The air in the dungeons was cold and damp.
Flickering torches cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, illuminating jars of various specimens preserved in glass, perfectly establishing Severus Snape’s signature gloomy atmosphere.
The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students sat mixed together.
Compared to classes shared with Gryffindor, the atmosphere was less boisterous and carried a heavy, tense quiet.
Stelle sat near the back, next to her roommate.
Unlike the nervous young witches and wizards around her, she was observing a shelf in the corner of the classroom stacked with dusty old books and discarded glass bottles with great interest, as if it were a treasure chest waiting to be looted.
When Severus Snape swept into the classroom like an overgrown bat, his temperature-dropping gaze scanning the room, the last remaining whispers died instantly.
He did not start with any introductory questions.
Instead, he began the lesson directly in his low, menacing voice.
“Potions,” he spoke, his voice like cold water flowing over stones, carrying an unquestionable authority.
“Is not the crude art of waving wands and incanting spells that many of you might imagine.
It is a precise science, a rigorous art that demands perfection and tolerates no carelessness.” His gaze seemed to linger for a fraction of a second on Stelle’s conspicuous grey hair, completely by chance yet with precise intent, before drifting away as if she were merely an insignificant piece of furniture.
“Today, you will learn to brew a simple cure for boils.
This may seem elementary, but any minor mistake can lead to highly unpleasant consequences.” Without giving the students a chance to ask questions, he turned, tapped his wand against the blackboard, and conjured the clear but lengthy recipe and instructions.
“Begin,” came the brief, chilly command.
The students immediately set to work.
The Ravenclaws buried their heads in studying the steps, striving to understand the underlying principles of every reaction, while the Hufflepuffs worked with extreme caution, following the instructions to the letter.
At Stelle’s workstation, however, the process looked rather different.
She began by picking up the dried nettles and crushed snake fangs, sniffing them and rolling them between her fingers as if analyzing the material composition.
“Add the snake fangs first, heat, then quickly stir three and a half times clockwise, then once counterclockwise…” she muttered, reciting the steps on the blackboard.
Then she tilted her head, a flash of doubt crossing her golden eyes.
“Stirring counterclockwise is to artificially create magical turbulence to force the mixing of partially incompatible substances?
That’s terribly inefficient and unstable.
Back on the space station, the Omni-Synthesizer could handle this level of material synthesis in three seconds flat, with way higher energy utilization.” Despite her cross-dimensional critiques, her hands-on capability was beyond reproach.
When she picked up the silver knife to prep the nettles, her hands moved so quickly they almost left afterimages, yet every cut landed exactly where it needed to.
When handling the porcupine quills, the hand holding her tweezers was as steady as a robotic arm, her gaze as focused as if she were performing maintenance on her baseball bat.
Every measurement, every stir, and every micro-adjustment to the heat was executed with textbook precision.
Nearby, a Ravenclaw student, perhaps too absorbed in contemplating the deep theory behind the steps, was a second too slow.
Their cauldron let out a wet *splat* and spat out a small glob of sticky, green liquid that smelled of rotten eggs.
Stelle looked up at the sound.
In her own cauldron, the potion was bubbling placidly, possessing a near-perfect, clear blue-green hue.
It resembled a shallow sea under a clear afternoon sky—the exact standard color described in the books.
Severus Snape glided silently among the cauldrons like a low-pressure storm cloud.
He stopped beside the failing Ravenclaw student, delivering a few icy remarks about “a lack of basic temperature control” and how “Ravenclaw intelligence is not meant to be wasted on idle daydreaming,” ruthlessly docking five points.
Then, he slithered behind Stelle.
A cold draft carrying the scent of various potion ingredients and a uniquely bitter undertone enveloped Stelle’s workstation.
He looked down, inspecting her flawless potion, then glanced at the neatly arranged, precisely portioned remnants of raw materials on her desk.
He picked up a clean ladle, scooped a tiny amount of Stelle’s potion, and brought it close to inspect its viscosity and clarity.
He then brought it to his nose to check the scent.
A long silence followed.
Severus Snape’s face remained entirely expressionless, but his tight jawline indicated he was performing a serious evaluation.
Finally, he set the ladle down and said in his characteristic, almost entirely heatless whisper, loud enough for the surrounding rows of students to hear: “An impeccable standard.
Five points to Hufflepuff, for precision of technique.” Without another glance at Stelle, his black robes billowed as he swept away, turning to the next student struggling with a sticky cauldron of sludge.
This was practically the highest level of praise the Potions professor could muster in a classroom setting.
Upon hearing this alternative form of compliment, Stelle’s mouth twitched into a practiced, slightly smug, roguish smirk.
Then she blinked, thinking: *Standard?
Does that mean it lacks innovation?
Oh well, for a first attempt, it’s better to stick to the rules.
After all, Aunt Himeko said to always follow safety protocols in an unfamiliar laboratory.* Just as she was about to clean her cauldron, the corner of her eye caught something.
The splash of potion from the Ravenclaw student’s minor explosion had corroded an irregular mark on the floor, right next to a crack in the stone tile.
For some reason, it looked oddly familiar.
It looked exactly like the abstract graffiti symbols she had seen on the bottom of a certain trash can within the dreamscape fragments of Penacony.
*”Go where the madness is…
plunge where the absurdity lies…”* Aha’s mischief-laden prompt seemed to echo from the depths of her mind.
Without changing her expression, Stelle casually put her scales back in place.
Then, using the excuse of sweeping some discarded ingredient scraps into the waste bin, she “accidentally” dropped a piece of cotton cloth used for wiping the workstation right next to the scorch mark.
She bent down naturally to retrieve it, and the moment her fingers picked up the cloth, she seemingly by chance brushed the edge of that crack.
A tiny, icy sensation shot through her fingertips.
She quietly clenched her fist and stood back up.
Returning to her desk, she opened her palm.
A round plastic token, shining with a cheap sheen and stamped with a twisted smiley face, lay quietly in her hand.
[Elation Token 1/7 – Location: Potions Classroom, failed potion and floor tile crack.
Checked in at an unexpected point of chaos.] Stelle slipped the token into her pocket and began thoroughly scrubbing her cauldron in an excellent mood.
It seemed that even in the seemingly rigid and boring Potions class, clues of Elation were waiting to be found.
This trip to Hogwarts might not be a disappointment after all.