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Chapter 62 — Improving Potions
Snape sat heavily in his chair and covered his face with his hands.
How many times has it come to this?
Every time, the same pattern — the old man would find another excuse, another reason why the Potter boy had to suffer. Every time, Dumbledore's logic was flawless, his tone calm, his reasons "for the greater good."
And yet, why did it always have to be that child?
That kind, foolish boy who could barely lie without stuttering — why did he have to be the one hurt?
"He's too kind," Dumbledore said quietly from across the room. "That's what makes me uneasy."
Snape let out a bitter laugh.
"Oh, yes. Because no one can possibly be that good, isn't that right, Headmaster? Perhaps it's simply that you can't imagine kindness that isn't calculated."
Dumbledore didn't react, only sighed softly and waited for Snape's sarcasm to fade. Then, in that deceptively gentle tone, he said, "Perhaps you're right, Severus. I was not always… the man people believe me to be. They call me the greatest white wizard, untempted by power, but they forget what I once desired. If it weren't for certain… losses, I might have become worse than Voldemort himself."
He shook his head slowly, blue eyes distant. "I only worry that Darren might take a darker path — not because he's evil, but because the world will make him feel that his goodness is worthless."
Snape closed his eyes.
How could he deny it?
He worried about that very thing every day.
Darren was too gentle, too pure — and Harry Potter's fame had cast a shadow no twin could escape.
Everyone in the wizarding world knew the name Harry Potter.
Some idolized him.
Some despised him.
But everyone watched him.
And next to that shining legend, Darren became the quiet echo — the forgotten twin in Slytherin, the "lesser Potter."
Snape had overheard enough whispers in the corridors to know what the other students thought.
> "If he were really good, would the Sorting Hat have put him in Slytherin?"
"Bet he's jealous of his brother."
"Probably dark, just hiding it well."
Even within Hogwarts, kindness was not a shield — it was a target.
Harry hadn't spoken to Darren for nearly a week, and already, every House had its own story.
Yes, Snape worried. But not because he feared Darren would stop being kind — he feared what that kindness would cost him.
"See?" Dumbledore murmured, reading his silence. "You don't truly believe he's safe from corruption either."
Snape's jaw tightened.
"Even if that's true," he said coldly, "I still won't allow him to be subjected to the Cruciatus Curse. If Voldemort learns that the so-called greatest white wizard stood by and watched a Potter child tortured under his own roof, he might very well laugh himself back to life."
"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore replied softly, "you think too poorly of me. As I said, I'm not going there to change the punishment — only to observe it."
Snape blinked, thrown off by the honesty in the old man's gaze. There was no trick, no glint of cunning — only quiet resolve.
He turned away abruptly, muttering, "Well then, I have classes to teach. If you insist on playing the silent guardian, you can find your own way into Slytherin."
With a swish of his robes, he swept from the room, muttering curses under his breath.
Damn Dumbledore.
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That afternoon, Snape finally faced the famous Harry Potter in his classroom.
The resemblance to James was so striking that, for a moment, rage surged through him. His fingers itched for his wand — a flash of green light tempted his imagination — but he exhaled through his nose and resisted.
Instead, he let his irritation flow through questions.
Harsh, cutting, deliberate questions.
Potter fumbled each one. He hadn't read the text properly, hadn't studied the ingredients. Not even a hint of Lily's brilliance.
Snape's lip curled — yet to his own surprise, when the boy scowled in frustration at losing points, Snape felt… lighter.
"Perhaps," he thought dryly, "this Potter isn't entirely useless. He's good for relieving stress."
With that, he began pacing between cauldrons, robes billowing like storm clouds, watching for more mistakes.
But Merlin, his students were hopeless. How could anyone ruin a simple Boil-Cure Potion this badly?
Then a quiet voice called out, "Professor, I've finished."
Snape paused mid-stride.
Darren Potter.
His eyebrow rose slightly. Bold, are we? Most students avoided addressing him directly — yet this boy did it without fear.
Curiosity piqued, Snape swept toward Darren's cauldron.
The color struck him first. Not the pale turquoise described in the textbook — deeper, steadier, with a faint shimmer.
Snape's breath caught.
This wasn't a mistake.
It was an improvement.
His sharp eyes took in the adjustments — a delayed stirring cycle, altered clockwise rotations, a hint of powdered asphodel added at the precise moment the potion began to froth.
It was perfect. Subtle. Creative.
He hadn't just followed instructions. He'd refined them.
For a long moment, Snape couldn't speak. His mind raced. Very few in the wizarding world possessed the intuition to improve an established potion recipe — it required both mastery and imagination.
Only a handful of families had produced such talent… and none of them bore the name Potter.
Could it be Lily's side?
A forgotten ancestor? A latent gift?
It didn't matter. The realization hit him like a spell — this child carried her brilliance.
His throat tightened painfully.
If he and Lily had ever… if things had been different…
He swallowed hard, forcing the thought down. His voice, when he finally spoke, was lower than usual — almost gentle.
"Ten points to Slytherin," he said quietly.
And for the first time in years, Severus Snape almost smiled.
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