The high-pressure classroom was in full swing once more. During the practical portion of brewing potions, Snape prowled between the desks, finding fault with nearly every student.
"Professor McGonagall claims Transfiguration requires patience," he drawled. "It appears she's spent all of hers tolerating your stupidity."
"Weasley, tell me—if I stuffed your brain into a cauldron and stirred it, would that finally make you realize you're stirring in the wrong direction?"
"I… I… I don't know…" Ron, caught off guard by the sudden attack, stammered, his face draining of color.
"Even if you have no brain, that's no excuse for being blind as well! Gryffindor, minus one point."
"Longbottom!" Having finished with Ron, Snape's gaze snapped sideways to Neville. "If I were you, I would reread the instructions."
"You're supposed to remove the cauldron from the flame before adding the porcupine quills," Hermione whispered to Neville, who was seated right beside her.
"Perhaps you should have reminded him sooner, Miss Granger. True intelligence is not the hindsight that arrives only after disaster. Or were you hoping to watch his cauldron explode and have the potion splash across your face?"
"Gryffindor, minus two points. One for Longbottom's idiocy, one for your untimely arrogance."
The Gryffindors looked close to tears under Snape's relentless bullying, while the Slytherin snakes wore expressions of gleeful malice. They weren't faring much better themselves, but at least they weren't losing points.
Some of them even earned praise and points for good work—like Draco Malfoy, who had been commended and awarded points for his handling of the horned slugs.
"Professor." A soft, delicate voice suddenly rang out. "When crushing snake fangs, is it better to grind them into powder or leave them granular?"
Snape whirled around in an instant, then answered calmly, "Fine powder, Harley."
"Thank you, Professor." Harley gave him a sweet smile.
"Perhaps the rest of you should learn to ask questions when you don't understand," Snape said coolly, though his tone seemed fractionally warmer than before. "Five points to… Harley."
"B-but—" Seamus had barely opened his mouth when Snape's icy glare pinned him.
"You address me as 'Professor' before speaking, Mr. Finnigan. Gryffindor, minus one point."
Seamus shut his mouth, stunned. In that moment he realized the gulf between people could be wider than the gulf between people and dogs.
When the bell finally rang, the students let out a collective sigh of relief, feeling the cold sweat soaking their backs—especially the Gryffindors seated near Harley. The slightest mistake earned them a terrifying, freezing stare from Snape. Even Hermione's hands had shaken from nerves.
Fortunately, no one's cauldron had exploded.
"I don't expect you to learn how to think," Snape said as he inspected the finished potions. "I only ask that you run things through what little brain you possess before touching anything."
"Look at your potions. How are they any different from pig swill?"
After finishing his rounds, he spoke coldly from the front of the room. "How many of these could even be called acceptable?"
On his way back to the lectern he paused beside Harley, glanced down, and said, "Passable. At least it resembles a proper potion more than the rest of that swill. Five points to Harley. I expect all of you to double-check every single step instead of treating your eyes as decoration."
"Class dismissed. Lynn, stay behind."
Seamus, Dean, and Neville shot Lynn sympathetic looks that clearly said, Good luck, mate—we'll save you some dinner, before hurrying out with the rest of the students.
"You go on to the Great Hall with Hermione and the others," Lynn said to Harley while packing up his things. "No need to wait for me."
"Mhm. I'll save you a seat. Hurry over, okay, Lynn?"
Harley nodded, then left the room with Hermione and Padma.
Soon the classroom was empty.
Snape sat in the chair behind the lectern. Lynn walked forward a few steps.
"Is there something you needed, Professor Snape?"
Potions came easily to Lynn—truly easily. He had memorized every recipe and the precise order of ingredients. More importantly, harmonizing the potion was his strongest skill; his control over magic far surpassed that of his classmates. Precisely managing the fusion of materials inside the cauldron was what separated an excellent potion from a mediocre one.
If ten points represented a perfect potion, the Boil-Cure Potion Lynn had brewed today would score at least nine. Harley, whom Snape had praised, probably earned an eight—thanks in no small part to Lynn's constant guidance and the fact that she could ask Snape directly whenever she was unsure. Her natural talent wasn't bad either.
"Your performance was… acceptable," Snape said.
He didn't start with criticism or pressure; he actually acknowledged Lynn's ability. From Snape's mouth, "acceptable" meant "very good indeed"—especially coming from a Gryffindor student.
"Compared to those fools and idiots, you are one of the few who actually uses your brain."
"Hogwarts will be co-hosting a series of inter-school competitions with other wizarding schools, giving outstanding students the chance to compete. There's the annual Potions Championship, for example, held together with Castelobruxo, Ilvermorny, Koldovstoretz, and others."
"Usually the students recommended are fifth-years or above, but there have been exceptions from lower years."
Lynn nodded slightly. It was only natural for Hogwarts to participate in such events. As an internationally renowned school of witchcraft and wizardry, it would be strange if it remained completely isolated.
Still, Lynn had reservations about the competition.
"If I wanted to participate, would I need to start preparing now?"
"Yes," Snape confirmed.
"Would it be very demanding, Professor?"
"If you think you can coast through and still compete with the best students from other schools…" The corner of Snape's mouth curled into a cold sneer.
"Oh, I understand, Professor."
Lynn could guess the unspoken second half of that sentence. It seemed Snape wanted to keep him busy—or perhaps lure him in and then crush him. Besides, one should never grow arrogant. The world was full of geniuses. Even if not all of them would fulfill their potential later in life, none could be underestimated while their talent still blazed.
Even a fleeting bloom could be breathtakingly beautiful.
"I'll pass, Professor. I'm withdrawing from consideration for the upcoming Potions Championship."
Lynn gave his answer without hesitation. He had a fairly good idea of what Snape was thinking.
"Please forgive my presumption, but allow me a moment to explain my reasoning."
Lynn spoke quickly, cutting off whatever spell Snape had been about to cast. His posture and tone were sincere and courteous, and Snape gave a reluctant nod.
"Compared to Potions, I'm far more inclined to devote my time to the subject that truly fascinates me—wandcraft. Over the past two months since the holidays, I've been working tirelessly to prepare for formal study in that field. Mr. Ollivander has offered me enormous help and is willing to sponsor and support me as I walk this profound path that will likely occupy my entire life."
"I'm deeply grateful for everything he's done, and I want to repay that faith by making at least some small contribution to wandlore in the future."
"A person's energy is limited. Once I've committed to wandcraft, I simply won't have enough time or focus left to delve deeply into Potions as well—it's an equally profound discipline. Besides, there are other students with genuine talent in Potions, aren't there?"
Lynn's gaze settled on Snape's face. "Like Harley. She did very well today, didn't she?"
Snape's expression didn't change a fraction, even though he privately agreed. Harley's talent was undeniable. Not only did she look strikingly like her mother, but her aptitude for magic echoed the way Lily had been when she first arrived at Hogwarts.
"However, there's one question I've been wanting to ask you, Professor."
"Did you really know Harley's mother? Were you close friends?"
"Do I owe you an explanation?" Snape's brow furrowed, his voice turning icy.
"I believe you do. Otherwise—as Harley's close friend—I'll feel obliged to bring this matter to Professor Dumbledore's attention and ask for a definitive answer to one question: Professor Snape, are you a pedophile?"
Snape shot to his feet. His robes billowed though there was no wind, rising like a curtain of dark calamity from the horizon, blotting out the sky.
"I know exactly what a man's eyes look like when he sees someone he desires."
"That time you looked at Harley—your gaze was utterly improper and offensive, wasn't it, Professor?"
Lynn's own expression remained perfectly calm, his voice cold as he stared Snape down. "It's a good thing you called out 'Lily' that time and not 'Harley.' Otherwise you'd already be having a very private conversation with Professor Dumbledore."
"So I'll ask you here and now to confirm: were you a close friend of Harley's mother, Lily?"
Lynn's calm voice rang in Snape's ears like a great bell, leaving his mind blank for an instant.
"Or rather, Professor, you should assure me that the person you love is Harley's mother—not Harley herself—and that you are not using Harley as a substitute, transferring your feelings for Lily onto her daughter."
"She's only eleven years old, Professor. Some things must never be done. They must never even be thought."
"You dare slander me!" Snape looked ready to explode on the spot, yet he couldn't raise a hand against Lynn—doing so would only prove the accusation.
"Is that so?" Lynn suddenly smiled. "Perhaps I should ask Professor Dumbledore for confirmation and a guarantee."
He turned and walked toward the door without the slightest hesitation.
On his third step, a chilling voice ground out from behind clenched teeth.
"Stop."
"I'm listening, Professor Snape."
Lynn turned slowly to face him.
"The answer you want is right here."
Snape reached deliberately into his robes, drew out a yellowed old photograph, and turned it around.
It was not a moving wizard photograph, but a Muggle one: a beautiful girl sitting on a swing. A young Lily—who looked nine-tenths identical to Harley, as though carved from the same mold. On the back was a torn scrap of letter paper bearing the clear signature "Lily."
"I knew Harley's mother long before we came to Hogwarts," Snape said, closing his eyes briefly. "We were… very good friends once."
"Just as you and Harley are now."
His voice drifted slightly, as though he had slipped back into an old memory.
"I understand, Professor." Lynn nodded; he had received the answer he wanted. "I'll keep your secret."
"But since this was all a misunderstanding, please forgive my earlier offense. I apologize. Harley is my close friend, and it's my duty to protect her."
Snape said nothing, only inclined his head a fraction.
"While we're here, though, perhaps I could make a small report?"
"After all, you are the Head of Slytherin House. Certain offensive actions by Slytherin students should be punished at your discretion."
"Someone called Harley a 'stinking Mudblood' to her face. I already taught him a small lesson at the time, but I'm not sure it was enough to ensure he never does it again."
Snape's eyes flashed red in that instant.
"Who?" The single word hissed out like a serpent's breath.
"Draco Malfoy."
"You may go." Snape flicked his hand; the sleeve of his robe stirred a gust of cold wind.
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