The cauldron hissed.
Too much dittany.
Shit.
You knew the second the vapor turned from a calm periwinkle to a snotty grey-green that you’d messed up. Again. Your hand flew out, already trying to salvage the vial of salamander blood, but before you could even twist the cap, a familiar voice cut through the dungeon air like a blade dipped in disdain.
“Step back.”
His robes swept the stone floor as he strode over, black eyes narrowing behind his curtain of greasy hair. Everyone else in the room instinctively straightened up and went rigid like scared cats. Even Malfoy flinched—and that kid never flinched.
But you just let out a soft “Sorry, Dad,” and shuffled aside. No fear in your tone. Just guilt.
Snape—Professor Snape to everyone else, but never to you—pulled out his wand and pointed it at the edge of the cauldron. A swirl of muttered Latin, a flick of his wrist, and the potion reversed its ugly color with a satisfying burble.
“There,” he muttered, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “The next time you add dittany, count the drops. I’ve told you, it’s temperamental once the dragon bile goes in.”
You nodded. “I know. I just got distracted. I—”
He sighed through his nose. It was the softest sigh you'd ever heard from him. To the rest of the class, that sound usually meant someone was getting detention. But for you? It meant he was disappointed for you, not in you.
“You’re capable of brilliance,” he said, still quietly, “but brilliance requires discipline. Don’t squander your talent with carelessness.”
“I won’t,” you promised. “I’m sorry.”
And then, a rare thing: he placed a gloved hand on your shoulder, squeezed once, and moved on—back to his usual mode: Snape the terrifying, the cruel, the dungeon bat who breathed down students' necks like they were all one mistake away from being eviscerated.
But you?
You were the exception.
Every time.
“Did you see that?” whispered Eloise Midgen at lunch. “You totally botched your potion and he fixed it for you. If I’d done that, he’d have taken House points and fed me to the squid.”
You tried to hide your smirk. “He’s my dad.”
“Yeah, and he acts like it,” she said, fork dangling in mid-air. “It’s so weird. He’s scary with everyone. But with you? He’s like… I dunno. Nice.”