled in formaldehyde."

"Shut up, Moretti," Edgar pushed up his glasses, his face solemn, "Focus! Remember Professor McGonagall's words!"

Just then, a cold, greasy voice, like a snake slithering across stone, echoed from the shadows at the front of the classroom: "If your mouths can't be quiet enough to discuss potion recipes, I don't mind using the Stitching Charm to permanently solve that problem for you."

All the young Wizards instantly fell silent as if struck by a spell.

Professor Snape appeared at the front of the class as if coalescing from the darkness, silent and swift.

His black robes were even darker than they had seemed yesterday. The thin lips beneath his aquiline nose were pressed into a merciless straight line. His gaze swept the room like a searchlight, and where it landed, even the air seemed to freeze.

His eyes passed over Hufflepuff, then swept across Ravenclaw. When he saw Lyria's cloak, which was out of place, the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. He was clearly displeased with such "unconventional" behavior.

But when his gaze shifted to the Ravenclaw side and landed on a new face, it abruptly stopped.

The boy had a head of slightly curly dark hair, fair skin, and a tall, straight posture, carrying a composure beyond his years.

What made Snape's heart skip a beat the most were his eyes when he looked up – emerald green, clear, and bright, like olive leaves after rain, or like... like a shadow in the depths of his memory that he could never reach.

Snape's pupils contracted sharply. However, when he thought of the boy's surname, his expression turned even more sinister.

He quickly averted his gaze, as if burned by that green, his voice growing deeper: "Potions – the subtlety of this subject is far beyond what can be grasped by waving a wand like a troll."

Professor Snape paced slowly, his eyes darting around as he spoke. His voice was very soft, almost a murmur, but in the silent classroom, it could still be clearly heard by every young Wizard.

The temperature in the classroom seemed to drop even lower. "I don't expect many of you to possess the true talent to appreciate the intoxicating allure of potions – but at least," Snape suddenly raised his voice, "do not defile the sacred cauldron with foolish actions."

Having said this, Snape returned to the lectern. "Today, we are learning the Boil-Curing Potion. The steps are written on the blackboard. Refer to page 59 of your textbook. I hope,"

He deliberately emphasized his tone, "that you will not, like certain self-important houses this morning, treat this place as a stage for your foolish displays!"

"Begin," he commanded concisely, then turned and walked towards his desk, the black hem of his robe billowing behind him like an ominous dark cloud.

A rustling sound of turning pages and the clatter of searching for ingredients immediately filled the classroom.

Some young Wizards hadn't even opened the packaging of their cauldrons since they bought them, let alone practiced using them. No one even thought to ask why the lesson wasn't starting from the first page.

Yulian clearly remembered that the first lesson in the Potions textbook should have been an introduction to potion-making equipment and a tutorial on its use, much like chemistry lab classes in his previous life. Of course, he wouldn't court disaster.

So, he began to process the porcupine quills and dried nettles according to the instructions on the blackboard, his movements precise and fluid. Like Hermione, who had memorized the textbook, he had keenly noticed subtle differences between what Snape had written and what was in the textbook. For instance, the detail of crushing the nettles.

Where there were differences, Yulian still followed Snape's instructions step by step. A Potions Master must have his reasons for writing it that way. At the same time, he could feel Snape's gaze occasionally drifting over, filled with scrutiny and a hint of indescribable complex emotion.

"Mr. Black," Snape suddenly spoke, his voice not loud, but it silenced the entire classroom again. "You seem quite confident in your operations?"

Yulian looked up, a harmless smile on his face. "I'm just strictly following the standard procedure, Professor. You said precision is the first tenet of Potions."

Snape narrowed his eyes and walked over slowly. He stood beside Yulian's cauldron, looking down at the bubbling purple liquid inside.

"Precision?" he sneered. "Then tell me, why is the thickness of your porcupine quill slices half a millimeter wider than the standard requirement? Are your eyes bad, or are your hands clumsy?"

The surrounding students held their breath. Just as the Gryffindor students had said, this was nitpicking!

None of the young Wizards could guarantee that their slices were of uniform thickness.

Yulian did not panic. He picked up a slice of porcupine quill and replied calmly, "Because today's porcupine quills are a bit dry, Professor. If sliced to the standard thickness, when the caterpillar fluid with tentacles is added later, it will absorb too much moisture and affect the uniformity of the potion's efficacy. I slightly increased the thickness to ensure its structural integrity during brewing."

Snape was taken aback. He truly hadn't expected a first-year student to not only notice the difference in the raw materials but also make such a subtle adjustment based on experience.

This went beyond rote memorization and touched upon the true essence of Potions – understanding and adaptability.

He was silent for a few seconds, his hawk-like gaze fixed on Yulian's emerald green eyes, trying to find a trace of arrogance or hypocrisy. But he only saw clear confidence and respect for knowledge.

"Hmph," Snape finally let out a cold snort from his nose and turned away. "I hope the final product of your potion can live up to your glib tongue. Otherwise, Ravenclaw will pay the price for your arrogance."

Although it was still a threat of point deduction, the harshness in his tone had lessened considerably. Yulian knew he had temporarily passed.

For the rest of the time, Snape indeed returned to his "fair" nature. He patrolled the classroom like a hunting vulture, precisely striking down any student who made a mistake, regardless of their house. Of course, there were no Slytherins, so Snape was even more uninhibited.

"Miss Burns!" he shouted sternly. "Are you planning to feed your dried nettles to a troll? They're chopped so coarsely! Hufflepuff, minus one point!"

"Mr. Boot," he said, standing behind Terry Boot and pointing at his cauldron, "your flame temperature is three degrees too high. The potion is already scorching. Ravenclaw, minus two points!"