Sorcerer in the world of magic

It was a Saturday morning, and Hogwarts Castle seemed to breathe with a relaxed, weekend atmosphere. The noise in the corridors was muffled, the students' footsteps less hurried. Most students eagerly anticipated a free day, filled with Quidditch games, strolls around the grounds, or simply lazing about in their house common rooms. But for Stephen Strange, this morning didn't start that way at all. After a late-night excursion into the Restricted Section and an intense study of ancient manuscripts, he slept a sound, deep sleep. His body, accustomed to exertion but still adapting to the new magical realities of Hogwarts, demanded full recovery. He sank into a serene slumber, almost forgetting the time.

Suddenly, the peace was disturbed. Measured knocks on his door, at first soft, then increasingly insistent, echoed in his head, gradually pulling him from Morpheus's embrace. Stephen groaned heavily, trying to ignore the annoying sound, but the knocking wouldn't stop, growing louder and more demanding. It seemed whoever was on the other side had no intention of leaving until they got their way.

Finally, with a grim expression that usually portended a storm, Stephen grudgingly got out of bed. Every movement sent a dull ache through his muscles, and a hammer of fatigue pounded in his head. He walked to the door and, with a cold face that seemed to reflect his inner irritation, sharply yanked it open. Standing on the threshold was a small, plump boy from Ravenclaw, one of the first-years. Seeing Stephen, whose face was rumpled, yet frighteningly serious and even menacing, as if he were ready to tear apart anyone who dared disturb his peace, the boy flinched. His cheeks paled, and his eyes widened in fright. He stammered, trying to force out the words: "P-Professor S-Snape… is w-waiting for you… in his o-office... right now, he said..." His voice trembled, and he nervously fidgeted with the edge of his robe.

Stephen said nothing. His gaze swept over the boy's frightened face, but there was no sympathy or condescension in it. He simply slammed the door shut right in his face with the same stony expression. With a thud that seemed meant to wake the entire corridor. The boy exhaled with relief, as if he had narrowly escaped mortal danger. He quickly said, already addressing the closed door: "Well, I delivered the message..." – and, without losing a second, ran off, trying to disappear from sight as quickly as possible.

Stephen turned away from the door, trying to control his rising irritation. Snape. Of course, Snape. His thoughts were still clouded with sleep, but the impending meeting with the Slytherin Head of House finally dispelled the last vestiges of drowsiness. He needed to compose himself. He walked to the sink, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on his face. The cool sensation instantly cleared his mind. He quickly dressed in his everyday school uniform, trying to look collected and neat, despite his internal state. Then, realizing that hunger would start to distract him, he quickly went down to the Great Hall, grabbed a couple of toasts and a mug of pumpkin juice, swallowed them on the go, trying not to attract attention, and headed to the dungeons.

Snape's office always felt like a place devoid of sunlight and joy. It was a dark, damp room where a sharp, acrid smell of potions constantly lingered. The walls seemed to have absorbed the groans of unfortunate students and Snape's own caustic remarks. Stephen stopped before the massive oak door, adorned with intricate symbols, and took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. He knocked. Snape replied with a cold, indifferent voice: "Enter."

Stephen entered, and the door silently closed behind him, cutting him off from the outside world. The office was dimly lit, with only the light from a single magical lamp illuminating the central table, laden with vials and flasks. Snape himself stood by a large, steaming cauldron, stirring something with a long wooden spoon. His black cloak billowed around him like a bat's wings. His gaze was stern and piercing. "Why so long, Strange?" Snape asked, without taking his eyes off the cauldron. His voice was even, but a hidden threat could be felt within it. "I expected you earlier. Was it really so difficult for you to tear yourself away from sweet slumber, while other students are already engaged in useful pursuits?"

"Forgive me, Professor," Stephen began, trying to inject a note of genuine bewilderment into his voice. "I couldn't sleep. At all. I decided a short walk around the castle would help. And so, I'm walking down the corridor... and I stumble upon... a wandering Goblin. Yes, exactly, a wandering one. He was very old, with the image of a unicorn. He began to tell me a story. A very long one. About the founder's lost slipper. And I... I couldn't leave. I had to listen to it to the end, otherwise, it felt like he would never let me go. And then, when I was almost back to the common room, I was intercepted by enchanted brooms from Filch's storeroom. They thought I was their new synchronized flying coach. They so persistently demanded that I teach them a new marching step that I had to explain for a long time that it wasn't my job, and I can't control brooms... only dustpans." He shrugged slightly, feigning helplessness.

Snape simply stared at him. His black eyes seemed to penetrate right into his soul. He showed no emotion, only his thin lips curved slightly into something that might have been a shadow of a smirk, but it vanished instantly. He was clearly trying to figure out how skillfully Stephen was lying, or if he had truly encountered another of Hogwarts' eccentricities. For a moment, Stephen thought Snape smiled almost imperceptibly, but the moment was so fleeting that he immediately doubted his perception.

"Clear," Snape said, his voice surprisingly dry and emotionless. He didn't pursue the topic. "Approach the cauldron, Strange. And hurry, I don't have time to listen to fairy tales about wandering objects."

Stephen approached. The table next to the cauldron was piled with various ingredients: dried herbs, crushed roots, slugs in jars, feathers, and vials of multi-colored liquids. Snape handed him a long parchment scroll. "What is this?" Stephen asked, scanning the neat, orderly lines.

"These are the potions you must brew," Snape replied, returning to his cauldron. He watched Stephen intently, as if expecting a reaction.

Stephen unrolled the list completely. His eyes widened. These were not just simple concoctions, but very complex and rare potions, requiring high precision and skill. Among them, he recognized the recipe for Veritaserum and even several types of sleeping draughts that required very delicate work. "Professor," Stephen began slowly, with notes of amazement and indignation. "This is five hours of work. Minimum. Or even six, considering that some ingredients require special processing!" He was genuinely astonished by the sheer volume of work. He had come to Hogwarts to study magic, not to become Snape's personal potioneer.

"You have a talent for potion-making, Strange," Snape said, not turning around. His voice was almost indifferent. "This will help you develop it. Experience never hurts. The ingredients are over there," he pointed to shelves that were literally overflowing with vials, jars, and bags of all sorts of components. "Start. Everything must be ready by the end of the day."

Stephen sighed. Indignation boiled within him. He decided to try to negotiate, using methods he had employed in his previous, earthly life. "How much will I get for this, Professor?" he asked, trying to give his voice a businesslike tone. "What's the percentage of the revenue?"

Snape spun around sharply. His black eyes narrowed. He looked at Stephen as if he had just suggested painting him with pink lipstick. "What percentages, Strange?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Stephen was even more indignant. He felt cheated. "What do you mean 'what percentages'?! Professor, these potions sell for a lot on the black market! Veritaserum, for example, is worth a fortune! And you're suggesting I work for free?! You know, this is child labor, which in the Muggle world is considered a crime! A very serious crime, for which one can go to prison for many years, Professor!" He even straightened up, trying to appear imposing.

Snape stared at him for a long time. His face was unreadable. Finally, he slowly walked to a cupboard, opened it, and pointed to several shelves with not the rarest, but still valuable ingredients. "You may occasionally take ingredients from my office, Strange," he said, his voice as cold as ice. "Only not the most valuable ones. And don't take too much. And no mess."

Stephen sighed again. It wasn't what he wanted, but it wasn't the worst option either. Access to Snape's laboratory and his supplies — that was a very good compromise. He would have the opportunity to experiment without attracting unnecessary attention to his own, rather unusual, ingredients. No one would ask where he got so many rare components. This was even better than money. He nodded in agreement and, inwardly resigned, began to brew the potions.

Time flew by quickly. As soon as Stephen immersed himself in the process, he forgot everything else. He worked precisely and quickly, his movements honed by years of practice. He carefully measured ingredients, stirred the brew in the cauldron, watched as the potions changed color, emitting steam of various shades. He liked it. The smell of herbs, magic, and bubbling elixirs filled the air. One by one, the potions were ready, neatly poured into vials, and labeled. When he finished the last batch of potions, the last drops of Veritaserum flowed into the bottle, he straightened up, rubbing his tired hands, and said: "I'm finished, Professor."

Snape walked to the table. He carefully looked at the rows of finished potions, then picked up the last small bottle – the Veritaserum. He turned it in his hands, assessing its purity and color. Then he looked up at Stephen. Stephen felt a shiver run down his spine. Something was wrong. Snape had caught him. In his eyes, there was a knowing look that he couldn't hide.

"Tell me, Strange," Snape's voice became very quiet and dangerous, like a snake's hiss. "How do you know the recipe for this potion?" He pointed to the Veritaserum. "It's not in the library. At all. Not even in the reference catalogs. It's only in the Restricted Section. And as far as I know, you're forbidden access there."

Stephen broke out in a cold sweat. He felt his heart sink to his feet. His mind raced frantically, trying to find a way out. He was caught. He needed to quickly come up with a new story. And this time, it had to be flawless, considering Snape was no fool. He unleashed all his imagination, recalling the most preposterous magical incidents he had ever heard of.

"Well, Professor," Stephen began, trying to look as innocent and even a little foolish as possible. "It was... a very, very strange story, I swear. I... uh... couldn't sleep late last night, yes. Decided to take a walk. Went out into the corridor for some fresh air, and there... it was very quiet. And suddenly! Something black and large flew over me. It moved very fast, like a bat, but it definitely wasn't a bat! And it fell with a crash right on my head! I almost lost consciousness from the impact! And when I looked up to see what it was, it turned out to be this book! — He gestured with his hand as if it were still with him. — Old, dusty, very thick. I didn't understand how it happened. It was as if fate itself had thrown it to me, Professor. You know, Hogwarts is full of surprises, and sometimes objects just fall from the ceiling, like a rain of frogs. I just opened it, and the Veritaserum recipe itself imprinted itself on my mind, as if it was printed right in my head. I didn't even try to memorize it! It just... appeared there. I didn't know what kind of potion it was until I saw your list, Professor. I just thought that if the book fell on me by itself, then it must be meant to be! It was probably some ancient force that decided I should know this recipe!"

Snape blinked slowly. He stared at Stephen for a long, long time, his gaze piercing like ice needles. Finally, he slowly, almost imperceptibly, nodded, and something like a fleeting, almost invisible curiosity flickered across his face.

"Let's say," he said, and in his voice there was either a great deal of doubt or a strange, unsettling understanding. "Let's say I believe you, Strange. Although your stories are becoming increasingly... inventive. But, as you see, your 'fateful' encounter proved useful. More than useful. From this day on, Strange, every Saturday at this same time, you will come to my office. I will leave the list of potions on the table. And no wandering Goblins or falling books, understood?"

Snape sharply waved his hand towards the door, dismissing him. This meant the conversation was over. Stephen bowed and quickly exited the office, feeling the adrenaline gradually release its grip. As soon as the door closed, he mentally began to complain. "Every Saturday?! I'm a slave to his cauldron now! This is unfair! My precious time!" He grumbled as he walked down the corridors. But then, as his mind calmed, he thought again. "Wait a minute. Access to Snape's laboratory... and his ingredient supplies. Even if they aren't the most valuable ingredients, it's still an excellent opportunity for my experiments, for studying what can't be found in the general library. And no one will ask where I get so many rare components if I take them from here. Perhaps this is even very good." His inner Doctor Strange, always looking for hidden opportunities, calmed down. A thin, dry smile appeared on his face. This Saturday work, it seemed, would bring him much more benefit than harm.