Harry Potter: From Little Wizard to White Lord

Professor Snape had the same uncanny ability as Professor McGonagall, just a sweep of his eyes could render an entire classroom of young witches and wizards utterly silent.

But the similarities ended there.

Where McGonagall was stern yet fair, her authority stemming from a clear sense of justice and impartiality, Snape's presence was… something else entirely.

When he emerged from the shadows, fingers delicately pinching a roll of parchment, and expressionlessly drawled the name "Harry Potter", it sounded like the words had been dragged through clenched teeth.

Like a snake spitting venom.

Snape let his cold black eyes linger on Harry, absorbing every flicker of discomfort among the students as though it nourished him.

"Well, well," he sneered, the sarcasm practically dripping off each syllable. "The Boy Who Lived. The Savior of the Wizarding World. Our very own celebrity."

No one could possibly mistake the tone for anything but contempt.

Harry stiffened, feeling a strange mix of confusion and injustice, when suddenly--

"Vaughn Weasley," Snape continued, his voice adopting the same mocking cadence. "The prodigious potioneer. Another famous figure."

Vaughn stood up politely and offered a small bow. "Thank you for the kind words, Professor."

Harry stared at him, equal parts impressed and envious. Vaughn was calm, collected-as if Snape's barbs were no more dangerous than a summer breeze. How on earth did he manage that?

Snape sniffed dismissively. At least, to Harry's immense relief, he'd stopped glaring at him. He finished reading the roll call and began prowling between the desks like a wraith in black robes.

"Some of you," he said, voice low and deliberate, "may not believe that Potions is a branch of magic at all. I do not expect your thick skulls, to appreciate the beauty of a simmering cauldron, the soft whisper of magical reaction, or the enchantment that arises when ingredients merge under precise conditions..."

His words slithered through the dungeon like fog, curling around the students, soft and sinister.

Suddenly, his voice came right beside Harry's ear.

"Harry. Potter." He practically hissed the name. "Our celebrity. Perhaps you could enlighten the class, what do you get if you add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

What?

Harry blinked. He glanced sideways at Ron, who looked just as clueless.

Of course, Harry had skimmed through Magical Drafts and Potions, but he hadn't memorized it cover to cover. Who would?

Well, Hermione. Her hand was already in the air, waving with all the enthusiasm of someone trying to flag down a dragon mid-flight.

Behind them, Malfoy and his cronies were muffling their laughter.

"I don't know, Professor," Harry admitted, trying to sound respectful rather than panicked.

Snape loomed over him, face pale and long like a wax figure come to life. He gave a soft, cruel laugh.

"Don't know... Well, well. Fame clearly isn't everything, Mr. Potter." He turned, black robes sweeping dramatically. "Let's try something simpler."

Harry's ears burned. His face felt hot with shame and a touch of anger. Why did Snape hate him so much? He couldn't take it anymore.

"Why don't you ask Hermione?" Harry blurted. "She definitely knows. Or Vaughn! He's been brewing potions since he was eight. He's even published in professional journals. Ron showed me one, his theories were amazing!"

The words spilled out in a rush, and when Harry finally stopped, he felt oddly… satisfied. Vindicated, even.

The room froze.

Every student stared. For a moment, the dungeon was so quiet it could've been mistaken for a tomb.

Then--

Snrk.

Draco couldn't help himself. He and his goons broke into snickering.

Their mistake.

Two sets of eyes, Snape's and Vaughn's, swiveled toward them in perfect unison, both expressions equally chilly.

Malfoy shut up at once.

Snape turned his gaze to Vaughn, face unreadable.

"Mr. Weasley," he said slowly. "It seems your reputation precedes you."

Vaughn smiled pleasantly. "Just a few unremarkable accomplishments, Professor."

"But I came to Hogwarts for one main reason," he added sincerely. "To learn Potions from you. And I must thank you, Professor. When certain members of the Apothecaries' Guild criticized my methods, you defended my work with a published paper. I won't forget that."

A low murmur rippled through the students. Had they imagined that faint twitch of Snape's lips? Was that… a smile?

Impossible.

And yet, the tension in the room lessened, just a bit.

Snape didn't ask any more questions, though just before the lesson proper began, he added one last cutting remark.

"There's no need for me to ask Mr. Weasley about such elementary matters," he told Harry icily. "Do you know why, Mr. Potter? Because he earned his reputation through hard work. You, on the other hand…" Snape said airily. "Gryffindor, minus two points."

Harry wanted to melt into the floor.

Vaughn, watching quietly, sighed inwardly. The tension between Harry and Snape was like an impossibly tangled knot.

Harry clearly didn't understand why Snape disliked him so much.

But Snape... Snape saw the eyes of the woman he loved on the face of the man he loathed.

No one could speak to that kind of grief.

Still, as the lesson progressed, it became clear that Snape had only temporarily let Harry off the hook.

Throughout the entire lecture, he stalked around Harry's desk like a vulture sizing up a wounded animal. He threw out sudden questions, obscure references, and comments laced with disdain.

Worst of all, anyone sitting near Harry got dragged into the line of fire.

By the time they reached the practical portion of the lesson, Snape seemed determined to physically haunt Harry's workbench.

"Longbottom," he snapped, "what exactly is rattling around inside that head of yours? Flour and water? The moment you think, it all turns to paste."

"Finnigan, I hear you've got a talent for explosions. Try one here and I'll give you a very personal demonstration of what a disciplinary hex feels like."

Occasionally, Snape would drift over to Vaughn and observe in silence, no criticism, no comments.

And not merely because Vaughn was in Slytherin (though that certainly didn't hurt). The truth was, his work was flawless.

Though Hermione, working as his partner, was confused.

"You're not following the book," she whispered, glancing at how he was slicing a root.

"I never do," Vaughn replied quietly, smiling.

They were brewing a simple remedy for boils, a potion Vaughn had mastered long ago. But that didn't mean he was careless. In fact, as he worked, he explained everything to Hermione in a low voice:

"Potions don't obey the strict rules of chemistry," he said. "They're more like… magical rituals than scientific formulas. Chemistry demands precision in quantities, grams, milliliters. But potions?"

He gestured toward their ingredients.

"Notice how the textbook uses vague terms 'a few drops', 'a handful of leaves', 'one whole rat tail'? But when it comes to stirring," he twirled his wand with a practiced flick, "Potions demands precision. Ten clockwise turns. Two counter-clockwise. And not eleven. Stir an extra time, and your cauldron might explode or turn your skin green."

Hermione stared, fascinated.

Vaughn continued, "The potion isn't just about ingredients, it's about intent, rhythm, and ritual. It's not just mixing. It's invoking. We're not just brewing a potion, we're casting a spell in liquid form."

Hermione beamed. "That makes so much sense. It's like every potion is its own kind of magic."

Vaughn winked. "Exactly."