When Snape reached Liriya's station, though, he actually paused.
Liriya hadn't even touched the gleaming silver potion knife.
While everyone else was sawing and slipping on the tough, slick porcupine quills, she simply lowered her eyes, extended her right index finger, and lightly touched the tip of one quill.
A faint, almost invisible white mist seeped from her fingertip and wrapped around the entire spine. It wasn't ordinary vapour — it carried the quiet rhythm of ancient frost, the hush of the longest winter night.
In seconds the quill's surface glazed over with a crystal-thin layer of ice. The flexible fibres froze solid and turned brittle.
She snapped it as easily as a dry reed. Crack. The quill broke cleanly into three equal pieces, the cuts mirror-smooth.
Snape watched in silence. Liriya never flinched at his nearness; she worked at her own pace, as if the professor were nothing more than a shadow on the wall.
He raised his wand, lifted one of the frozen fragments, and let his magic melt the ice away. The fibres beneath were dry, undamaged, and — when he rubbed them between his fingers — even easier to powder than usual. If timed right during the boil, the residual cold would slow the reaction just enough to release the properties gradually instead of all at once.
He looked up, eyes sharp as scalpels, trying to see past the hood. Liriya kept her head down; the cloak's shadow guarded her face completely.
At last Snape straightened, robes whispering. No points lost. No sarcasm. Not even a lecture about "breaking procedure."
He simply stared in her direction and spoke in a low, flat voice that carried no inflection at all.
"Interesting."
The rest of the class was not so lucky. Snape switched back to full gale-force mode.
John Nash from Ravenclaw, nerves getting the better of him, added two extra drops of tentacle juice. Snape materialised behind him instantly.
"Mr Nash, it seems your fingers are as disobedient as your brain. One point from Ravenclaw. If your potion turns into poison, I shall be delighted to deliver you to Madam Pomfrey for clinical trials."
John nearly knocked his cauldron over.
Justin Finch-Fletchley fared even worse. He stirred clockwise when he should have gone anti-clockwise.
Snape loomed behind him like a thundercloud. "Mr Finch-Fletchley, are you trying to summon a boil-demon for company? Your brew smells like sweaty socks stewed with slug mucus. Three points from Hufflepuff. After class you will stay behind, clean up your 'masterpiece,' and start again."
Justin looked ready to cry. The Muggle-born boy had always been top of his class back home; he had never met a teacher this merciless.
Time ticked on. Julien's potion gradually took on the proper pale-violet sheen, releasing a clean scent of lavender and mint.
He added the final ingredient — crushed snake-fang powder — and stirred clockwise with a silver rod at exactly seven revolutions per minute while carefully adjusting the flame. This was the make-or-break moment. One mistake and the whole batch would turn black and stink.
He held his breath, utterly focused. Snape had drifted behind him again and was watching in silence.
The liquid foamed gently. Whenever the colour darkened, Julien lifted the cauldron off the heat for a few seconds, then set it back. After several careful cycles the potion shifted from soft purple to crystalline pale blue, finally settling into a near-transparent, pearlescent glow — the perfect state for boil-cure.
Julien killed the flame, wiped sweat from his brow, and let out a long breath. Only then did he realise Snape was standing right behind him.
Snape's eyebrow twitched. He tapped the cauldron rim with his wand. A single droplet rose, formed a perfect floating bead, and hovered in soft light. He inhaled its scent, then dipped the wand tip and touched it to his tongue.
The entire dungeon went deathly quiet. Every student held their breath.
Snape lowered his wand, gave Julien one expressionless glance, and strode back to the front without a word.
The bell rang.
"Overall," Snape announced in that soul-freezing drawl, "today's efforts were… barely acceptable. None of you managed to poison anyone. Mr Black's technique…" He paused, eyes flicking once more to Julien. "…was passable. That is all. Each of you will write three feet on the proper application of magical implements in potion-making. Due next week."
With a flick of his wand every cauldron scoured itself clean. He swept out of the dungeon, leaving a room full of shell-shocked first-years.
"Merlin's beard," Casen collapsed dramatically against his chair, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. "I thought he was going to pickle me next! I nearly used the porcupine quills as dried nettles — thank God it didn't explode!"
"He actually praised you, Julien!" Edgar stared in disbelief. The rest of the Ravenclaws turned to look too.
"Has he ever praised anyone?"
"'Passable'? Coming from Snape that's practically 'flawless'! I heard the last time he said someone was 'acceptable' was five years ago."
Julien smiled, packing his things. He knew exactly what Snape's "passable" really meant — a complicated tangle of old memories and reluctant recognition of genuine talent.
The class had been nerve-racking, but not without reward. Inside his mind the Magical Resonance Library had gained three new volumes:
Non-Standard Ingredient Preparation: From Frost-Slicing to Moonlight Extraction
Slytherin Shadows: Prejudice and Truth in Potions Mastery
The Silent Cauldron: The Role of Emotional Resonance in Brewing
Before term even started the library had already produced Foundations of Potion-Making, far more detailed than any Hogwarts textbook. That was where Julien had learned to read the texture of every ingredient.
These three new books were clearly the advanced editions. The third one still refused to open.
He glanced toward the doorway. Snape's black robes had already vanished down the corridor.
Maybe the greasy bat isn't quite as terrifying as he seems, Julien thought. At least he gives real talent a chance.
Liriya approached, a faint smile visible beneath her hood. "Your potion was perfect."
Julien blinked, surprised. "Yours was impressive too — I saw the finished one. Have you worked with potion ingredients before?"
"Mm. In the tribe we handle herbs all the time. Just… a few tricks." She kept her voice low. "Especially the parts that need… non-traditional methods."
They shared a quiet smile.
Around the corner of the corridor, out of sight, Snape leaned against the cold stone wall, fingers absently stroking his wand.
He stared at the grey sky beyond the window and murmured, almost too softly to hear:
"Lily… your nephew has your eyes. And… your gift."
The words carried the barest trace of warmth before the familiar ice closed over them again.