Harry looked at him in silence.
Just as he had done from the very beginning with Dumbledore, he was silently observing and contemplating how best to handle this man.
During his first two years as a pirate, he had survived precise acts of vigilance like this.
Or rather, his childhood experiences with the Dursleys had laid a solid foundation, and after becoming a pirate, facing life and death had expanded that instinct.
For the Headmaster, total candor had served as his answer.
So what about Snape?
After a long pause, Harry finally spoke up, replying, “Back at the Dursleys’, whenever I misbehaved, I would be locked away in a dark cupboard for solitary confinement.”
He was testing the waters.
Unlike the teacherly Dumbledore, whom he could understand through conversation, behavior, and various other angles, he had had precious few opportunities to interact with Severus Snape.
And the only certainty was that both men felt they owed him.
Sure enough, the moment those words left his mouth, Harry clearly saw the sallow jaw of the towering man tighten.
The downward curve of Snape’s lips halted for a brief second, as if lightly pricked by something sharp.
He locked those dark, gloomy eyes straight onto Harry, seemingly trying to peer through him.
Unfortunately, he likely couldn’t see a thing.
Unless what Dumbledore had told Harry before was a lie.
In that case, he would need to reevaluate the situation entirely.
“…After dinner, push open the fifth bookshelf and come find me,” Snape muttered with great difficulty, before turning around, shoving the door open, and sweeping out of the room!
Did he really see through me?
Harry twirled his pasta with a fork, but the answer was already clear in his heart.
It seems Dumbledore was telling the truth after all—their mind-reading magic can’t peer into me.
However, being locked in solitary confinement had been real.
Though to a seventeen-year-old Harry who had lived through that dream, that was merely a feeble past.
He didn’t particularly dwell on it, so he didn’t mind leveraging that fragment of the past in exchange for a bit of sympathy.
The world behind the fifth bookshelf was darker than Harry had imagined—in the literal sense.
The stairs led down rather than up, likely heading into a cellar or dungeon of some sort.
The air cooled as he descended, carrying a damp, faintly sour scent.
Herbs?
Animal remains?
Or perhaps the slime of some creature?
Relying solely on the smell, various bits of content from his Potions textbook floated into Harry’s mind.
He knew Snape was the Potions professor at Hogwarts.
The name Severus Snape appeared numerous times in the Potions textbook as the innovator behind many improved brews.
Once Harry stepped all the way down, his suspicion was confirmed: this was indeed a dungeon.
A few sconces hung on the rough stone walls, their modest flames providing at least a dim glimmer of light.
Fortunately, Harry’s eyes had been baptized by voodoo potions in his past, allowing him to clearly discern the array of jars and bottles set before him, the blurrily outlined chunks soaking in pale green liquid, and the dried insects pinned to cork stoppers with legs tucked tightly in.
On the central table, small tin cans filled with powders of various colors were arranged in a neat row, each bearing a tiny, handwritten label.
Dragon blood powder, Mandrake root powder, Unicorn horn powder, Bezoar powder…
Even from a distance and under the faint light, Harry could still read the tiny handwriting clearly.
Speaking of which, voodoo potions could probably be considered a form of Potions too.
And the one who had brewed potions for him had been the Goddess of the Sea herself—a genuine deity, albeit one sealed within the physical body of a witch.
“Are you trembling, Potter?”
Snape stood in the shadows, the firelight illuminating only half of his face.
“Potions is a compulsory subject at Hogwarts—First through Seventh year, without exception.”
“Which means that until you have the good fortune to leave that school, you will sit before me every year, facing these very materials.”
“Unless, of course, you prefer an early departure?”
Harry stepped forward and asked, “Of course not, Professor Snape. What do you need me to do?”
Snape gestured toward the far edge of the long table, where a small ball of fire burned inside a glass jar, and a bright red lizard lay motionless within, seemingly dormant.
“Do you know what this is, Potter?” he asked.
Harry recalled his reading: “A Salamander, a magical creature that thrives on fire. Their lifespan is closely tied to the flames, and if removed from fire, they can survive for up to six hours if fed chili peppers, Professor.”
“Yes, you make it sound convincing enough, Potter. Perhaps you can take Care of Magical Creatures in your third year,” Snape remarked smoothly. This chapter was taken from novelping . com without permission.
“Now, tell me: what remarkable property does Salamander blood possess?”
Harry paused briefly before answering, “Salamander blood possesses powerful healing and restorative properties.”
“Consequently, it is a highly prized potion ingredient, frequently used in concoctions meant to enhance strength or provide healing effects.”
Snape listened, expressionless.
“Very well. Then you shall do it, Potter. Get to work.” He motioned toward Harry.
“…Professor, this isn’t first-year Potions material,” Harry hesitated.
“However, if you are willing to guide me from the side and ensure my safety, I would be glad to try.”
Snape fell quiet for a long moment.
“Humility is a virtue, Potter. I am relieved to see that in this regard, you do not resemble your father, but rather your mother,” his tone softened slightly from its earlier rigidity.
“A Salamander secretes venom from its skin at extremely high temperatures. Before you begin, you had better learn to use the proper instruments—unless you wish to part with a few fingers.”
Harry glanced toward the silver tools set out on the long table—scales, crystal phials of varying sizes, knives of different lengths, tweezers, stirring rods, a mortar and pestle…
He raised his hand to gauge the glass jar, selecting a medium-sized pair of tweezers and a knife.
Gancing at Snape, Harry noticed the man was simply watching intently without any change in expression, so he proceeded with the task.
He set a wide-mouthed phial in place and prepared to use the tweezers to lift the Salamander out of its glass jar.
Pausing mid-motion, he turned to Snape.
“Professor, if it struggles while I’m gripping it…”
Caution.
That was what Snape had just emphasized.
He seemed to be someone who genuinely appreciated caution while despising arrogance and pride.
“It has been Petrified,” Snape explained.
“An advanced application of the Leg-Locker Curse from basic binding spells—Petrificus Totalus?” Harry asked.
“Indeed.”
Snape showed unexpected patience.
“So, Potter, you need not worry that it will suddenly come alive, leap onto your face, and smear its venom all over you.”
“However, you must remember one thing above all: once you remove it from those flames, you have exactly six hours. After six hours, if its blood has not been properly extracted, it will perish, leaving you with nothing but a corpse. Were this my Potions class, twenty points would be deducted from your house on the spot.”