The Black Bloodline of Hogwarts

If Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom was like a rigorous academic hall, then Professor Snape's Potions classroom was nothing short of a black market run by goblins—cold, damp, and filled with a complex odor that mixed with old herbs, rotting roots, and some other dubious smell.

The glass jars hanging from the ceiling contained all sorts of gruesome specimens: webbed fingers, bulging eyeballs, and a mass of gray substance that appeared to be wriggling.

When Julien followed Ravenclaw's party in, the Hufflepuff badger cubs were already sitting obediently. Lyria, still wrapped in her cloak, sat in the corner, seemingly blending into the eerie atmosphere.

Hannah Abbott was nervously flipping through "Elementary Potions Making," muttering to herself. Clearly, the little badgers had already heard about Gryffindor's ordeal that morning.

"I hope the crucible doesn't blow up today," Kayson muttered to himself behind Yulian. "I don't want to become a frog soaked in formaldehyde."

"Shut up, Moretti," Edgar pushed up his glasses, his face serious. "Focus! Remember Professor McGonagall's words!"

Just then, a cold, greasy voice, like a venomous snake slithering across a stone slab, came from the shadows at the front of the classroom: "If you can't shut your mouths up and discuss potion recipes, I don't mind using a stitching charm to permanently solve this problem for you."

All the young wizards instantly fell silent.

Professor Snape appeared silently at the podium, as if emerging from the darkness.

His black robe was even blacker than the one he had seen yesterday. His thin lips beneath his hooked nose were pressed into a ruthless straight line. His gaze swept across the entire room like a searchlight, and wherever it fell, even the air seemed to freeze.

His gaze swept over Hufflepuff and then over Ravenclaw. When he saw Lyria's incongruous cloak, his lips twitched almost imperceptibly, clearly displeased with this "unconventional" behavior.

But when his gaze shifted to Ravenclaw and landed on a new face, he suddenly stopped.

The boy had slightly curly dark hair, fair skin, and a tall, upright posture, exuding a maturity beyond his years.

What made Snape's heart skip a beat was the pair of eyes that appeared when he looked up—emerald green, clear, and bright, like olive leaves after the rain, or like...like that untouchable shadow deep in his memory.

Snape's pupils contracted sharply, but when he thought of the man's surname, his expression became even more sinister.

He quickly looked away, as if burned by the green, and his voice grew even lower: "Potions - the intricacies of this discipline cannot be grasped by a troll waving his wand like a monster."

Professor Snape paced slowly, his eyes scanning the room, speaking in a soft, almost muttering voice, yet clearly audible to every young wizard in the silent classroom.

The temperature in the classroom seemed to drop even lower. "I don't expect many of you to have the real talent to experience the intoxication of potions—but at least," Snape suddenly raised his voice, "please don't defile the sacred cauldron with foolish actions."

Having said that, Snape strolled back to the podium. "Today, we're learning about a potion for treating boils. I've written the steps on the blackboard. It corresponds to page 59 of your textbooks. I hope..."

He emphasized his words, "Furthermore, don't let some of those self-important college students this morning use this place as a stage for them to flaunt their stupidity!"

"Begin," he commanded succinctly, then turned and walked toward his desk, the hem of his black robe billowing behind him like an ominous dark cloud.

Immediately, the classroom was filled with the rustling sound of pages turning and the soft rustling of rummaging through things.

Some young wizards haven't even opened the packaging since buying the cauldron, let alone practice using it. And no one even asks why class doesn't start from the first page.

Julien clearly remembered that the first lesson in the potions textbook was an introduction to the equipment and instructions for using potions, just like his chemistry lab classes in his previous life. Of course, he wouldn't dare to tread that path.

So he began to follow the instructions on the blackboard, his movements precise and fluid as he processed the porcupine quills and dried nettles. Having memorized the textbook as well as Hermione, he had already keenly noticed subtle differences between Snape's writing and the textbook's. For example, the detail of how the nettles were crushed.

Where there were discrepancies, Julien still followed Snape's instructions step by step; the Potions Master must have his reasons for writing things this way. At the same time, he could feel Snape's gaze occasionally drifting over, carrying a scrutinizing look and a complex, indescribable emotion.

"Mr. Black," Snape spoke suddenly, his voice low but silencing the entire classroom once more, "you seem quite confident in your actions?"

Julien looked up, a harmless smile on his face: "It's just following the standard procedures strictly, Professor. You said precision is the first principle of potions."

Snape narrowed his eyes and slowly walked over. He stood beside Julien's cauldron, looking down at the bubbling purple liquid inside.

"Precise?" he sneered. "Then tell me, why is your porcupine quill slice half a millimeter thicker than the standard requirement? Are your eyesight bad or your hands clumsy?"

The surrounding students held their breath. Just as Gryffindor had said, this was nitpicking!

No young wizard can guarantee that their slices will be of uniform thickness.

Julien remained calm. He picked up a piece of porcupine quill and answered, "Because the porcupine quills are a bit dry today, Professor. If I sliced ​​them to the standard thickness, they would absorb too much water when the caterpillar juice with tentacles is added later, affecting the uniformity of the medicinal effect. I made them slightly thicker to ensure their structural integrity during the decoction process."

Snape was taken aback. He really hadn't expected that a first-year student would not only notice the differences in the state of the raw materials, but also make such subtle adjustments based on experience.

This goes beyond rote memorization and touches upon the true essence of potion-making—understanding and adaptability.

He remained silent for a few seconds, his hawk-like gaze fixed on Julien's emerald green eyes, trying to discern any arrogance or hypocrisy. But he saw only clear confidence and respect for knowledge.

"Hmph," Snape finally just snorted coldly, turned and left, "I hope your potion is worthy of your silver tongue. Otherwise, Ravenclaw will pay the price for your arrogance."

Although the threat of deducting points was still present, the harshness in his tone had lessened considerably. Julien knew that he had temporarily passed the test.

In the time that followed, Snape indeed reverted to his "fair" nature. Like a predatory vulture, he patrolled the classroom, precisely targeting every student who made a mistake, regardless of their house. Since Slytherin was not among them, Snape was even more unscrupulous.

"Miss Burns!" he roared. "Are you planning to feed your dried nettles to trolls? They're cut so roughly! Hufflepuff, one point deducted!"

"Mr. Boot," he said, walking up behind Terry Boot and pointing to his cauldron, "your flame is three degrees too hot; the potion is starting to char. Ravenclaw, deduct two points!"