Chapter 11: Potions Class (Patreon)

The Potions classroom, two levels below the castle, was colder and damper than any corridor in Hogwarts.

Hundreds of glass jars sat in soaking rows on the gloomy shelves along the walls, holding animal organs and the dried, shriveled specimens of strange plants.

The feeble candle flames overhead danced across stone walls beaded with condensation, casting a cold sheen over the dozens of heavy pewter cauldrons below.

The first-years sat in pairs around the long tables. Gryffindor was on the left, Slytherin on the right, as if an invisible border ran down the middle.

In the second row on the left, Harry's palms were damp with a thin film of cold sweat. His eyes kept drifting to the blackboard, and his fingers were clamped around the scrap of parchment he'd taken from Hedwig's leg that morning.

Next to him, Ron had gone pale and was fidgeting nervously with his battered old scales.

In the front row of the Slytherin table, Raven had already laid out his scales, brass weights, obsidian stirring rod, and a full set of silver dissecting knives, polished spotless, in neat order on a cork mat.

At the next table over, Draconia tilted up her snow-white face and stared at the tools beside Raven's hand with an almost appraising intensity.

The young lady had clearly sprinted back from the dormitory to tear through One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi again. Her chest rose and fell slightly, and her water-grey-blue eyes were full of stubbornness and an eagerness for battle.

Bang!

The heavy oak door was thrown open with a violent shove and slammed against the stone wall with a dull thud that made every heart jump.

Borne in on a chill gust of dungeon wind, a figure as black as a billowing night bat strode into the room.

His black wool robes surged out behind him. Severus Snape's sallow face, long hidden beneath lank, greasy black hair, was utterly bloodless, and from deep within their sunken sockets his cold, hollow eyes, black as obsidian, swept over the room like a hawk's.

The faint whispering in the classroom died away in an instant.

Snape walked straight to the front of the room and opened the parchment roll-book. His voice was soft, nearly a whisper, yet it carried a pressure that froze the very air in the stone chamber.

"In this classroom, you will not need to wave your wands about like fools, and so I do not expect many of you to truly grasp this subtle, exacting science and this rigorous craft called Potions..."

He paused briefly and planted both hands on the icy lectern. His black robes all but melted into the stone wall behind him.

"But for the very few who possess real potential—"

Snape's gaze passed over Raven, sitting straight-backed in the front row, then lingered on Draconia for half a second, almost imperceptibly. His voice sank lower still, trembling like a cello string.

"I can teach you to lull the mind to sleep and sharpen the senses. I can teach you to bottle fame, to brew glory, even to… stop death."

The room was dead silent. Hermione Granger, seated at the very edge, had shifted nearly off her stool, her eyes burning with a fervor that said she wanted to carve every word into her brain on the spot.

The roll call continued.

"Potter." Snape suddenly stopped his pen and looked up. His cold black eyes stabbed like poisoned needles at the green-eyed boy shrinking behind the long table.

"Harry Potter. Our new… celebrity." A mocking, unmistakably spiteful curl tugged at the corner of Snape's mouth. "Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Hermione's hand shot up with a whoosh, nearly poking the dungeon ceiling.

Harry's heart skipped a beat at being called on so suddenly.

By his old habits, faced with such an ambush, his mind would have gone blank and he'd have ducked his head and apologized. But just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the calm, composed profile of a dark-haired boy at the front of the Slytherin table.

"Professor Snape despises smart-alecks, but respects precision and quiet… Just mind your own cauldron." The words on the morning's note slid through his mind like a clear stream.

Harry swallowed, forced his shaking voice under control, met Snape's cold stare, and answered honestly and clearly.

"Sir, I don't know exactly what wormwood and asphodel make together, but I remember the textbook saying asphodel has a very strong sedative effect. So mixing the two should give a powerful sleeping potion, or something that fakes death."

Hermione's hand trembled slightly, and she turned to look at Harry in some surprise. Draconia lifted a delicate brow, and a flicker of surprise crossed her eyes.

Snape's brow creased, barely perceptibly. A chill of frustration crossed that perpetually sour face, the look of a man who hadn't quite found his handle.

"Half right by sheer luck. It is the Draught of Living Death."

Snape didn't stop there. His words came faster, his voice colder. "Then, Potter, if I told you to find me a bezoar, where would you look?"

Draconia nearly raised her hand on reflex. Harry, however, didn't hesitate at all this time.

The line Raven had underlined in bold on the note that morning surfaced sharply in his mind. "From the stomach of a goat, sir." Harry sat ramrod straight, his voice far steadier now. "It forms from undigested matter and stomach-acid stones settling in a goat's stomach, and it can cure most of the common poisons we know of."

Silence settled over the whole dungeon, eerie and complete.

Snape's hollow, fathomless black eyes narrowed. He looked down at the boy before him, with his unruly black hair and the scar on his forehead.

This was no boy raised by Muggles, ignorant of magic before term began, who could toss off such precision in his very first lesson. The explanation of the stomach-acid mechanism, especially, was knowledge that wouldn't normally come up before second year.

Snape's cold gaze slid off Harry almost involuntarily and, very discreetly, scraped across the face of the impassive Capet boy at the front of the Slytherin table.

"…The answer is barely adequate."

Snape forced a cold snort from deep in his throat and swept his robes aside. Contrary to rumor, he did not take the opportunity to dock points from Gryffindor. "Sit down, Potter. It seems that before setting foot in this room you at least learned to consult someone with a brain, rather than leaving yours under your pillow in the dormitory like your neighbor Weasley."

The tips of Ron's ears went bright red, but Harry slumped back into his seat in relief and, under the table, shot Raven a look brimming with gratitude and admiration.

Raven's expression didn't change. His gaze didn't shift even a fraction.

Yet Snape didn't walk back to his lesson notes.

The black-robed Potions master descended the steps slowly, his boots striking the cold flagstones with heavy, measured clicks.

At last, he stopped in front of Raven's desk.