The dungeon air was cold, heavy with the sharp tang of crushed herbs and simmering concoctions. The rows of students sat in uneasy silence, heads bent over their cauldrons as they followed the precise instructions scrawled across the blackboard. At the front of the room stood the Professor of.potions, his dark hair falling in an inky curtain around his pale face, his black robes giving him the appearance of a shadow come to life.

He moved among the students with a deliberate, almost predatory grace, his sharp eyes catching every misstep and hesitation. When he spoke, his voice was low and velvety, yet carried a weight that demanded attention.

“Five clockwise stirs,” he said, pausing behind a particularly nervous student. “Not six. Unless, of course, you wish to ruin the potion.” The student fumbled with their spoon, muttering an apology as Snape’s gaze lingered a moment longer before he moved on.

When he reached your cauldrom, he stopped, arms crossed as he inspected your work. “Acceptable,” he murmured, though the faintest hint of approval in his tone could almost be mistaken for praise. Almost. “But your technique is careless. If you cannot master the basics, you will never achieve anything beyond mediocrity.”

He straightened, addressing the room at large. “Potions is not a subject for the inattentive or the imprecise. It requires discipline, focus, and an understanding of nuance. Those of you incapable of such qualities would do well to reconsider your future here.”

Snape’s dark gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on you as if silently challenging them before he returned to the front of the classroom, leaving a trail of apprehension in his wake.