The descent into the dungeons felt like leaving the world of the living behind. The air was heavy with the scent of vinegar and sulfur, and the cold seeped through the soles of Ashlyn's dragon-hide boots.
The classroom was a subterranean vault, its walls lined with hundreds of glass jars containing slimy, suspended specimens. Professor Snape stood at the front, his presence a dark blot against the flickering torches.
"You are here," Snape began, his voice barely above a whisper yet cutting through the silence like a blade, "to learn the exact science and subtle art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."
He flicked his wand at the chalkboard, where the instructions for a Cure for Boils appeared.
Ashlyn stared at the board, her brow furrowing. Her mother was a professional potioneer; Ashlyn had spent her summers grinding dried nettles and crushing snake fangs. She knew the standard recipe by heart. But Snape's instructions were... unorthodox.
"Standard practice suggests slicing the Valerian roots," Ashlyn thought, looking at the board, "but Snape demands they be bruised with the flat of the blade to preserve the oils. And the stirring... three clockwise turns, followed by a sharp counter-clockwise pause?"
It was a more volatile, aggressive method. It was the work of a master who didn't just follow recipes, but commanded the ingredients.
Ashlyn began to work. Beside her, Alex was struggling. He was trying to use their mother's gentle technique, and his cauldron began emitting a thick, foul-smelling gray smoke instead of the required pink steam.
"Quietly, Alex," she hissed, "don't slice them. Use the side of your knife. Look at the board."
Snape prowled the room like a shark in dark water. He stopped at Ashlyn's station. Her potion was a decent shade of lavender—far better than anyone else's in the room—but it lacked the shimmering translucence Snape clearly desired.
He peered into her cauldron, his expression unreadable. "The daughter of a potioneer," he said softly, his voice dripping with icy expectation. "And yet, you treat the porcupine quills as if they were common kitchen herbs. Average, Miss Carter. I expected... more."
He swept away before she could respond. Ashlyn felt a rare flash of heat in her cheeks—not from the cauldron's fire, but from the sting of his dismissal. She had produced an acceptable potion by any other standard, but to Snape, "acceptable" was a failure.
As they climbed back up to the warmth of the entrance hall, Alex was practically vibrating with indignation.
"That was mental," he whispered, wiping a smudge of soot from his forehead. "Mum's way is much more logical! Why would he make us bruise the roots? It's twice as much work. And did you see the Slytherins? Nott and Malfoy barely looked at the board. I bet they have a different textbook—a pre-ingredients guide or something."
"It's not a conspiracy, Alex," Ashlyn said, though she felt the same exhaustion. "He's just... precise. He doesn't want us to make potions; he wants us to understand the chemistry of the ingredients. But he's certainly not going to make it easy for us."
Dinner in the Great Hall was a grander affair. The tables were laden with platters of shepherd's pie, roasted carrots, and massive silver bowls of blackberry crumble.
Adrian joined them, looking relaxed. "So? First day in the books. How were the Professors? I heard Flitwick almost fell off his books during the Gryffindor session."
The twins took turns recounting their day. Alex complained loudly about the "Dungeon Bat" and the confusing roots, while Ashlyn spoke of McGonagall's sharp eyes and the quiet intensity of the Ravenclaw tower.
"Snape is Snape," Adrian said with a shrug, reaching for a glass of pumpkin juice. "He's been trying to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts job for years. He's bitter. Just keep your head down and your cauldron clean."
Ashlyn's eyes drifted toward the Gryffindor table. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were huddled together, looking exhausted. They were the center of every whisper in the hall, the "Golden Trio" forever under a microscope.
I'd rather be insulted by Snape in the dark, Ashlyn decided, than have a whole school watching me eat my shepherd's pie.
Back in her circular dormitory, the peace was absolute. The Highland Heather she had planted was glowing a soft, rhythmic green, and Artemis was already curled up on the blue silk duvet.
Ashlyn sat at her desk and opened her "Strategy Notes." Under the heading Potions, she wrote: Snape values intuition over instruction. Study the properties of ingredients, not just the steps. Forget the 'standard' way. Learn his way.
She climbed into bed, the sheets perfectly chilled to 20°C. She had two days of freedom ahead of her. Two days to explore the library, walk the grounds with Lyra, and perhaps find a secret corner of the castle that didn't belong to a hero or a villain.
As she drifted off, the last thing she felt was the profound comfort of the Tower—high above the damp, the drama, and the screams of Howlers.