With Transfiguration behind us, we made our way to Potions. I’d heard plenty of rumors about the professor teaching this class, Severus Snape. Some claimed he was a potion-making genius; others whispered he was a former dark wizard who’d served Voldemort. As I entered the dungeon classroom, I was curious about which side of those rumors I’d encounter.

  Snape stood at the front of the room, surveying us with a sharp, calculating gaze. His tone was low and almost theatrical as he began, “In this class, I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even… put a stopper in... death.”

  His arrogance was palpable. But it was that last line, that offhand comment about putting a stopper in death, that struck a nerve. My mind flared in anger. Stop me? I thought, my body tensing at his words.

  Snape’s gaze snapped toward me as he sensed my momentary surge of fury. I’d reeled it in almost immediately, but not quickly enough—he’d felt the edge of my reaction. His hand twitched toward his wand before he hesitated, glancing at the room full of students. Attacking a student with no provocation would not be easy to justify, even for him.

  Instead, he directed his anger verbally. “You there! The small boy with the unearned confidence. What’s your name?”

  “Benjamin Diggory,” I replied, keeping my tone icy.

  “Ah yes, our resident celebrity,” Snape sneered. “Tell me, Diggory, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

  His gaze was intense, as if daring me to answer incorrectly.

  “A sleeping potion so powerful it’s known as the Draught of Living Death,” I replied, leaving out some of the subtler details, ones I doubted even he fully understood. Snape’s lip curled, clearly unhappy with my answer.

  “Very good, Diggory,” he spat, his tone laced with bitterness. “And where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

  Hermione’s hand shot up, but Snape ignored her, focusing solely on me.

  “In a goat’s stomach,” I replied calmly. “A bezoar is a hardened mass that can be used as an antidote to many poisons.”

  I felt a spark of satisfaction at his tightening expression. He’d likely assumed his questions would trip me up, but his attempts to stump me only fueled my determination.

  Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Correct,” he said through gritted teeth. “And tell me, Diggory, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “They’re the same plant,” I replied, holding his gaze evenly. “Also known as aconite.”

  I refrained from adding that I’d learned of aconite under a dozen other names and variations. To a being as old as I, poisons and antidotes were basic knowledge, and for all his skill, Snape’s understanding of these substances would be merely functional. For me, it was instinct.

  Snape glared at me for what felt like an eternity before finally ending his tirade. “Fine. Take your seats,” he barked, his voice full of resentment.

  We moved to our brewing stations, and Snape began instructing us on the basics of a cure for boils. The recipe was rudimentary, to put it kindly, with instructions to stir “precisely seven times with a one-second interval between each stir.” Has potion-making truly fallen to this level? I wondered. Gone were the carefully measured beakers and precise measurements that had once defined potioncraft. What used to be a science of exactitude had devolved into following recipes as if they were nothing more than cooking instructions.

  It wasn’t long before the pressure of the class began taking its toll. Neville was the first to stumble, adding an ingredient too early in the process. His potion bubbled over, the liquid quickly melting through the cauldron and spilling onto the floor, transforming into a caustic brew capable of producing boils instead of curing them.

  I acted swiftly, casting a freezing charm that spread across the floor, rendering the potion inert before it could reach Neville. Snape flicked his wand to banish the ice and potion residue, then rounded on Neville with a sneer.

  “Longbottom! You blundering fool! Five points from Gryffindor.”

  I could feel Neville’s embarrassment, his shoulders slumping as Snape continued his tirade. But something else simmered beneath Snape’s rebuke—a cruelty that struck me as personal, almost as if he took pleasure in Neville’s failure. I stepped back, unable to contain my disdain any longer.

  “AND YOU, DIGGORY!” Snape snapped, his gaze flicking to me. “There will be no uncontrolled incantations in my class. Ten points from Ravenclaw.”

  I bit back a retort, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. The house cup held little interest for me. It was a petty game of points. Hermione, however, bristled beside me.

  “That’s unfair,” she muttered. “It wasn’t even your fault.”

  Ron nodded. “Neville just had a bad day. Besides, instinctive casting happens in dangerous situations. I thought Snape would understand that.”

  I glanced at Neville, who looked up with wide, grateful eyes. “Thanks for what you did…” he mumbled, his tone awkward but sincere.

  “No problem,” I replied. “Just be careful. Snape would’ve let you suffer if it meant he could make an example of you.”

  Neville gave a small shiver, and Hermione looked at me with newfound understanding. “Wait… you froze the potion on purpose?” she asked, her eyes widening as she realized the extent of my control.

  I nodded, shrugging as if it were nothing. “Snape doesn’t need to know. But yeah.”

  Neville’s face turned pale, imagining the potential outcome if I hadn’t intervened. “Thanks… again. Do you mind if I come along to the next class with you all? I… don’t have that many friends.”

  “Sure,” I replied, and we fell into step, making our way to the next class.

  As we walked, Neville seemed to relax, joining our conversation more freely. He even managed a few smiles. The sense of camaraderie, however slight, was enough to lift my spirits, and the tension Snape had left behind began to dissipate.

  Through all the challenges, my resolve grew. This was more than a passing annoyance with Snape or an irritation with outdated traditions—it was a step toward my purpose. As I made progress with my newfound companions, I felt the first stirrings of a deeper bond, one that could alter the fate of this world.

  Put a stopper in me will you? My mind raged at his previous declaration.

  I Refuse to lose to this bastard!

  So he put the quills in too early, why are we using quills and not a concentrated extract anyway?

  Sure, the more the merrier!" I commented as I led the way to our next class. We talked along the way and as Neville got to know us he seemed to open up more. My success at befriending the three future heroes overturned my previous sour mood from meeting Snape. Progress regardless of how slow was finally being made.