Lunch at the Gryffindor table.
Ron stabbed at his mashed potatoes with the expression of a man facing execution.
“Professor McGonagall is doing this on purpose.
She actually wants to check our notes.
I spent the whole lesson watching her turn a match into a needle.
What am I supposed to do, Harry?” “I didn’t write anything either.” Harry shoved a piece of steak into his mouth and spoke around it.
Both of them turned at the same time toward Hermione, who was calmly organizing her notes a few seats away.
She felt their stares and gave them a look that said she had seen this coming from the moment the lesson ended.
“Hermione—” Ron dragged the name out.
“Just this once.
Let us copy.” “I knew it.” She swallowed the last of her bread and frowned.
“You two didn’t listen at all.” Even so, she pulled the notebook from her bag and dropped it between them.
“Don’t make a habit of it.” “You’re a lifesaver,” Ron said, already scribbling.
Hermione pushed him away with visible distaste, gathered her books, and left the Hall.
Ron muttered under his breath while writing, “She really should have been in Ravenclaw.” Harry kept his head down and copied as fast as he could.
“What’s this afternoon?” “Potions.
Then Dark Arts Practical.” Ron lowered his voice.
“What do you make of Professor Styx?” Harry thought for a moment.
“At least he doesn’t look as scary as Filch.” — Having learned from the morning’s disaster, Harry and Ron reached the dungeons ten minutes early.
The Potions classroom looked like something from a horror film.
Damp stone walls lined with glass jars of floating, strangely coloured specimens.
Candles burned low, casting everything in a sickly green light.
Harry shivered the moment he sat down.
“This place is a crypt.” “Shut up,” Ron whispered.
“I keep feeling like those things are watching us.” The room fell quiet.
The door at the back slammed open.
Snape swept in, black robes billowing like a low-flying bat.
He reached the front, flicked his wand once.
The windows sealed.
The curtains dragged shut.
The last scrap of daylight vanished.
Only the candles remained.
Snape stood at the podium and let his gaze travel the length of the room.
The silence was absolute.
“You are here to learn the precise science and exact art of potion-making,” he began, voice low and measured.
“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class.
Many of you will not believe this is magic at all.
I do not expect you to appreciate the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins and bewitch the mind… However, for those select few who possess the predisposition—” His black eyes swept the class.
“—I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death.” No one moved.
Only the soft crackle of candle flames filled the air.
Snape’s gaze settled on Harry, who was already writing furiously.
“Perhaps some of you have come to Hogwarts believing your celebrity status means you need not listen.” Harry’s stomach dropped.
Snape walked toward him.
“Potter.
What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” Harry opened his mouth.
Nothing useful came out.
“I don’t know, Professor.” Snape tilted his chin a fraction.
“Fame, it seems, does not equal knowledge.
Two points from Gryffindor.” Hermione’s face went red with suppressed fury, but Snape was not finished.
“Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?” “I don’t know.” “And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” Harry’s hands were clenched under the desk.
His head stayed down.
“I don’t know, Professor.” “Have you forgotten basic manners?
Look at me.” Snape leaned in until their eyes met.
Whatever he had been about to say next died when he saw the tears Harry was fighting back.
He straightened.
“You haven’t even opened your book, have you, Potter?
Five more points from Gryffindor.” The rest of the lesson was a slow bleed of points.
Incorrect herb cuts.
Improper heat.
Cauldron too close to the flame.
Harry lost another two simply for glancing at the smoke pouring from Neville’s cauldron.
When the bell finally rang, Harry was the first out the door.
“He’s targeting you,” Ron hissed in the corridor.
“The way he looks at you, I swear he wants to drop you in a cauldron and boil you.” “Maybe he’s just strict,” Hermione said, catching up with her bag.
“And it’s not polite to talk about a professor behind his back.” Ron opened his mouth, then closed it.
He shot Harry a look that clearly said: Ravenclaw.
Definitely.
— Last lesson of the day.
Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years climbed to the fifth-floor classroom for Dark Arts Practical.
The room was far larger than the dungeon.
Desks and chairs had been pushed to the walls, leaving a wide open space in the centre that looked built for sparring.
Several students tensed the moment they stepped inside.
Styx was already waiting beside the podium.
Today he wore a plain white shirt with the cuffs rolled once, looking younger than the rest of the staff.
When the last student sat, the bell rang.
He turned and wrote his name on the board in clean strokes.
Lethean Styx “Good afternoon.
It’s an honour to be your Dark Arts Practical professor.
For the next seven years—assuming the curse on this position doesn’t kill me first—I’ll be responsible for this class.” A ripple of uneasy laughter and whispers moved through the room.
“First, the good news.” Styx tapped the desk lightly.
“There are no textbooks.
Feel free to take those thick Defence theory bricks from Flourish and Blotts and use them as doorstops.” Ron’s eyes lit up.
Even Malfoy on the Slytherin side raised an eyebrow.
Styx let the murmurs run for a few seconds, then continued.
“Because when real danger arrives, dark wizards do not pause while you flip through an index.
Hogwarts created this practical class separate from Defence Against the Dark Arts for a reason.
It is not so you can earn a pretty Outstanding at the end of term.” He stepped forward.
Leather soles clicked once on the wood.
“The true danger of dark magic has never been limited to the curses that break bones or spill blood.
It is the way it amplifies every fear, every anger, every scrap of hatred already living inside you.
When that force hits you in the face, most people do not last the first second.
Their minds simply shut down.” His right hand flicked once in empty air.
No one saw him draw a wand.
A brass paperweight on the podium exploded with a dull bang.
Metal shards slammed into the blackboard, leaving a dense constellation of dents.
Several Gryffindor girls in the front row screamed.
Even Malfoy flinched.
Styx’s expression did not change as he lowered his hand.
“Did you see that?
The ability to stay calm is the only thing this class is truly here to teach you.
Fear itself is not shameful.
But a wizard who cannot raise a wand in the face of fear does not deserve the name.” Absolute silence filled the room.
“Class begins.”