Chapter 10

The first messenger owl flew out of the owlery, and the first streak of orange sunlight climbed the towers of Hogwarts Castle.

The corridors buzzed again with activity,

a large group of young wizards heading down the spiral stairs toward the dungeons.

“I heard the Potions professor is Professor Snape,”

Michael rubbed his bleary eyes—he’d spent last night studying a quill and was still yawning—

“rumor from the Ravenclaw common room: the older wizards say Professor Snape is the very one in all of Hogwarts—”

he paused deliberately, making Terry beside him stretch his neck and press his ear closer,

even the murmurs of surrounding students grew quieter.

“He’s the one in all of Hogwarts—who deducts the most house points.”

His voice trembled, matching the growing chill in the air; the students’ faces turned paler.

Amid this artificially constructed tension,

they arrived at the Potions classroom.

It was a basement room, several degrees colder than the castle above,

and even by day, little sunlight reached here,

lit only by floating candles.

Along the walls stood glass jars filled with various animal specimens,

Wizard Sean chose a seat not far from them, turning his head to see a bat’s spleen,

a material used in potion-making, for Swelling Draught.

He had barely sat down when a boy with dimples took the seat beside him.

“Wizard Sean, I knew you’d come early.”

Jia Jia Siting beamed with a warm smile, then took out his glass flask and placed it neatly on the desk.

Michael, who had been trying to sit beside Wizard Sean, stared wide-eyed, checking again in disbelief:

“Illusion? When did he get here?”

Then he muttered and found a random seat.

Soon all students had arrived; perhaps due to the cold environment, or perhaps because of Snape’s terrifying reputation, not a single student dared shout or scream.

In complete silence,

“Bang—”

A loud crash came from the dungeon door as a sallow-faced man with a hooked nose strode in,

his cloak billowing like black bat wings,

and in three swift, precise, decisive steps he mounted the podium.

“Listen—”

his voice was cold and low,

“this class does not require you to chant spells mindlessly or wave your wands wildly…

so I assume few of you understand how to appreciate potion-making as a profound science and precise art,

yet for the very few who truly have the inclination,

I will teach you to confuse minds and deceive senses,

I will teach you to earn fame and forge glory…

on one condition only: that you are not the usual kind of idiot I encounter!”

His voice, dark and commanding, instantly silenced the room.

“Hannah Abbott! Tell me how to treat a slug!”

His gaze sharpened like a storm sweeping over the young witch beside him.

Under that stare, the girl with braids’ voice trembled:

“Boil them, Professor.”

Hannah had clearly reviewed the textbook beforehand—even though this was only

she narrowly escaped punishment.

“Sit down!”

Snape’s expression did not improve.

“Wizard Sean Green, tell me how you would treat a horned slug?”

He leaned forward slightly, blocking the candlelight.

“Boil them longer—about three minutes, Professor.”

Wizard Sean answered immediately.

“Acceptable,”

Snape swept away instantly,

“Wayne Hopkins! What is bezoar?”

He loomed over Wayne like a black cloud; the short-haired boy’s voice came out strained:

“I don’t know, Professor.”

“If your troll-sized brain could still function, you’d know bezoar is a solid substance extracted from a goat’s stomach, used as an antidote in potions.”

Snape’s deathly gaze remained fixed on Wayne; the short-haired boy began to tremble.

“Sit down! Hufflepuff loses one point—for Wayne’s empty head!”

He scanned the room; no one dared meet his eyes,

“Why aren’t you all writing this down?!”

Under the oppressive atmosphere, students scribbled furiously, as if writing could shield them from Snape’s storm,

and Snape’s deadly roll call continued,

“Ernie Macmillan!”

…

He was like a merciless point-deducting machine; when the questioning ended,

Ravenclaw had lost six points, and Hufflepuff had lost a full twelve.

This naturally sparked a thought in Wizard Sean’s mind:

Slytherin’s six-year streak of dominance… must be tied to Professor Snape’s efforts.

In the original story, Professor Snape kept a list of every student’s name to make point deductions easier.

Professor Snape—he really…

What Snape said next made Wizard Sean lean in, listening closely.

“Listen carefully—if anyone dares alter a potion recipe or add or remove steps—”

Snape’s dark gaze swept over every face, ensuring no one dared to lose focus.

Then he began instructing the steps for Wartbane Potion, a simple remedy for boils.

Before him, the cauldron steamed; within minutes, bubbles rose, turning into a thick, ink-green brew.

“I don’t expect any of you to succeed quickly—only hope no idiot creates a hazard—

what are you waiting for? Pair up and start now!”

Jia Jia Siting’s face turned pale; he forced calm and followed the steps.

Wizard Sean wasn’t faring much better—not because of Snape’s oppressive aura, but from anxiety over his own unknown potion talent.

“Slugs, dried nettle, ground snake fang, porcupine quills…

Wizard Sean, these are correct, right?”

Jia Jia Siting watched Wizard Sean arrange the ingredients, asking with lingering fear; seeing Wizard Sean’s calm face, he himself relaxed somewhat.

“Mm.”

Wizard Sean nodded, then began processing the ingredients according to the textbook’s standard,

“Follow the steps—we’ll start with the slugs.”

Jia Jia Siting immediately understood and lit the cauldron.

The book said the cauldron needed preheating.

“Use my cauldron?”

Jia Jia Siting asked softly,

Wizard Sean glanced at Jia Jia Siting’s silver cauldron, then nodded.

The cauldron’s quality doesn’t greatly affect potion quality, but Jia Jia Siting’s silver one was far superior to Wizard Sean’s own third-grade brass cauldron, bought with gritted teeth.

It offered a slight boost in success rate—even if only psychological.

It’s not bad to have a hidden rich kid sitting beside you,

Wizard Sean thought.