Friday morning was Potions class.
No one dared to be late for this lesson, and everyone arrived early, especially the Gryffindor students, who looked as miserable as if they'd lost a family member.
But David didn't care. As a Ravenclaw, he had no grudges against Snape.
Bang!
The classroom door suddenly swung open just as the lesson was about to start.
Professor Snape strode inside, his black cloak billowing behind him, making a sharp whoosh sound. It was no wonder students called him the "old bat"—he certainly looked the part.
Like most professors, Snape's first task was taking attendance. Aside from a brief pause when he reached Harry's name, he remained as cold and detached as ever.
The dimly lit dungeon, with its rows of bottled specimens floating in murky liquids, only intensified the oppressive atmosphere. No one dared to breathe too loudly. The only sound that broke the silence was students quietly responding with a timid "Here."
Snape moved to the front of the class and began his usual speech, his deep voice reverberating through the dungeon.
"You are here to learn the precise science and exacting craft of potion-making."
"This is not a place for foolish wand-waving or silly incantations. Many of you will not understand the beauty of a simmering cauldron, the delicate tendrils of smoke, the subtle aromas of brewing elixirs."
"You will fail to grasp the power of a potion that seeps into one's veins, stirring emotions, clouding judgment…"
"I can teach you how to bewitch the mind, ensnare the senses, even prevent death itself—provided, of course, that you are not the usual group of dunderheads I have the misfortune of teaching."
His haunting words cast an eerie spell over the room, elevating the art of potion-making to something almost mystical.
David listened intently. Prevent death? Even the Philosopher's Stone couldn't do that. It merely extended life, leaving the body frail under the relentless march of time. Snape's words were poetic—but ultimately, an illusion.
Then, Snape's sharp gaze settled in one direction.
"I would like to reiterate," he said, his voice dripping with disdain, "that there may be someone at Hogwarts so famous that he believes he need not take my class seriously."
His eyes burned with something close to hostility.
Ron, sitting next to Harry, stiffened. He had already sensed trouble brewing. Harry, however, was still focused on his notes, unaware of the storm heading his way.
Snape stepped closer, his shadow looming over Harry's desk.
"Mr. Potter!"
Harry flinched, hastily looking up. The expression on Snape's face was unreadable, but his dark eyes held something intense—almost searching.
"Mr. Potter, the celebrity of the new generation!"
Snape's voice dripped with sarcasm as he suddenly fired a question.
"What will I get if I add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
The dungeon seemed to shrink in on itself.
David's eyes narrowed. This wasn't just any question. Asphodel symbolized remembrance of the dead, and wormwood stood for grief and loss.
Together, they formed a coded message: I deeply regret Lily's death.
This wasn't just about potions. It was Snape's veiled confession—an echo of his buried sorrow.
David smirked. Snape was practically declaring his love for Lily to her own son, and yet, Harry remained utterly clueless.
Harry hesitated before shaking his head.
"I don't know, sir."
Snape snorted.
Hermione, sitting nearby, shot her hand into the air. Normally, she was overshadowed by David and Cassandra in class, but this was her moment. She had studied for this.
But Snape ignored her completely.
His cold stare remained locked on Harry.
"Then let's try another question. If I asked you to bring me a bezoar, where would you find it?"
David's smirk deepened. Another hidden meaning.
Bezoars neutralized poison—just as Snape wished to erase the pain of Lily's death.
Harry's response was the same: "I don't know, sir."
Hermione's hand was trembling with effort, but Snape still refused to acknowledge her.
"What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Another carefully chosen question.
Wolfsbane's meaning was to live for love.
Snape wasn't just testing Harry's knowledge—he was pouring his heart into each question, only for Harry to remain oblivious.
"I don't know!" Harry snapped, growing frustrated. He could feel Snape's hostility, but he couldn't understand why he was being singled out. Finally, he burst out:
"Hermione knows the answer! Why don't you ask her?"
Hermione stood up eagerly, still hoping to be called on.
"Sit down!" Snape barked.
His voice echoed harshly through the dungeon. He had no interest in anyone's knowledge—only Harry's ignorance.
Then, suddenly, Snape turned his gaze toward David.
"Mr. Adrian, answer my questions!"
David blinked. My father didn't steal your wife, so why are you dragging me into this?
Snape was impossible. Even if a non-Slytherin answered correctly, he wouldn't reward them. It was a lose-lose situation.
Still, David sighed and stood up.
"Powdered root of asphodel and an infusion of wormwood create the Draught of Living Death," he recited.
"A bezoar is found in the stomach of a goat and is a powerful antidote to most poisons."
"Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, also known as aconite."
A long silence followed.
Snape's lip curled.
"The answers are correct, but if you look at me like that again, I will take your eyes out."
His voice was cold, emotionless.
"Sit down."
David did, rolling his eyes. So much for answering correctly.
Snape turned his glare back to Harry.
"Mr. Potter, due to your lack of preparation, Gryffindor will lose five points."
Harry's hands clenched into fists, but he said nothing. Snape didn't even bother hiding his disdain.
He swept his gaze across the classroom.
"Well? Why aren't you writing this down?"
David suddenly felt a sharp stare.
He turned to find Hermione glaring at him.
What? He gave her a helpless look. I didn't steal your chance to answer—Snape did!
But Hermione seemed unimpressed. She had waited so long to shine, only to be ignored again.
Snape, however, noticed their silent exchange. His voice cut through the tension.
"Are you two flirting in my class?"
The dungeon fell silent.
"Ravenclaw, Gryffindor—five points each!"
Snape's expression darkened. He despised any form of interaction between students in his lessons, especially between a boy and a girl.
David sighed.
Honestly, this class was a mess.
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