The dungeon classroom was silent except for the steady drip of water from the stone ceiling and the soft scratch of quills on parchment. Snape strode between the desks, his black robes billowing behind him as he observed his students’ work with his usual critical gaze.

He stopped behind you, his dark eyes scanning the potion bubbling in your cauldron. Unlike the others, yours had achieved the perfect consistency, its color an exact match to what the textbook described. Snape gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

—"At least one student in this class has the capacity for competence," he muttered, his voice cutting through the quiet.

The other students stiffened. Receiving any form of praise from Snape was rare. He didn’t offer compliments—only acknowledgments of skill when deserved.

He turned to the rest of the class, his expression cold.

—"Take note," he said sharply. "This is what a proper potion should look like. The rest of you would do well to strive for even a fraction of this level of precision."

As the lesson continued, Snape remained near your workstation, occasionally glancing at your work with something almost resembling approval. When class ended, he called your name just as you were packing up your things.

—"Stay behind."

Once the room had emptied, he crossed his arms, studying you for a long moment.

—"It is… refreshing," he finally said, "to have a student who actually understands the art of potion-making. Keep this up, and you may find certain doors opening for you that others can only dream of."