Potions Class

If Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom was like a solemn academic hall, then Professor Snape's underground Potions classroom was more like a black market run by gnomes—cold, damp, and filled with a suspiciously complex stench of old herbs and rotting roots.

Various gruesome specimens floated in glass jars hanging from the ceiling: webbed fingers, bulging eyeballs, and a clump of gray matter that seemed to be writhing.

By the time Yulian followed the Ravenclaw line into the room, the little Hufflepuffs were already sitting obediently in their seats. Lyria was still wrapped in her cloak, sitting in a corner as if she had blended into the gloomy surroundings.

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

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

"Shut up, Moretti," Edgar said sternly, pushing up his glasses. "Focus! Remember what Professor McGonagall said!"

Just then, a cold, oily voice, like a snake sliding over stone, came from the shadows at the front of the classroom. "If you can't keep your mouths shut while discussing potion recipes, I'd be happy to use a Stitching Charm to put an end to that problem permanently."

All the young witches and wizards fell silent at once.

Professor Snape seemed to condense out of the darkness, appearing at the lectern without a sound.

His black robes were even darker than they had been the day before. His thin lips, beneath his hooked nose, were pressed into a merciless line, and his gaze swept across the room like a searchlight. Wherever it passed, even the air seemed to freeze.

His eyes passed over Hufflepuff, then swept across Ravenclaw. When he saw Lyria's out-of-place cloak, one corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. He clearly disapproved of such "disorderly" behavior.

But when his gaze shifted toward Ravenclaw and landed on a new face, it suddenly stopped.

The boy had dark, slightly wavy hair, fair skin, and a straight posture that conveyed a composure beyond his years.

What made Snape's heart miss a beat was the pair of eyes the boy revealed when he raised his head—emerald green, clear and bright, like olive leaves after the rain, and like... like that unreachable figure buried deep in his memories.

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

He quickly looked away, as if that flash of green had burned him. His voice sank even lower. "Potions—this subject's intricacies cannot be grasped by waving a wand about like a troll."

Professor Snape spoke as he paced slowly, his eyes roaming the room. His voice was so quiet it was almost a murmur, yet in the silent classroom, every young witch and wizard could hear him clearly.

The temperature in the classroom seemed to drop further. "I don't expect many of you to have the genuine talent to appreciate the intoxicating wonders of Potions—but at the very least," Snape suddenly raised his voice, "don't use idiotic methods to defile the sacred cauldron."

Having said that, Snape had just paced back to the lectern. "Today, we'll be making the Boil-Curing Potion. I've written the steps on the blackboard. They correspond to page fifty-nine of your textbooks. I expect—"

He placed particular emphasis on his next words. "And don't be like certain self-important houses this morning and turn this classroom into a stage for showing off your stupidity!"

"Begin," he ordered curtly, then turned and walked toward his desk, his black robes billowing behind him like an ominous cloud.

The classroom immediately filled with the rustling of pages and the clatter of students searching for their things.

Some young witches and wizards hadn't even taken their cauldrons out of their packaging since buying them, let alone practiced using them. And no one thought to ask why the lesson wasn't starting from page one.

Yulian clearly remembered that the first lesson in the Potions textbook should have introduced the equipment used in potion-making and explained how to use it, much like a chemistry lab class in his previous life. Naturally, he wasn't about to invite trouble by bringing it up.

So he began following the instructions on the blackboard, handling the Porcupine Quills and dried nettles with precise, fluid movements. Like Hermione, he had memorized the textbook, and he had already noticed that Snape's instructions differed slightly from those in the book. For instance, there were details about how to crush the nettles.

Where the instructions differed, Yulian followed Snape's steps. A Potions Master had his reasons for writing them that way. At the same time, he could feel Snape's gaze drifting toward him from time to time, assessing him with an inscrutable, complicated emotion.

"Mr. Black," Snape suddenly said. His voice wasn't loud, but the whole classroom fell silent again. "You seem very confident in your work?"

Yulian looked up, wearing an innocuous smile. "I'm simply following the standard procedure, Professor. You said that precision was the first principle of Potions."

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

"Precision?" He gave a cold laugh. "Then tell me, why are your Porcupine Quill slices a full half-millimeter wider than the standard requires? Are your eyes failing you, or are your hands unsteady?"

The students around them held their breath. Just as the Gryffindors had said, Snape really was nitpicking!

Not a single young witch or wizard could guarantee that every slice they made would be exactly the same thickness.

Yulian didn't panic. He picked up a piece of Porcupine Quill and answered calmly, "Because today's quills are a little dry, Professor. If I cut them to the standard thickness, they'll absorb too much moisture when the tentacled caterpillar juice is added later, affecting the potion's consistency. Making them a little thicker will help them retain their structure during brewing."

Snape was taken aback. He really hadn't expected a first-year student not only to notice differences in the condition of the ingredients, but also to make such a subtle adjustment based on experience.

This went beyond rote memorization and touched on the true heart of Potions—understanding and adaptability.

He was silent for several seconds, his hawk-like gaze fixed on Yulian's emerald-green eyes, as if trying to find a trace of arrogance or deceit in them. But all he saw was clear confidence and respect for knowledge.

"Hmph," Snape finally snorted through his nose, then turned away. "I hope your finished potion lives up to that silver tongue of yours. Otherwise, Ravenclaw will pay for your arrogance."

He was still threatening to take points, but there was noticeably less bite in his tone. Yulian knew he had gotten through this round—for now.

For the rest of the lesson, Snape returned to his usual "fair" self. He prowled the classroom like a hunting vulture, striking down every student who made a mistake, no matter which house they belonged to. Since there were no Slytherins in the room, Snape was even less restrained.

"Miss Burns!" he barked. "Are you planning to feed your dried nettles to a troll? They're cut so roughly! Hufflepuff, lose one point!"

"Mr. Boot," he said, stopping behind Terry Boot and pointing at his cauldron. "Your flame is three degrees too hot. The potion is already scorching. Ravenclaw, lose two points!"