The pleasant breakfast concluded far too quickly, as pleasant things always did.
The moment Truman stood and announced it was time to head to class, the atmosphere shifted tangibly.
Every Hufflepuff first-year's heart seemed to simultaneously sink into their shoes by the dread of what awaited them.
Because their next lesson was Potions.
With Snape.
Surrounded by anxious Hufflepuff first-years who gathered together like baby birds seeking safety in numbers, Tom navigated the castle's lower levels with ease. The Potions classroom, they'd informed him, lay deep in the dungeons at the same level that housed Hufflepuff's cozy common room, though considerably less welcoming.
The air changed as they descended.
The comfortable warmth of the main castle levels gradually fell to persistent cold.
Hannah walking close beside Tom leaned down to whisper.
"See there?" She gestured toward an unremarkable section of dungeon wall. "That's the entrance to the Slytherin common room. Hidden, of course.
I heard from some upper-years that their password is something like 'Pure blood,' Glory,' that sort of thing—"
She caught herself, glancing around nervously as though Slytherins might appear from the shadows to defend their House honor.
"Anyway," she continued more quietly, "just like our common room is next to the kitchens which is best location in the castle, honestly—the Slytherin common room is right behind the Potions classroom."
Tom had to admit that missing the first week of term though unfortunate had spared him the anxiety of getting lost in Hogwarts' labyrinthine corridors.
By now, after seven days of exploration, experimentation, and getting thoroughly lost before finding their way again, the other young wizards had successfully mastered the routes to every floor, and every major classroom.
Well, every officially accessible location, at least.
And as Hufflepuff's designated "house mascot"—their beloved, unprecedented cat student Tom found himself continuously surrounded by helpful classmates eager to serve as guides.
Even the simple act of visiting the loo prompted at least three students to suddenly remember they were "heading that direction anyway" and would be absolutely delighted to accompany him.
It was endearing, really.
Of course, even without this enthusiastic support network, Tom had no real concerns about getting lost in Hogwarts' corridors.
Setting aside his mysterious ability to dissolve into shadows and re-emerge elsewhere—his "Shadow Step" technique, there was his unique capacity to enter and exit portraits at will.
As Lady Margaret had explained during their first conversation, barring specially warded locations like the Headmaster's office or the Chamber of Secrets (did she know about that? Probably not), portraits throughout Hogwarts connected to one another in a vast network of doorways.
Any portrait's occupant could visit any other portrait in the castle, given sufficient drive and a basic sense of direction as long as the portrait's occupant was willing.
Which meant Tom could, theoretically, navigate the entire school by simply hopping from painting to painting, emerging wherever he needed to be. It was rather like having a secret passage to every room simultaneously.
But none of these advantages mattered at the moment.
What mattered was the immediate, looming reality of the figure they were about to face:
Severus Snape.
Potions Master. Head of Slytherin House. The only professor in Hogwarts capable of distributing contempt with perfect equality across all four Houses.
Well. All Houses except his own, obviously.
The transformation that occurred when the first-years crossed the threshold into Snape's classroom was remarkable.
One moment, they'd been typical eleven-year-olds: chattering, giggling, shoving each other playfully, exuding the chaotic energy of youth. The next moment, the very instant their feet touched the classroom's stone floor, every single voice cut off as though severed by an invisible blade.
Silence fell as if they had been struck by silencing charm.
The young Badgers scattered to their seats with the desperate efficiency of small prey animals seeking burrows. The Ravenclaw first-years, arriving moments later displayed identical behavior.
Though Snape himself hadn't yet appeared, his oppressive presence already saturated the very air, pressing down on shoulders and chests, making it difficult to draw full breaths. The temperature seemed to drop another few degrees.
Every young witch and wizard sat strictly upright, hands folded on their desks, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Every student except Tom.
'Is Snape genuinely this terrifying?' Tom wondered, observing the mass paralysis with fascination. 'Making students from two entire Houses literally afraid to breathe? That's... that's actually impressive, in a horrifying sort of way.'
"BANG!"
Nine o'clock precisely.
The classroom door didn't open—it exploded in with force, slamming against the stone wall hard enough to make several students flinch.
Snape appeared in the doorway like an apparition of pure malevolence.
His black teaching robes wafted around him despite the absence of any breeze. They swirled and twisted like smoke given semi-solid form, creating the impression that Snape wasn't walking so much as flowing into the room.
Greasy black hair hung in lank curtains past his shoulders, framing a face that seemed designed by nature specifically to convey contempt. Sallow skin. Hooked nose. Thin, colorless lips pressed into a line of everlasting disapproval.
And those eyes.
Dark, fathomless, glittering coldly and showing hostility. They swept across the classroom with the precision of a predator cataloging prey.
The overall effect radiated pure intimidation.
It would have been absolutely perfect, utterly terrifying, completely effective...
...if not for the distinct dark circles shadowing those eyes.
The man looked like a very angry, very intelligent raccoon dressed in wizard's robes.
"Meow~" (Pfft~)
The sound escaped before Tom could suppress it.
Fortunately, cat vocal anatomy differed significantly from human speech patterns. To everyone else in the classroom, Tom's reaction sounded like an ordinary cat's mew. Snape, at least, couldn't discern what Tom had actually said.
Only Tom knew he'd essentially just laughed at Professor Snape's face.
Even so, the sound rang jarringly loud in the suffocating silence.
Seventy percent of the students, possibly more turned to stare at Tom with expressions mixing horror, fascination, and the curiosity of witnesses to an impending disaster.
Even Snape's head spun with precision to stare.
Everyone braced for the inevitable disaster about to befall the cat.
But then...
Nothing.
Snape's gaze flicked toward Tom and then, inexplicably, he looked away.
Just... looked away.
Without comment. Without reaction. Without so much as a sneer.
As though nothing at all had happened.
He strode to the front of the classroom and retrieved the attendance roll from his desk.
The students exchanged bewildered glances. Ravenclaw's best and brightest looked genuinely confused, as though Snape's restraint violated fundamental laws of nature they'd thought immutable.
Had Snape fallen ill? Been replaced by a poorly-informed Polyjuice impostor? Suffered some kind of curse-induced personality alteration?
What other explanation existed for Snape not destroying a student who'd made noise during his dramatic entrance?
Yet Snape's emotions clearly weren't as calm as his expression showed—particularly when he reached the name "Tom Lovegood" during roll call. He paused, just as he had recently when calling "Harry Potter."
This time, however, he offered no commentary. He didn't eviscerate Tom with cutting remarks; didn't deliver the scathing observations he'd made about Harry.
He simply looked at Tom with one long, sharp stare before continuing down the list.
Roll call completed, Snape set aside the parchment and observed his classroom with the expression of a general inspecting thoroughly disappointing troops.
His voice, when he spoke, could have frozen fire,
"Though I covered this material last session, we have a new student joining us today. I will therefore repeat myself exactly once. Pay attention.
Potion-making is not magic for the lazy, the careless, or the foolish. It is a precise science—perhaps the only precise science in the magical arts. It requires discipline. Attention to detail. Absolute adherence to established procedures.
Here, you will not be waving wands in grandiose gestures. You will not be chanting incantations in dramatic voices. Those theatrical approaches to magic may suffice in other subjects, but in this classroom, they are utterly worthless.
You have exactly one task: Follow every instruction I provide with absolute precision, and brew potions that meet minimum acceptable standards."
He paused, allowing his words to settle like sediment in still water. His black robes shifted slightly disturbed by movement invisible to everyone else.
"As for improvement—creating variations on established recipes, or worse, attempting to invent entirely new potions?"
His lip curled with magnificent contempt,
"I sincerely hope that none of you are sufficiently arrogant, sufficiently stupid, to learn a handful of basic principles and immediately fancy yourselves geniuses!
So, unless you wish to spend the remainder of your brief, foolish lives regrowing organs in St. Mungo's ward, I suggest you suppress whatever creative impulses you harbor and follow the damn instructions."
'(・∀・)?'
Tom's whiskers twitched in confusion as he slowly processed this... peculiar opening speech.
Was this genuinely the same acidic, merciless Professor Snape from canon? The man who'd reduced Neville Longbottom to tears within the first week, who'd used Harry Potter's fame as a verbal punching bag, who took active pleasure in students' failures?
Because this version seemed... almost restrained. Relatively speaking.
Sure, he was threatening them with disfigurement and death, but in an educational, safety-conscious sort of way. More "don't stick forks in electrical outlets" than "I hope you suffer."
Compared to the legendary, soul-crushing opening speech Tom remembered from the books—the whole "I can teach you to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death" monologue delivered with such dramatic intensity—this felt downright gentle.
Tom wasn't alone in his confusion. Throughout the classroom, students exchanged bewildered glances—quick, furtive looks that screamed is this really happening?
Where was the professor who'd spent last week verbally eviscerating them for the slightest imperfection? The man who'd deducted House points for breathing too loudly, for existing too obviously, for having the audacity to not already know information he hadn't taught yet?
What had happened in seven days to transform Snape's personality so intensely?
Had Dumbledore threatened him? Bribed him? Cast some kind of long-term Cheering Charm that was slowly wearing off?
Still, nobody complained. Fear of triggering whatever fragile restraint Snape was exercising kept mouths firmly shut and heads cautiously down.
After all, nobody in their right mind was masochistic enough to prefer the old, unrestrainedly cruel version. If they could somehow navigate this class without being verbally destroyed, they'd count themselves extraordinarily fortunate and not question their good luck too closely.
Throughout the remainder of the lesson, Snape seemed almost possessed—as though Professor Flitwick or Professor Sprout had taken control of his body. His voice remained cold, certainly, but the entire class passed without him targeting a single student!
Honestly, this made the young Ravens and Badgers who'd only last week experienced Snape's venomous tongue firsthand feel rather disoriented.
The theoretical portion concluded, giving way to practical application.
But the unexpected mercy proved tragically short-lived.
"Very well," Snape announced abruptly, snapping his textbook closed with a sound like a guillotine blade falling. "Theory is meaningless without practical application. You will now begin brewing a simple Cure for Boils. Instructions are on the board."
With a casual flick of his wand, chalk lifted itself and began scratching across the blackboard in sharp, angular handwriting:
CURE FOR BOILSFirst-Year Standard
Add 6 snake fangs to mortarCrush into fine powderAdd 4 measures powdered fangs to cauldronHeat cauldron to precisely 200°FWave wandLeave to brew for 10 minutesAdd 4 horned slugsRemove from heatAdd 2 porcupine quillsStir 5 times clockwiseWave wand to complete potion
"You have the remainder of the period," Snape continued, voice carrying the same temperature as the dungeon air.
"Ingredients are in the store cupboard. Collect what you need and begin. I will be observing. Do try not to set anything on fire, melt through your cauldrons, or create toxic fumes that require evacuating the castle. The Headmaster finds such incidents tedious."
Students scrambled from their seats with urgency, moving quickly but not running, because running in Snape's classroom seemed like it would trigger some kind of predatory chase instinct.
They queued at the store cupboard, retrieving ingredients with nervous care, triple-checking labels because adding the wrong component could result in consequences ranging from "potion doesn't work" to "small explosion that removes eyebrows."
Tom, being a cat, faced unique logistical challenges. But Hannah, bless her helpful soul, immediately volunteered to collect ingredients for their shared workstation.
"I'll get everything," she whispered. "You just... um... do whatever you need to do?"
She clearly had no idea how a cat would actually brew a potion but was determined to be supportive anyway.
Tom appreciated the thought.
Students returned to their desks and began the careful, nerve-wracking process of potion-brewing under Snape's watchful eye.
For approximately seven minutes, an uneasy peace held.
The only sounds: quiet bubbling from heating cauldrons, the soft scrape of pestles grinding ingredients in mortars, occasional whispered consultations between partners, the scratch of Snape's quill as he made notes about who-knows-what in his ever-present grading book.
Then the peace shattered.
The Slytherin serpent returned:
"Your brain must be stuffed with troll bogeys," Snape's voice cut across the room like a lash, making half the class flinch. "I said counterclockwise. COUNTERCLOCKWISE! Does that word mean something different in your primitive vocabulary? One point from Hufflepuff!"
"Are you functionally illiterate?" Snape had relocated to the Ravenclaw section with the speed of a striking snake.
"I specifically instructed you to stir THREE times. Not two. Not five. THREE. Can you count to three, or did Ravenclaw's standards plummet so dramatically that basic numeracy is now optional? One point from Ravenclaw! Ravenclaw's cursed with the worst luck imaginable, having a student like you!"
"The ingredient addition sequence I provided was not a suggestion, Miss Brocklehurst! It was a precise order! You can't even remember the most basic instructions—I'd wager the pigs Muggles raise have more intelligence than you. At least they understand obedience!"
The verbal assault continued, relentless as a winter storm.
Within minutes, the classroom atmosphere transformed completely. Gone was any pretense of restraint or mercy. The Snape they'd feared from reputation, the merciless, sharp-tongued perfectionist who took active pleasure in students' failures had returned with a vengeance.
His voice rang out continuously:
Criticizing ingredient preparation techniques.
Mocking stirring methods.
Questioning students' intelligence, competence, and basic motor functions.
Deducting points with the enthusiasm of a particularly vindictive accountant.
When Snape's slow pace brought him to Tom's workstation, his temple began throbbing with barely suppressed rage—
The cat had completely disregarded every single instruction, freely modifying Snape's recipe at will. From ingredient preparation methods to addition sequence, from stirring direction to rotation count—not one step followed standard procedure!
Beside him, Hannah stood frozen in helpless uncertainty, wanting to assist but having no idea where to even begin.