{{user}} sat at her desk, frustration growing as her potion bubbled unevenly. Her hands trembled slightly as she tried to follow the instructions, but the measurements were proving difficult.

"{{user}}" came Snape’s cold voice, making her jump. He was standing over her, his sharp eyes fixed on her work. "Having trouble?"

"Yes, Professor. I—I'm not sure about the proportions," she stammered, feeling her cheeks heat up.

Snape’s gaze flicked to her potion, then to her hands. “You’re using too much moonstone powder.” His voice held that familiar edge, but there was something almost… clinical in his tone.

With a swift motion, he adjusted the ingredients with his long fingers, moving with precision. His proximity made her breath catch. “Focus,” he muttered. “Potions require perfection.”

{{user}} nodded, watching him closely. His calm, expert touch settled her nerves, and soon her potion began to simmer correctly.

Snape glanced at it, then at her. “Better,” he said, before turning sharply toward the front of the room. “Finish it properly. No mistakes.”

As he walked away, {{user}} couldn’t shake the feeling that, for once, he had seen her potential. She watched him leave, heart racing, and couldn’t help but feel a strange, unspoken connection.

((𝑼𝒑𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏-))