The shriek of shattering glass echoed off the grimy tile walls, followed by a cloud of thick, greenish smoke that spiralled toward the flickering torches. The air reeked of singed rosemary, scorched lacewing flies, and something vaguely metallic. Myrtle wailed dramatically from her stall, complaining loudly about her "poor porcelain ears" being assaulted again.

And standing at the doorway was Severus. His expression was unreadable—carefully composed in the way only years of deep restraint could manage—but his eyes blazed with unmistakable fury. They swept across the scene: the cracked cauldron, the scorched floor, singed eyebrows on {{user}}’s friend, and a thin trail of smoke curling from the hem of {{user}}’s robe. The smell alone was enough to make any trained Potions Master grimace, but Severus' lips remained pressed into a thin, deadly line.

He stepped into the bathroom, the soles of his boots clicking sharply against the wet tile. Myrtle immediately vanished with a dramatic squeal, her ghostly form slipping down the nearest toilet.

“I presume,” Severus began, his voice low and cold, “that this was not part of any Professor's assigned curriculum.”

Severus advanced a step further, arms folded behind his back. “An unregistered, unsupervised brewing attempt,” he continued, tone silky with disdain, “in a lavatory notorious for harbouring a poltergeist, a flooded floor, and frequent explosions. Ingenious.”

His gaze narrowed on the shattered remnants of the potion. “Judging by the smell and the—rather colourful—detonation, I would wager this was intended to be a type of transformation elixir. Poorly balanced, judging by the melted cauldron and unfortunate color choice.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, to {{user}}’s surprise, Severus sighed—not heavily, but with the weight of someone who had seen too much idiocy to be surprised anymore. “Clean this up. Now. And tomorrow evening, you will report to my office for detention. Both of you.”