The cheerful breakfast had ended, and every heart promptly sank—the dreaded Potion class awaited.
Surrounded by a knot of Hufflepuff first-years, Tom had no trouble finding the dungeon classroom where their lesson would be held. Though it lay underground, like the Hufflepuff common room, the corridor outside felt cold and damp—a stark contrast to the warm coziness of their basement lounge.
"Tom, look—that's the entrance to the Slytherin common room," Hannah whispered as they walked. "They say even their password is something like 'Pure-blood' or 'Honor!'"
Hannah kept her voice low, pointing things out with a mixture of awe and fear.
"Just like our common room is next to the kitchens, theirs is right behind the Potions classroom," she added.
Admittedly, Tom had missed the first week of school while in the hospital wing, but that meant he had also been spared the misery of getting lost in Hogwarts. By now, the other students had learned to navigate every floor and every room—at least the ones that weren't hidden.
And as Hufflepuff's 'pet,' Tom could head to the loo and still find a parade of volunteers eager to 'walk the same way.'
Even without help, Tom couldn't truly get lost in Hogwarts. Aside from his ghost-like Black Screen Apparition, the simple fact that he could step into any portrait meant he would never lose his bearings.
As Madam Margaretha had explained, except for special places like the Headmaster's office, portraits could move freely; they could enter any frame in the castle at will.
None of this mattered at the moment, however. The one person striding toward them was the Potions Master, who seemed to disdain every house equally—even Slytherin: Severus Snape.
One second, the little badgers were giggling; the instant they crossed the Potions threshold, it was as if someone had cast Silencio on the entire room. They sat meekly at their benches. The Ravenclaws followed suit, every student frozen into perfect silence.
Though Snape had not yet appeared, an invisible pressure gripped the room, pressing down on every young wizard—Tom alone excepted.
"Is Snape really that scary? Both houses are holding their breath…" Tom muttered, observing the reactions of the students around him.
Bang!
Precisely at nine, the door burst open, and Snape stepped inside. Black-robed, greasy hair draped over his shoulders, his sallow face radiated menace—if one ignored the dark circles beneath his eyes.
"Meow~" Tom snorted quietly, unable to stifle his laughter at the absurdity of it.
Dressed all in black—even to the rims of his eyes—Snape looked so ridiculous that Tom almost doubled over. Fortunately, feline vocal cords differ from human ones; to everyone else, the laugh sounded like an ordinary meow, so Snape never noticed.
Even so, the sound cut sharply through the hush. Nearly eighty percent of the class swiveled toward Tom—Snape included.
Yet when everyone expected the cat to suffer some terrible fate, Snape merely flicked his gaze over him, then—unprecedentedly—looked away. Expressionless, he strode to the front, picked up the register, and acted as if nothing had happened.
Still, his mood was clearly less tranquil than his mask suggested. When he reached Tom's name in the roll call, he paused—just as he had when calling Harry Potter moments earlier.
This time, however, he said nothing. No withering tirade, no snide commentary like the one Harry had endured. He simply stared at Tom a moment longer, then resumed the roll call.
When finished, Snape swept his eyes across the class and spoke in icy, precise tones:
"Though I said it last lesson, I will repeat it for our new student: brewing Potions is an exact science. No wand-waving, no incantations. You will do exactly as I say, step by step, and produce a correct Potion."
He paused, letting his black robes sway slightly:
"As for improving—or inventing—new Potions? I trust none of you are so idiotic as to imagine you can do so after learning a handful of basics."
Tom mentally produced a giant question mark. Was this the same venom-tongued Snape who had sprayed students with curses just a week ago? When had his temper improved?
Not only Tom, but every other student stared in disbelief. Where was the Snape who had delighted in tormenting them last week? How had a single week changed the man's personality?
No one minded the transformation. Nobody was a masochist. If the Professor chose civility, who would miss his old, acid tongue?
For the rest of the lesson, Snape behaved as though possessed by Professor Flitwick or Professor Sprout. His voice stayed cold, yet he never singled out a single student for abuse.
Truth be told, the Eagles and Badgers who had endured his vitriol only seven days earlier found this sudden mildness unnerving.
Alas, the calm did not last. Theory ended, and practical work began.
However patient Snape had been in the lecture, watching students bungle their potions—stirring clockwise when instructed counter-clockwise, turning the spoon five times instead of three, altering ingredient order on a whim—finally snapped him back into the Slytherin viper:
"Is your skull stuffed with Troll snot? Counter-clockwise, I said—counter! One point from Hufflepuff!"
"Are you mentally deficient? Ravenclaw must be cursed to have you! I just said three turns—three! One point from Ravenclaw."
"Was that the sequence I gave? You can't remember the simplest instruction? Muggle pigs are smarter—they at least know how to obey! Another point from Ravenclaw!"
In moments, the room rang with icy reprimands, and a steady tally of lost points echoed in the dungeon.
When Snape reached Tom's desk, his temples throbbed. The cat had ignored every instruction, freely rewriting the recipe—preparation, ingredient order, direction of stirring, number of rotations—none of it matched the standard procedure.
Beside him, Hannah hovered, desperate to help, yet utterly clueless where to begin.
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