The students couldn't contain themselves. Whispers spread like fire through dry grass.
"Do you all want to be kept in detention?!" Snape's voice cut through the noise like a blade. Sheer volume wasn't necessary — the quiet tone carried absolute authority. "Now. Keep working. Slytherin or Gryffindor, if you don't finish one complete potion, your homework will be extended by a foot."
A foot. Every student went rigid.
No one dared to be curious about Hall's situation anymore. They envied his courage in negotiating with the professor, but to do it themselves? Impossible.
"Professor Snape is even more terrifying than my mother described," a Gryffindor whispered.
Snape's black robes swept across the stone floor, the soft sound sending chills through the room.
"Are you an idiot? Crush it — crush it properly, don't you understand basic instructions?"
"Did a slug eat your brain? Stir it three times. Three times, not two."
"Take that cauldron off the flame before it melts, you troll."
The verbal venom landed evenly on every student, regardless of house. Slytherin and Gryffindor alike absorbed the same contempt.
Hall listened with genuine appreciation.
Snape was an equal-opportunity terroriser. Beautiful, really. He'd brought the houses together through shared suffering.
"Henry... can you do it?" Harry's voice was cautious.
"Almost there," Hall said.
"Almost?!" Harry's voice cracked. "Henry, I've already lost a point for Gryffindor. If I lose another, I'll be kicked out of the house."
Hall didn't look up. "If you want me to succeed, it's not impossible."
Harry clutched his pocket protectively. "I only have a dozen Galleons left."
"You think I'm that kind of person?"
"Yes," Harry said resentfully.
"I'm running low. I used everything I had."
"All used up?!"
It wasn't Harry who spoke. Malfoy had been eavesdropping, and his surprised exclamation drew Snape's attention. The professor glanced over, snorted, and returned to his relentless pacing.
Malfoy wanted to press for details — then he saw Hall's cauldron. The liquid inside had shifted from clear white to an ominous brown, bubbling with alarming intensity.
"William, your pot's going to explode!" Malfoy yelled, stumbling backward.
Snape's robes billowed as he crossed the room in three long strides.
"Henry William."
The name came out like a curse.
"Malfoy's right. You've failed."
"No, Professor. I haven't."
Snape's figure loomed over both of them. Harry instinctively stepped back, tugging at Hall's sleeve, trying to pull him away from the shadow.
Hall didn't move.
His potion-making talent was B-Rank, but that didn't fully capture the advantage. In the seconds since the potion had changed colour, his mind had run through every possible combination of ingredients, every failure mode, every corrective action. He'd tested this method hundreds of times mentally.
The method he was using now was the only one that worked.
He wouldn't fail.
Snape frowned. The lines between his brows deepened. He'd never seen a first-year so calm under his pressure. For a moment, he almost believed the boy could actually succeed.
Hall kept stirring. On the eighteenth rotation, he added the crushed herb juice and began stirring counter-clockwise.
After three rotations, wisps of smoke rose from the cauldron, shifting from white to pale red.
Snape watched as the colour changed — brown to silver — and finally stabilised at a deep, vibrant blue.
Hall turned off the flame and poured the potion into a crystal vial.
The liquid inside glowed with a warm, pulsing light. Blue, flecked with silver specks that drifted like tiny stars. It was alive. Moving. Breathing.
Snape knew immediately that it had worked.
He didn't know what the potion was. He'd never seen anything like it. But one glance was enough — the life force emanating from the vial was unmistakable.
His face went very still. Inside, his mind was racing.
What kind of potion is this? A vitality draught? No. The colour's wrong. A restorative? The texture's too thick. A healing agent? It doesn't match any known formula.
Impossible. Henry William is eleven years old. How?
He steadied himself and held out his hand. "Let me see."
Hall raised an eyebrow. "My request, Professor — has it been granted?"
Snape's jaw tightened. He gave a single, sharp nod.
Hall smiled and placed one of the two vials into Snape's palm. The crystal was cool, soothing against his skin. He uncorked it. Wisps of smoke drifted upward, carrying a faint, pleasant fragrance.
He inhaled.
His expression changed.
The students around them, who had been watching with barely contained curiosity, saw it happen. Snape's face — usually an unreadable mask — shifted. Something cracked behind his eyes.
He looked from the vial to Hall, then back to the vial.
He said nothing.
He uncorked the vial and inhaled.
Snape's expression shifted. The stiffness cracked into something else — surprise, then reluctant admiration. He held the crystal vial up to his eyes and gently swirled it.
Then he drank it in one gulp.
"Professor!" Malfoy cried out.
"Professor Snape!" Gryffindor voices joined in alarm.
"Henry William! What have you done!" Milicent Bulstrode whirled on Hall, her voice sharp with accusation. "If anything happens to the Head of House, every Slytherin will hold you responsible!"
Shut up!" Snape's voice cut through the noise. The room went silent.
He stared at Hall. "Henry William. Come with me."
He turned to the class. "Malfoy, Potter — you two keep the others working. Finished crystal bottles are to be labelled and placed on the podium. I've arranged for another professor to supervise."
Snape strode out of the classroom. Hall grabbed his remaining vial and followed.
The walk was silent. Snape's expression was unreadable, but his pace was quick — almost urgent.
Hall felt a sliver of genuine nerves. The potion was designed for Squibs. He wasn't sure how it would affect someone with active magic. Was Snape feeling something unexpected? Something dangerous?
Snape's silence wasn't anger. It was shock. The kind that left his mind racing too fast to form words.
He'd sent word to Dumbledore on the way out. He needed the Headmaster to confirm what he suspected.
If it was true — if the potion had done what he thought it had — it would be the most significant discovery in a century. Not just for the wizarding world. For the Muggle world too.
Dumbledore stood at the end of the corridor, his star-speckled robes catching the torchlight. His posture was relaxed, but the fact that he was waiting in the corridor rather than his office betrayed his concern.
"Dear Severus. What's happened?"
Snape rarely asked for substitutes. In all his years teaching, he had never done so.
"Look at this." Snape handed Dumbledore the empty vial.
Dumbledore took it, turning it over in his long fingers. The bottle was empty, but he brought it to his nose — a nose that had been broken twice, in two different wars — and inhaled.
The scent was faint. Pleasant. And in that instant, Dumbledore felt a surge of energy, as if a thread of pure life had been woven into his bones.
"This—" He stared at the vial, then up at Snape.
"Use your magic. Check my system," Snape said, extending his wrist. He wouldn't normally allow anyone to touch him, but St. Mungo's had the only non-contact diagnostic tools, and this couldn't wait.
Dumbledore placed his hand on Snape's wrist and released a thread of his own magic.
When it met Snape's, he felt it immediately.
A difference. Small but distinct.
Snape's magical power was higher than it had been that morning. Not by much — barely perceptible — but higher. An adult wizard's peak magical power was fixed. It rarely increased after a certain age. It only declined.
Severus's power, unchanged for years, had just increased.
Dumbledore's eyes, half-closed behind his spectacles, opened fully.
"Severus — did you have some breakthrough during class?"
"I didn't." Snape withdrew his hand and placed Hall in front of Dumbledore. "He did."
Hall stood before Dumbledore, meeting his gaze.
"Hello, Henry William." Dumbledore's emphasis on the name was deliberate.
"Hello, Headmaster."
"Could you tell me about this?" Dumbledore shook the empty vial.
Hall glanced at Snape, then back at Dumbledore. "Do we really have to discuss this in the corridor? It feels a bit exposed."
Dumbledore laughed — a warm, genuine sound. "Quite right. How about my office? I believe I have some lemon-honey tea. And perhaps some sweets."
"Sweets would be excellent."
Snape watched the exchange with barely concealed impatience.
"Severus," Dumbledore said, "would you be so kind as to fetch Mr. Filch for me?"
Snape understood immediately. If the potion truly worked, Filch — a Squib — would be the ideal test subject. He left without a word.
"Shall we, Henry?"