Harry potter and the stone

The air in the castle seemed heavier as Harry, Ron, and Hermione descended deeper into the dungeons for their first Potions class. The morning sunlight that streamed through the upper windows of the castle was absent here; instead, the walls were lit by flickering torches, their light casting long, wavering shadows on the damp stone.

"This place gives me the creeps," Ron muttered, glancing at the dripping walls. "Bet Snape chose it to keep everyone on edge."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione snapped, though her voice was a bit strained. "The dungeons are the perfect environment for brewing potions—consistent temperature, limited light, fewer distractions."

"Yeah, that's comforting," Ron grumbled, pulling his robes tighter around him.

Harry didn't comment. He was too busy taking everything in: the smell of damp stone and something faintly acidic in the air, the faint echoes of footsteps, and the slight chill that seemed to seep through his robes. There was a weight to the atmosphere, one that made Harry's skin prickle with unease.

The narrow staircase leading down to the Potions classroom spiraled into the depths of the castle. Harry trailed a hand along the wall, feeling the cool, rough stone beneath his fingers. Ron walked beside him, nervously glancing around, while Hermione led the way, her nose buried in Magical Drafts and Potions.

"Do you think Snape's really as bad as everyone says?" Harry asked, breaking the silence.

"I don't know," Ron replied. "Fred and George say he's a nightmare, but they might just be winding me up. He's supposed to hate Gryffindors, though."

"Professor Snape is a highly skilled Potions Master," Hermione interjected without looking up. "He's strict, yes, but only because he expects his students to take his subject seriously. Potions is one of the most complex and dangerous branches of magic."

"Still doesn't mean he has to be nasty about it," Ron muttered.

Harry stayed quiet, but a faint sense of foreboding settled in his stomach. He wasn't sure what to expect from Snape, but the warnings he'd heard didn't exactly inspire confidence.

The staircase ended in a long, dimly lit corridor. The walls were lined with iron sconces holding sputtering torches, and the air was colder here than it had been above. Harry shivered, pulling his robes closer around him.

As they walked, Harry noticed doors on either side of the corridor, most of them closed. Some had small, barred windows, through which he could see shelves lined with jars filled with strange substances—pickled roots, animal parts suspended in murky liquids, and other unidentifiable items.

"What's in those jars?" Harry asked, pausing to peer into one.

"Ingredients," Hermione said. "For potions." She sounded fascinated rather than unnerved, but Harry couldn't help but feel a little queasy at the sight of a pale, coiled serpent floating in one jar.

Ron leaned closer to another door and made a face. "Ugh, is that a rat? Or what's left of one?"

"Honestly, Ron," Hermione huffed, tugging at his sleeve. "We're going to be late if you keep gawking."

At the end of the corridor, they reached a heavy wooden door with black iron hinges. A brass plaque read: Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master.

Ron hesitated. "Reckon he'll bite our heads off if we're early?"

"Better early than late," Hermione said briskly, pushing the door open.

The Potions classroom was just as foreboding as the corridor outside. The walls were lined with shelves filled with more jars of ingredients, their contents glinting in the dim torchlight. A long workbench ran down the center of the room, flanked by rows of desks equipped with cauldrons, scales, and stirring rods. The air smelled faintly of sulfur and something sharp and metallic.

Harry and the others chose seats near the middle of the room. Ron leaned over and whispered, "Do you think he's going to make us brew something disgusting on the first day?"

"Probably," Harry replied, eyeing the assortment of jars warily.

The door creaked open again, and other students began to trickle in. Malfoy entered with his usual entourage, Crabbe and Goyle, smirking as he scanned the room. He sauntered past Harry's desk and muttered just loudly enough for Harry to hear, "Hope you're ready to embarrass yourself, Potter."

Harry clenched his jaw but didn't reply.

As the students settled in, the room grew quiet. The tension was almost palpable, everyone waiting for Snape to make his entrance. Harry found himself gripping the edge of the desk, his nerves jangling.

The torches flickered, casting strange shadows on the walls, and the jars seemed to glint ominously in the dim light. Harry glanced at Hermione, who was straightening her supplies with methodical precision, and Ron, who was nervously tapping his wand against the desk.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, slow and deliberate. The room fell into complete silence as the door creaked open.

Harry held his breath, bracing himself for what was to come.

The Potions classroom felt more like a dungeon than a place of learning. The damp stone walls absorbed sound, the air was heavy with the mingling scents of various ingredients, and Harry found it oddly oppressive. Yet, he felt a spark of curiosity—Potions had been one of the more fascinating topics in his textbooks, filled with possibilities and precision.

The room quieted as Professor Snape entered, his robes billowing behind him like dark wings. He paused at the front, his cold gaze sweeping over the class with the precision of a predator. Harry could feel the weight of the man's presence, his every movement calculated to command attention.

"You are here," Snape began, his voice soft but cutting through the silence like a knife, "to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you to understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes... the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses..."

Harry leaned forward slightly, caught in the rhythm of Snape's words. There was something hypnotic about the way the man spoke, as if he were revealing secrets of the universe just out of reach.

"But I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death—if you aren't as much a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Snape's eyes flicked to Harry, narrowing slightly. Harry met the gaze steadily, his expression calm and neutral. He wasn't sure why Snape seemed to focus on him, but he wasn't going to give the professor the satisfaction of squirming.

"Potter," Snape said suddenly, his voice slicing through the room.

Harry straightened. "Yes, sir?"

"What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry didn't panic. He remembered reading about it in Magical Drafts and Potions. It had caught his attention because of the potency of the potion. He thought carefully before answering.

"The Draught of Living Death, sir," Harry replied, his tone measured.

There was a flicker of surprise in Snape's eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Correct," Snape said, his voice betraying no emotion. "Let's see if you're consistent. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Harry resisted the urge to smirk. He had found bezoars fascinating during his reading—small stones formed in the stomachs of goats, capable of neutralizing most poisons.

"A bezoar is found in the stomach of a goat," Harry replied evenly, "and it's used as an antidote to many poisons."

This time, Snape's reaction was unmistakable—a slight narrowing of the eyes, as though he were trying to uncover some hidden motive.

"One last question, Potter," Snape said, his voice soft and dangerous. "What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry hesitated only briefly. "There's no difference, sir. They're two names for the same plant. It's also called aconite."

The silence in the room was deafening. Hermione was beaming at him, and Malfoy's smirk had disappeared.

Snape's lips curled into a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It seems," he said slowly, "that fame hasn't completely addled your brains. Five points to Gryffindor."

Harry felt a small flicker of satisfaction, but he kept his expression neutral. He could tell that Snape wasn't pleased about awarding points to Gryffindor, and he didn't want to provoke him further.

Snape turned away and waved his wand at the blackboard. Instructions for brewing a Cure for Boils appeared in neat handwriting. "Today, you will attempt to brew this potion. Instructions are on the board. Ingredients are in the cupboard. Begin."

Harry and Ron quickly gathered their supplies, though Harry noticed Ron was less enthusiastic. "I hate that git already," Ron muttered as they returned to their table.

Harry ignored the comment, already scanning the instructions. The steps were straightforward, but he noticed a few places where precision was key—like crushing the snake fangs to a fine powder and adding the nettles slowly to avoid overheating the mixture.

"We need to be exact with the measurements," Harry said to Ron, his voice firm. "This isn't like baking a cake."

Ron looked skeptical but followed Harry's lead as they began preparing the ingredients. Harry worked methodically, his movements careful and deliberate. He adjusted the flame under their cauldron to keep it at a consistent simmer and added each ingredient in the precise order listed.

"You're really into this, aren't you?" Ron said, watching as Harry stirred the potion counterclockwise, counting each rotation.

"It's like solving a puzzle," Harry replied, his eyes focused on the swirling liquid. "If you follow the steps exactly, you get the right result. It's kind of satisfying."

As they worked, Harry was acutely aware of Snape prowling the room like a predator, his sharp eyes scanning every table. He stopped occasionally to sneer at a student's mistake or vanish an unfortunate potion that had gone disastrously wrong.

When Snape approached their table, Harry kept his focus on the cauldron, his hand steady as he added a final pinch of dried nettles.

Snape leaned over their work, his expression inscrutable. "Adequate," he said finally, though his tone made it sound like an insult.

Ron looked like he wanted to argue, but Harry shot him a warning glance. Snape didn't need much of an excuse to take points from Gryffindor, and they'd already earned his ire.

By the end of the lesson, Harry and Ron's potion was one of the few that had turned the correct shade of turquoise. Snape awarded them a reluctant nod of approval before dismissing the class.

As they packed up their supplies, Ron muttered, "That was the worst lesson I've ever had. And I'm pretty sure it's going to be like this all year."

Harry shrugged. "We survived," he said simply. "And at least we didn't melt our cauldron."

Ron snorted, glancing over at Neville, who was still apologizing profusely to Seamus for their shared disaster.

As they left the dungeon and stepped into the brighter corridors of the castle, Harry couldn't help but feel a small sense of triumph. Snape's disdain might have been palpable, but he'd proven he wasn't just some clueless boy with a famous scar.