Professor Snape possessed the same gift as Professor McGonagall—he only needed a single glance to silence an entire classroom.
But while McGonagall's authority came from fairness and quiet strength…
Snape's came from something colder.
When he stepped from the shadows, parchment in hand, and hissed out the name—
"Harry… Potter."
—it wasn't a greeting.
It was venom.
A promise.
A curse.
The temperature in the dungeon seemed to plummet. Students shrank into their seats as Snape's eyes bored into Harry with a hatred so sharp it was almost physical.
"Yes, yes… the Boy Who Lived," Snape drawled, voice dripping sarcasm. "The saviour of the wizarding world. A famous name indeed."
Harry sat frozen. Confused. Hurt.
Then Snape's gaze moved.
"Ah. Vaughn Weasley, our little prodigy—another famous name."
Vaughn stood and bowed politely.
"Thank you for the compliment, Professor."
Harry blinked, a little stunned.
Merlin… he's fearless.
Snape gave a short, disdainful exhale and returned to calling names. Then, almost soundlessly, he glided between the desks like a great dark bat.
"Potions," he murmured, "is the subtle science… the delicate art… something far beyond the comprehension of most of you…"
His voice echoed around the dungeon like a haunting chant.
And then—
Without warning—
Snape's face appeared inches from Harry's ear.
"Tell me, Potter—what would I obtain if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry's mind went blank.
He looked desperately at Ron. Ron looked just as lost.
Hermione practically levitated out of her chair, arm waving violently.
Vaughn, horrified, tried to push her arm back down.
From behind them, Malfoy's suppressed cackling echoed through the room.
"I… I don't know, Professor," Harry said at last.
Snape leaned forward, his shadow engulfing the desk.
"Don't know? Fame clearly isn't everything, Mr. Potter."
A long, cold pause.
"Let's try again, shall we?"
Harry snapped.
"Professor—why don't you ask Hermione? She definitely knows. Or ask Vaughn—he's been brewing potions since he was eight! He's published articles! Ron showed me—he might actually be better at this than you!"
Silence slammed into the room like a Bludger.
Every jaw dropped.
Then—
Pfft.
Malfoy and his goons snickered.
Two icy glares—Snape's and Vaughn's—swung toward them simultaneously.
They shut up instantly.
Snape turned back to Vaughn, expression unreadable.
"It seems, Mr. Vaughn Weasley," he drawled softly, "your classmates speak very highly of you."
Vaughn bowed again, all grace.
"Just some insignificant accomplishments, Professor."
He paused—then continued sincerely:
"And—thank you, sir. When the Exceptional Potioneers' Guild dismissed my theories, you were the first to publish a paper defending my formulas."
A ripple of disbelief spread across the classroom.
Did Snape… just look almost pleased?
Slytherins stared.
Gryffindors stared.
Hermione squeezed her quill to death.
Snape said nothing more to Vaughn.
But before returning to the blackboard, he turned back to Harry with a final, icy jab:
"Unlike you, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley has earned his reputation. Two points from Gryffindor."
Harry's face burned with humiliation.
Vaughn sighed inwardly.
The tangle between these two was too deep for a child to understand.
And Snape…
Seeing the eyes of the woman he loved on the face of the man he despised most—how could that wound ever heal?
Snape's "Attention"
If Harry thought Snape was finished with him…
He was wrong.
Throughout the lecture, Snape circled Harry like a predator.
Every few minutes, a sudden snap:
"Potter! What is the antidote to Doxy venom?"
"Finnigan! If that cauldron explodes, I'll dock ten points!"
"Longbottom—do NOT lean over the cauldron! Did someone replace your brain with porridge?"
Anyone sitting near Harry—Ron, Seamus, Neville—was dragged into the crossfire.
Hermione tried to help, but Snape glared her into silence.
Vaughn kept quiet.
He had no intention of meddling in a conflict older than this entire classroom.
Practical Brewing
At last, Snape ordered them to begin brewing a Boil-Cure Potion—a simple healing mixture taught in their first week.
Snape hovered by Harry's table like a storm cloud.
Every stir, every slice, every ingredient was scrutinised.
Meanwhile…
He approached Vaughn and Hermione's table.
And said—
nothing.
No criticism.
No correction.
No glare.
Just silent observation.
Vaughn worked calmly, slicing ingredients with expert precision.
Hermione watched closely—then frowned.
Something was wrong.
"Vaughn," she whispered, "that's not what the book says. The order is different. Your measurements—"
"Ignore the book," Vaughn murmured. "Potions isn't chemistry. Muggles rely on weights and volumes. But wizarding potions have always been vague—'a handful', 'a pinch', 'a drop'."
Hermione frowned harder.
"That makes it worse!"
"That's why the rules are elsewhere." Vaughn stirred clockwise, then counter-clockwise in exact rhythm. "The parts Muggles think don't matter—stirring direction, timing, flame strength—that's where Potions becomes strict."
She leaned in, entranced.
"You can think of a potion as a ritual, Hermione. We're not just mixing liquids.
We're weaving magic."
Hermione's eyes went wide.
Behind them, Snape stopped walking.
For several seconds, he watched Vaughn work in absolute silence.
Something flickered in his dark eyes.
Recognition.
Approval.
A hint of… pride?
No one else noticed.
But Vaughn did.
He hid a small, satisfied smile.
Winning Snape's favour was not optional.
It was strategic.
(End of Chapter )