A Certain Magical Hogwarts

William had braced himself for Snape's scrutiny, but he hadn't expected it to come so quickly.

Just after Snape finished his introduction, his cold gaze fixed on William.

"Stark, if I add a feather from a Jobberknoll to a lionfish spine infusion, what will I get?" he asked, his tone dripping with contempt.

William stood up and replied confidently, "Veritaserum."

Snape's expression darkened, as if William had just robbed him of a thousand Galleons.

"And if I asked you to fetch a bezoar, where would you go?"

William thought about making a joke and saying he'd find it with Hagrid, but seeing Snape's face, he opted for a serious answer. "A bezoar is an antidote found in the stomach of a goat."

Snape gave a disdainful snort through his nose.

"And how would you extract mucus from a Flobberworm?"

"Place the Flobberworm in a lettuce-filled environment. After eating the lettuce, they'll secrete a significant amount of mucus," William responded, calm and unfazed.

"Regurgitating textbook answers," Snape remarked dismissively.

Still, whether it was regurgitated or memorized, according to Hogwarts' grading standards, answering correctly meant points were earned, and Snape—begrudgingly—had to play by the rules. Of course, this was because William was in Ravenclaw. If he had been in Gryffindor…

"Ravenclaw, one point," Snape said, his voice oozing reluctance.

But before William could even savor his small victory, Snape added lazily, "But for failing to address your professor properly, two points deducted."

William shrugged and sat back down.

"Why aren't you all writing this down? Do you all already know this?" Snape barked, his voice echoing through the dungeon.

"You are the most incompetent batch of students I've ever taught!"

The classroom immediately filled with the sound of frantic scribbling, quills scratching against parchment as everyone took notes in a panic.

Snape sneered as he continued, "Today, I'll be teaching you how to brew a simple cure for boils."

"I can't think of an easier potion. If anyone still manages to fail, I'll have no choice but to recommend the Headmaster reconsider admitting simpletons."

The room fell into a tense silence, everyone holding their breath, afraid of missing a single word that might cause their potion to fail and label them a dunce.

Snape flicked his wand, and instructions appeared on the blackboard in bold, chalky letters.

"Oh, and by the way, the textbook you're holding—Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger," Snape drawled, a mocking sneer playing on his lips.

"It's the Ministry-approved curriculum, written by a celebrated wizard. But make no mistake, parts of that book are fifty years out of date."

"If my methods differ from the book's, don't be surprised. Just follow mine."

A Hufflepuff student muttered under his breath, "Then what's the point of buying these books?"

William recognized the student as Cadwallader.

Snape shot a glare at him, but instead of exploding with anger, he offered an explanation, "The textbook's content is not incorrect, merely outdated."

As Snape spoke about potions, his entire demeanor changed. He became eerily calm, speaking in a soft, almost hypnotic tone.

"Potions is an exact science, a craft of precision. To us, a textbook is merely a reference guide—nothing more. Potion-brewing evolves beyond proven principles; it's not set in stone."

"I won't bore you with endless theory or rely too much on textbooks. That's what your self-study is for."

"I will guide you through what I believe to be the optimal brewing process."

Snape's face remained expressionless as he pointed to the blackboard, where instructions were neatly written in white chalk.

"I've said more than enough. The steps are on the board, and the ingredients are on the table."

"Pair up. and you may begin."

As soon as he finished speaking, the students scrambled into action, eager to avoid Snape's attention.

But then Snape turned his malicious gaze back to William.

"Stark," he said, his voice oozing with mockery, "since you seem to have all the answers, you'll brew the potion alone. Let's see if you can live up to your reputation as Ravenclaw's little genius."

Marietta Edgecombe, who had been planning to partner with William, looked disappointed. She reluctantly paired up with Cho instead.

William, however, was unfazed. He calmly set up his cauldron.

In truth, he had already brewed numerous potions at home following the textbook's instructions. Some attempts had failed, but many had succeeded.

The cure for boils was simple enough for him.

Thirty minutes later, Snape began pacing around the classroom, his long black robes trailing behind him ominously.

Everywhere he went, explosions or mishaps seemed to follow. Snape's presence alone was enough to make students fumble with their ingredients, his snake-like eyes watching them with a condescending smirk.

His silent laughter made every young wizard second-guess themselves, cold sweat breaking out as they realized they'd made a mistake.

Snape made sure his footsteps echoed loudly as he stalked around the room, his sneering voice full of venom, dripping sarcasm as he insulted every brewing station he passed.

"I used to believe that everything has value, even garbage. Apparently, I was wrong."

Almost every student had been criticized by now, and Snape eventually returned to William's side, clearly expecting him to mess up.

But William remained calm. He added four slugs and two porcupine quills into his cauldron, stirring clockwise five times before flicking his wand.

Done.

Snape bent over to inspect William's cauldron, his hooked nose taking in the deep blue bubbles rising from the potion. He gave a small sniff—the unmistakable stench of sulfur filled the air.

Color, scent, timing—everything was perfect. Even Snape couldn't find anything to criticize.

Snape opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Marietta Edgecombe, standing nearby, waved her wand a bit too enthusiastically and jabbed him in the backside.

Her wand—walnut, with a dragon heartstring core, thirteen and three-quarters inches long—was as stiff as could be.

In the magical art of wand combat, she had unwittingly performed the legendary One Thousand Years of Death.

Snape's entire body tensed as he struggled not to fall face-first into William's cauldron.

Fortunately, Snape was a seasoned professor with years of experience under his belt. 

In that critical moment, he employed an ancient technique, anchoring his body with an impressive stance, barely managing to avoid a complete collapse.

His hooked nose hovered just an inch above the potion's surface.

He exhaled, narrowly avoiding disaster. His dignity was almost in ruins.

Snape turned, his eyes blazing with fury. 

This was clearly an attack on his life!

But before he could unleash his rage, a thick, acidic green smoke filled the room, accompanied by a loud hissing noise.

Marietta, in her flustered state, had accidentally melted her cauldron along with Cho's. Their potion spilled across the stone floor, hissing and steaming.

By unfortunate coincidence, William's cauldron was right next to theirs, and Snape was caught in the middle—his back to their bubbling disaster.

Green liquid spilled out, eating through Snape's shoes.

With his stance broken, Snape's face plummeted into William's potion.

In seconds, the entire class was standing on their chairs, horrified, as Snape was drenched head to toe in the concoction.

Boils began to form on his back, arms, and legs. What was supposed to be a cure for boils had turned into the opposite. 

It was unclear how Cho and Marietta had managed to mess it up so badly.

Snape groaned, unable to form words, his face mercifully spared thanks to William's flawless potion. But the heat was unbearable—as the potion hadn't cooled yet, and it was scalding hot.

His hooked nose, in particular, was redder than ever.

At that moment, Snape's expression was one of pure agony.

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