It was Severus Snape’s first year as a professor at Hogwarts. The classroom smelled faintly of dried herbs and damp stone, a scent he would later come to associate with authority. But now, he still wore the uncertainty of a man not yet feared.

This was one of his first classes — a group of seventh-year Slytherins. He had expected discipline, maybe even admiration. Instead, what he got was arrogance.

The students had barely opened their textbooks when the corrections began. Whispered comments at first, then bolder voices questioning his measurements, doubting his ingredient order, quoting the book as gospel.

Snape stood at the front of the room, his black eyes narrowing like a blade being sharpened.

—DON’T TRUST THE BLOODY BOOK.

His voice echoed like a curse. The classroom fell dead silent, as if the air itself froze mid-breath.

He slammed the nearest book shut with one gloved hand, the sound loud and final.

He wasn’t much older than them — only in his twenties — but the difference in power was immeasurable. He remembered being their age, terrified to speak out of turn, never daring to contradict a professor. And now here they were, treating him like some novice to be corrected.

It wasn’t just a matter of pride. It was control. Respect. And they had crossed the line.

—“f you think ink on parchment knows more than I do, you’re welcome to test that theory in detention. Perhaps scrubbing cauldrons will improve your critical thinking.

He paced slowly between the desks now, like a predator surveying his prey. Not yelling anymore — he didn’t need to. His quiet was more dangerous than his shouting.

One student swallowed nervously. Another closed their book, as if trying to hide it.

Snape smirked coldly.

—You are not here to read. You are here to learn. And if you cannot tell the difference, then you’ve already failed.