Chapter 33 — Potions Class
The chill of the dungeons crept up Russell's ankles as he descended the stone steps. When he followed the crowd into the shadowed archway, the torches on the walls flickered to life with eerie blue flames. Glass jars lined the shelves, each containing murky liquids and unrecognizable creature parts that twitched faintly or bubbled ominously.
The class bell hadn't even rung yet, but the dungeon classroom was already packed. No one dared be late — every student had heard enough about the formidable Head of Slytherin to know better.
This session was shared between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff — as most of their classes were. Gryffindor typically paired with Slytherin, a decision Russell suspected was one of Dumbledore's well-meaning but misguided attempts to "foster house unity."
Personally, Russell thought it probably had the opposite effect. If anything, it only fanned the flames of rivalry even higher.
The bell tolled.
Snape swept into the room, his long, greasy black hair gleaming faintly in the torchlight. His face was as dark as the robes billowing behind him. In the shifting blue light, he looked less like a man and more like a bat demon emerging from the shadows.
Russell couldn't help thinking that Bruce Wayne had studied the wrong role model. Compared to Snape, actual bats were positively adorable.
As the professor's robes brushed past the front desk, a fine sheet of cobwebs drifted down from the ceiling, dusting his black garment with pale gray specks.
The students immediately noticed. Dozens of curious eyes turned toward him — a mistake.
"Put away those idiotic expressions," Snape hissed. He flicked his wand lazily, and the dust vanished without a trace.
Nonverbal spell, Russell realized, a pang of envy tightening in his chest. He knew that at his current level, mastering that kind of magic was still a long way off — but it was clear Snape's spellcraft rivaled, perhaps even surpassed, his renowned potion-making.
"It seems," Snape drawled, his voice low and deliberate, "that some of you at least possess a pitiful sense of punctuality."
His eyes, cold and narrow as a serpent's, swept over the class — and then stopped. A smirk curved at the corner of his mouth.
"Ah. It appears I spoke too soon… or perhaps my eyesight deceives me. There's a Ravenclaw missing."
The tension in the room spiked.
Snape flipped open the attendance register, his long fingers trailing down the list one name at a time.
"Of course," he murmured at last, his voice laced with disdain. "Mr. Fawley."
A faint sneer tugged at his lips. "So quick to misbehave — and you've only just started term. If this were my house, I would have expelled you already."
Ah, Russell thought, so he's still sore about yesterday.
He wasn't wrong. The previous day, Snape had been in the middle of brewing when he heard about the incident — Fawley's disappearance had sent half the staff scrambling into the Forbidden Forest. Snape had rushed out, abandoning his potion midway, and by the time he returned, the cauldron was ruined.
No wonder he was in such a foul mood.
"Since Mr. Fawley didn't have the courtesy to inform me of his absence," Snape said, voice as smooth and cold as oil, "Ravenclaw will lose one point."
The words dripped with venom — and a touch of satisfaction.
Russell suppressed a sigh. Poor Fawley. Even in the infirmary, he's still contributing to house losses.
Rosen looked ready to argue, but Russell quickly tugged his sleeve under the table — a silent warning.
Don't. One wrong word, and Snape wouldn't just take one point.
Snape, of course, had noticed the exchange. His dark eyes flicked toward them, but instead of commenting, he cleared his throat and began to speak, his tone low and deliberate.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,"
he began, his voice carrying the rhythm of a practiced spell.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving in this class. True magic is not born from light and noise — it brews, hissing and bubbling, within the cauldron's depths."
The room was utterly silent. Even the flickering torches seemed to bow before his words.
"Your shallow minds see only the flash of spells," he continued, his voice cold and cutting, "but not how a potion's vapors can reshape a broken soul."
His black eyes swept across the class like a serpent surveying prey.
"This course will strip away your childish delusions. I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory… even put a stopper in death itself.
But if you prove to be the usual batch of dunderheads I encounter every year, then do continue waving your sticks like primitive savages."
The tension was palpable. Some students swallowed hard; others sat frozen, afraid to breathe too loudly.
To Russell's surprise, Snape didn't start the lesson with questions — he simply ordered them into pairs and instructed them to brew a simple Boil-Cure Potion.
That was odd.
Russell had expected one of Snape's infamous pop quizzes — the kind he remembered reading about in his previous life. Perhaps that particular cruelty was reserved for a certain black-haired boy who hadn't arrived at Hogwarts yet.
He smiled faintly. In his past life, he'd read detailed analyses of Snape's first class with Harry Potter — and one interpretation in particular had always fascinated him.
Snape had asked: "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
According to the analysis, asphodel symbolized remorse after death, while wormwood stood for absence and bitter sorrow. Together, the question was a veiled message:
"I regret Lily's death — I live in a world of bitterness without her."
The potion itself — the Draught of Living Death — was a sleeping potion so powerful it mimicked death.
In English, the phrase living death meant a life of torment, a half-death, a living hell.
Put together, the meaning was heartbreakingly clear:
"The lily has fallen into bitter sorrow; I grieve your death, and since then, my life has been a living hell."
It sounded poetic — painfully so. And Russell believed every word.
---
Meanwhile, chaos brewed — quite literally — around the room.
"Chris! Crushing serpent fangs doesn't mean chopping them like vegetables! Is that mortar just for decoration?"
"Megan, how many times must I tell you — turn down the flame when boiling horned slugs! They'll melt faster than your brain if you keep this up!"
"Peter! You idiot — can you not tell horizontal from vertical?"
"Brian! Wipe your drool before it drips into the cauldron!"
Snape's voice sliced through the classroom like whiplash, flinging venom in every direction. No student was spared — except two.
Russell and James.
Snape's gaze lingered briefly on their cauldron before he gave a curt nod.
"At least there are one or two students in this room with some semblance of understanding."
Then, with a dramatic sweep of his robes, he returned to the front of the class.
Without Fawley's usual antics, things actually went… relatively smoothly.
There were still mistakes, of course — a few popped cauldrons and some very strange colors — but no disasters. And, miraculously, no lost house points.
So this is what Snape's like when Harry Potter isn't around, Russell mused. Almost civil.
---
An hour later, Snape ordered everyone to bottle their completed potions and hand them in for grading.
The dismissal bell rang — and chaos erupted instantly.
The young witches and wizards bolted for the exit like prisoners fleeing Azkaban, desperate to escape before Snape could change his mind.
But Russell didn't move.
He walked toward the front instead.
Snape's eyes narrowed to slits.
"Mr. Fythorne," he drawd, his voice soft but dangerous.
"Mr. Fythorne," he drawled, his voice soft but dangerous.
"Do you imagine your potion so perfect that you've come to bask in my praise?"