HP: Ashborn

I met Flitwick's gaze, sharp and piercing like that of a predatory eagle sizing up its prey. He was testing me, waiting to see if I would waver.

I didn't.

"I accept your proposition and challenge," I declared, my voice steady and resolute.

Beside me, Jasmine straightened her posture and, with just as much determination, said, "I also accept your challenge, sir."

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By the time we finished speaking with Professor Flitwick and accepting his proposition, a quick glance at the clock sent a jolt through me—12:50 PM. If we didn't move fast, I'd be sprinting to Potions like headless chickens, and that was not a class I wanted to arrive at in a breathless, disheveled mess.

Jasmine practically vibrated with excitement beside me, eager to start dissecting the challenge we had just accepted. I, however, quickly convinced her to hold off. The corridors were packed with students, and the last thing we needed was to fumble away this golden opportunity because we couldn't keep our mouths shut. She huffed but saw the logic, and we agreed to meet in the library after our final class to start strategizing.

Once inside the Great Hall, we split off to our respective house tables. I finished my lunch in precisely eight minutes—eating with a level of table manners and elegance that would have made even the strictest etiquette examiner nod in approval. Across the hall, Jasmine caught my eye and mouthed, Seriously? before shaking her head in amusement.

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With only fifteen minutes left before Potions, I briskly descended toward the dungeons. The air grew cooler with every step, the torchlight flickering against the damp stone walls.

To my surprise, most of the Slytherins were already there. As the first Gryffindor to arrive, I was immediately met with lingering stares. Not the casual, passing kind. No—these were deliberate. Calculated.

Their expressions shifted the moment they saw me—eyes narrowing, whispers spreading like wildfire.

The problem? I had absolutely no idea why.

Ignoring it, I slid into a seat at the second bench from the front—alone, of course—and flipped open my Potions textbook. A little last-minute revision wouldn't hurt, especially before the inevitable chaos unfolded.

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As I immersed myself in the text, the classroom gradually filled up. Though five minutes remained until the lesson officially began, every single student—both Gryffindor and Slytherin—had already arrived. As expected, they clung to their own groups, whispering in hushed, conspiratorial tones.

Then, the moment the clock's minute hand struck six, the classroom doors swung open.

A man in flowing black robes entered. Expression unreadable. Presence colder than a Dementor's handshake.

The hushed conversations died instantly.

The Slytherins straightened up, pleased at the arrival of their Head of House, while the Gryffindors visibly tensed—no doubt recalling every unpleasant rumor they'd ever heard about the infamous Potions Master.

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With a dramatic swish of his robes—eerily reminiscent of a bat in flight—he glided to the front of the room.

I kept my expression carefully neutral, but God damn, the resemblance was uncanny.

His gaze swept across the room—slow, deliberate, and sharp enough to cut glass. He lingered just long enough on each student to make them shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny, as if he were mentally cataloging every flaw, failure, and future disappointment in advance.

Then, for the first time, he spoke. Low. Chilling. Each word dripping with barely contained disdain.

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"For those of you who do not know me, I am Severus Snape." His tone made it clear he wished he didn't have to introduce himself to such an unworthy audience.

"Unfortunately, I will have the displeasure of teaching you simpletons who cannot even begin to grasp the subtle art of potion-making."

He delivered the last part while pointedly locking eyes with the Gryffindor section.

A few Slytherins snickered, clearly enjoying the dig. Some of them didn't even bother hiding their smirks.

Snape let the moment settle, his silence as sharp as a well-honed scalpel. Then, just as coldly, he continued.

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"There will be no foolish wand-waving in this class. Nor do I expect many of you to appreciate the delicate vapors of a simmering potion, the elegant science behind the blending of ingredients, or the sheer majesty of a well-brewed draught."

Snape's dark eyes gleamed as he leaned forward slightly.

"However, for those select few who possess the predisposition..."

He paused, his voice dropping to something almost hypnotic.

"I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can show you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death."

A tense silence settled over the room.

And then—

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"Wham!"

The classroom's pin-drop silence shattered as an inkpot crashed onto the stone floor.

Every head whipped around toward the source of the disturbance—none other than Lee Jordan, who sat frozen, staring at the inkpot as though it had personally betrayed him.

It hadn't broken—standard hardening charm, of course. But it didn't need to.

Because what it had done was far worse.

It had caught Snape's attention.

The Potions Master turned his gaze onto Jordan, his voice now ice-cold, laced with mockery.

"Of course, there will always be those who believe they already know everything and see no need to pay attention."

A pause—calculated, suffocating.

"Tell me, Jordan, what is the difference between powdered root of asphodel and fluxweed?"

Jordan shot up from his seat, looking like a man facing a firing squad.

"I... I don't know, sir."

"Five points from Gryffindor."

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Snape barely looked at Jordan before shifting his sharp gaze to the student beside him.

"Towler, same question."

Towler stiffened, swallowed thickly, and shook his head.

Another deduction.

Then the question moved to the Weasley twins.

Snape, it seemed, had a special grudge against them. He didn't just deduct points—he carved out twenty from each, like a butcher hacking through meat. And he did it slowly, deliberately, ensuring they felt the weight of every single one.

By the time the question had made its way down the line—passing Spinnet, Johnson, and basically every other Gryffindor in sight—it had become less of a test and more of a systematic point massacre.

And then, finally, the question reached me.

I could feel it. The weight of the entire classroom's collective gaze.

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Snape's dark eyes locked onto mine. His expression was unreadable, but there was an unmistakable glint of something—challenge, expectation, or maybe just the sheer, unholy thrill of knocking yet another Gryffindor down.

Well, I thought, let's see how this plays out.

Professor Snape's dark eyes bored into mine, his gaze as cold and sharp as a finely honed blade.

"Same question to you, Ashborn," he said, his voice like ice. "What might happen if you fail to let a potion cool for the required time before adding the final ingredient?"

I took a measured breath, ensuring my tone remained calm, precise.

"If a potion isn't allowed to cool properly before adding the final ingredient, the heat could alter the ingredient's properties—weakening its effects, nullifying them entirely, or, in some cases, causing a volatile reaction that could make the entire potion unstable… or even explosive."

A heavy silence followed my response.

For the first time since the interrogation began, Snape didn't immediately respond. His expression remained unreadable, but I caught the slightest flicker of something—mild surprise, perhaps? Approval?

It was hard to tell.

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Around me, the Slytherins looked visibly disgruntled—as if Snape's favorite game of 'Humiliate the Gryffindors' had just hit an unexpected roadblock.

The Gryffindors, meanwhile, were equally stunned. Some blinked at me, as if they couldn't quite believe someone had actually answered one of Snape's questions correctly.

Finally, Snape let out a low hum of acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on me for a second longer before straightening up.

But he wasn't done yet.

His dark eyes remained locked onto mine as he pressed forward with another question.

"What's the importance of stirring a potion in the correct direction?"

I didn't hesitate.

"The direction of stirring affects how the ingredients mix and react with each other. Stirring clockwise generally promotes a smooth and stable blend, while stirring counterclockwise can disrupt the process—sometimes causing undesirable reactions or delaying the potion's effectiveness."

Snape gave a slow nod, though his expression remained unreadable.

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Still unsatisfied, he pushed further.

"Why must one carefully monitor the colour changes of a potion as it brews?"

I mentally thanked Jasmine for this one—her teaching had paid off at the perfect moment.

"A potion's colour serves as a visual indicator of whether the ingredients are reacting properly," I answered smoothly. "An unexpected or incorrect colour change can signal a brewing mistake, which may weaken the potion's effects, render it useless, or, in some cases, make it outright dangerous."

Snape's eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't correct me.

Instead, he delivered one final question, his tone carrying just the faintest edge of challenge.

"If you wished to thicken a potion, which common ingredient would you use?"

I took a moment, carefully formulating my answer before speaking clearly.

"Snake fangs are an essential ingredient in potion-making, prized for their ability to modify a potion's viscosity. When finely crushed, they serve as a potent thickening agent, ensuring the proper cohesion of volatile ingredients. Their use is indispensable in brews that demand precision in texture and stability."

My answers had an explosive effect on the room.

The Slytherins sat frozen, jaws practically unhinged from shock, while the Gryffindors looked at me like I had just won them a war.

The sheer contrast between their reactions was almost amusing.

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But I? I remained seated, calm and composed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

No need to feed the spectacle.

Snape, however, wasn't one to let the class spiral into chaos.

His voice dropped to a dangerously low tone, sharp enough to cut through the stunned silence.

"Why are you not writing this down?"

That snapped the students out of their stupor.

A sudden scramble for quills followed, inkpots rattling as everyone hastily began jotting down notes, not daring to test his patience.

Yet Snape still hadn't moved on from me.

His gaze lingered—piercing, searching—digging for something unseen.

Then, in a blink, he looked away, shifting his focus elsewhere.

I kept my expression unreadable. Not a flicker. Not a crack.

But inside?

I was grinning. Paranoia and preparation beat Murphy's Law every time.

Legilimency.

He had tried to pry into my mind.

And failed.

The locket was working.

A small victory. One he could do absolutely nothing about.

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Snape, either unwilling to acknowledge his failure or simply choosing to move on, launched into a lecture on potions—their brewing process, how reagents reacted with one another, and the precise mechanics of heating and mixing.

The information itself was extremely valuable, but his monotonous tone made it a battle to stay engaged.

Not to mention, his blatant favoritism was on full display.

Every time a Slytherin so much as breathed correctly, they earned a nod of approval or, in rare cases, a point. Meanwhile, the Gryffindors? Completely disregarded—if not outright sneered at.

It wasn't exactly motivating for my housemates. I could see them gradually tuning out.

I, however, didn't care.

I had Occlumency running at full power, committing everything to memory.

Whether Snape wanted me to learn or not was irrelevant.

I would absorb this knowledge.

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For forty-five minutes, Snape continued his lecture, his voice as flat and emotionless as ever, before finally deciding it was time for practical brewing.

With a flick of his wand, the instructions appeared on the board in neat, sharp script.

Turning to face us, he spoke in his usual clipped, no-nonsense tone.

"You will find the brewing instructions in your textbook on page seventy-eight. Ingredients are in the cupboard. Take your positions at a cauldron and burner—two per pair. You have forty-five minutes to complete a simple brew known as Cure for Boils and present it to me for evaluation."

A scramble of movement followed. Pages rustled, chairs scraped, and students hurried to find their partners, the air buzzing with tense anticipation.

I was among the first to move, swiftly taking my position at a cauldron and burner.

Before doing anything else, I focused on copying down the potion instructions Snape had written on the board.

For the briefest of moments, I swore I saw Snape's eyebrows lift ever so slightly in surprise—though he schooled his expression back to its usual cold indifference almost instantly.

Then, without a word, he turned away to observe the rest of the class.

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"Do you have a partner for potion-making, Ashborn?"

I immediately recognized the voice.

"No, not yet, Everleigh."

"Then will you partner up with me?" she asked. It seemed there were an odd number of students in both Gryffindor and Slytherin, leaving the two of us as the only ones without a pair.

"Sure, if that's okay with you," I replied, my attention still fixed on transcribing the board's instructions.

"Excellent!" She beamed, clearly pleased. "Why don't you start boiling the solution while I fetch the ingredients from the cupboard?"

I nodded in agreement, though I made sure to finish copying the instructions first.

No point in rushing and making mistakes later.

I had just finished writing when Everleigh returned, her arms overflowing with ingredients.

She took one look at the still-empty cauldron and let out a slightly shrill, incredulous—

"You haven't even started boiling the solution yet, Ashborn? What were you doing?"

Her eyes narrowed at me, as if I had just committed some great alchemical crime.

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I calmly met her gaze. "I was writing down the instructions, Everleigh, and I was just about to start the brewing process. Besides, it would be improper to begin without my partner present—since we're in this together, after all."

She still didn't look entirely convinced. Squinting at me suspiciously, she muttered, "You have a way with words, Ashborn. But that still doesn't explain why you're writing the instructions when they're already in the book."

I merely smirked and gestured toward our textbook.

"Because the two are different. See this?" I tapped the inside cover, where it was printed:

First published in 1975.

"This book was written nearly a decade and a half ago. Meanwhile, our professor is the youngest Potions Master in the past two hundred years and one of the best in Britain."

Everleigh's brow furrowed slightly, but I continued before she could object.

"Every Potions Master refines and improves recipes over time. I may not have the knowledge to judge which method is superior, but if I had to place a bet? I'd wager that Professor Snape's version is the better one."

I kept my tone low, ensuring only Everleigh could hear me—no need to disrupt the concentration of the other students.

She stared at me for a moment, clearly surprised by my reasoning. Then, after a brief pause, she gave a small nod, finally accepting my explanation.

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But there was one person in the room more surprised than anyone else—Severus Snape himself.

He had never expected a Gryffindor to be the one to see beyond the surface, to note his actions and make the correct judgment. For years, he had employed this trick to separate the wheat from the chaff—to see which students possessed the ability to think critically and question the obvious. After all, why would he bother writing instructions on the board if they were already in the book? Yet most students, in their foolish complacency, never stopped to wonder. And on the rare occasion someone did, it was almost always a Ravenclaw or a Slytherin.

If someone had told him a Gryffindor would one day see through his method, he would have sneered and dismissed them as a time-wasting dunderhead.

Yet here was Maximus Ashborn, not only recognizing the distinction but explaining it—patiently, no less.

And to Miss Lilian Everleigh, of all people.

A pariah among her own house, cast aside due to her family's tarnished reputation, with her only real ally being her fiancé, Octavius Montrose. And yet, here she was—working seamlessly with a Gryffindor.

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That alone was surprising. But what truly caught Snape off guard was the boy's final remark:

"If I had to bet, I'd wager that Professor Snape's version is the better one."

For a moment, Snape wondered if he had misheard.

A Gryffindor—not just paying attention, but openly acknowledging his expertise? That was unheard of.

This wasn't the usual brash, self-righteous recklessness he had come to expect from their kind. This was different. Calculated. Intentional.

His dark eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he studied Ashborn.

'Perhaps,' Snape mused, 'he is not a normal Gryffindor.'