As always, the Potions Classroom was filled with a cold dampness that could seep into the very marrow of one's bones.
This was the dungeon, the place that saw the least daylight of all the classrooms at Hogwarts, and Severus Snape's absolute domain.
Here, sunlight, warmth, and the nauseating fervor called "Holmes" that had recently swept through the entire school should all have been shut out completely by the thick stone walls.
That was what Snape believed.
Like a great black bat entrenched in its own cave, he swept his cold, hollow eyes over the trembling young witches and wizards below.
The bitterness of wormwood mingled with the rank smell of African tree snake skin in the air. The liquid churning in the cauldrons gave off monotonous bubbling sounds, like the last gasps of some dying creature.
All of it put him at ease.
This was what magic ought to be: rigorous, precise, dangerous, and devoid of any unnecessary emotion.
Yet that peace was soon shattered.
He was marking the fifth years' essays on the Calming Draught, red ink dripping like blood from the tip of his quill and leaving scathing comments across the parchment.
"T" (Troll-level ineptitude).
"D" (Dreadful).
Those cold letters gave him a sliver of perverse pleasure, as though he were using this method.
To declare a silent war on Holmes, whom countless students now worshipped as a god, and who had even drawn the attention of the entire wizarding world.
That damned fraud in his Muggle trench coat had used one attention-seeking lecture by the lake.
To make unheard-of nonsense like "Dragon-Slaying Champion Syndrome" the trendiest term at Hogwarts.
When he heard students in the corridors enthusiastically discussing things like "cognitive dissonance" and "emotional blackmail," it felt as though his stomach had been stuffed with a