Chapter 39: A Cauldron of First Impressions
POV: Barrett
Morning broke over the Ravenclaw tower in streaks of pale gold and silver mist, flooding through the high arched windows and illuminating Barrett's room with a soft celestial glow. He had already been awake for an hour, silently meditating in lotus position near the window, the cool dawn wind brushing against his face. Sleep was a habit. Clarity was a choice.
His first full day at Hogwarts had begun.
After washing up and dressing in his crisp Ravenclaw robes, he stepped into the common room to find most first-years already gathered, murmuring excitedly and waving flimsy parchment maps that quivered faintly in the enchanted light.
The crude, animated maps had been passed down by upper-years with knowing smirks and half-hearted warnings.
"Don't trust it when the stairs decide to play tricks on you," a sixth-year named Orion had said. "And never—never—ask the portraits for help unless you want to end up in the kitchens or worse... a Divination classroom."
Barrett accepted the map with a nod, tucking it into his robe, though he doubted he'd need it. The castle whispered to him in ways others didn't seem to hear—the magic etched into every stone spoke an old language, and he was fluent in listening.
At breakfast in the Great Hall, he sat silently near the end of the Ravenclaw table, sipping pumpkin juice and nibbling toast with deliberate elegance while the hall filled with morning chatter.
Hermione Granger, reading even while chewing, slid onto the bench beside him without looking up. Her hair was frizzier than yesterday. Her satchel looked like it contained more books than the library. She glanced sideways only once.
"You've memorized the schedule, haven't you?" she asked flatly.
Barrett gave her a single, calm nod.
She looked vaguely annoyed by his silence.
Their timetable was relatively light today. Only one class: Potions—with the Hufflepuffs.
By mid-morning, a small herd of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs descended into the depths of the castle, torches flickering eerily as they moved past stone walls colder than the morning air.
The Potions classroom lay behind a heavy door bound with iron, dimly lit and smelling of musty herbs and something metallic—like rusted blood or dragon scale.
Barrett entered and immediately noted the details: shelves filled with glass jars containing everything from floating eyes to bundled herbs, cauldrons lined in neat rows on stone workstations, and a chalkboard scrawled with neat, sharp instructions.
He selected a seat near the center and to the left—not front row (too eager), not back (too lazy). Hermione joined him silently, placing her ink and parchment down with reverent precision.
Other students clattered in noisily. Two Hufflepuff boys knocked over a jar of dried nettles. A girl sneezed from the powdered sage in the air.
Then—
The door creaked open.
And silence fell like a curtain.
Professor Severus Snape entered like a shadow wrapped in silk. His black robes billowed behind him with every step, his expression unreadable and sharpened by years of disdain.
He walked slowly to the front, turned, and surveyed them with a gaze that could curdle milk.
Barrett had seen wrath before. Cosmic wrath. The kind that burned suns.But this… this was something different. This was cold fury married to disappointment, restrained by intellect.It was fascinating.
"You are here," Snape began, his voice low, deliberate, and contemptuous, "to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."
Hermione sat straighter, eyes wide, quill poised. She was already in love—with the subject, not the man.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving here, no silly incantations," he continued. "I don't expect many of you to appreciate the delicate power of a perfectly brewed potion. The quiet beauty of the soft simmer. The precision of a cut root. But for those select few…"He paused, his black eyes briefly catching Barrett's."…who possess the disposition, I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death."
Barrett met his gaze evenly.
For once, Snape looked… curious.
The assignment was written on the board in clean, sharp script: Boil Cure Potion.
"Instructions are there," Snape said without further introduction. "Begin."
Hermione immediately dove into her book. Barrett didn't.
He walked to the ingredient cupboard with long, calm strides and selected each component by weight and smell rather than label.
"Where's your book?" Hermione whispered, frowning slightly.
Barrett set the dandelion root down on their table. "It's in my head."
"That's not helpful—what if you forget something?"
"I don't."
Hermione opened her mouth to argue—then saw the way he sliced the root.
Not cut. Carved. Each slice exact, clean, and smooth. The oils released into the cauldron bubbled brighter than the others'.
She said nothing more after that.
As they brewed together, a quiet rhythm emerged. She measured, he poured. He stirred, she adjusted the flame. A symphony of motion, efficient and elegant, and perhaps the only pair in the room not bumping elbows or knocking over supplies.
Snape passed the Hufflepuff table and sneered. "You've scorched the bottom. Try adding the porcupine quills after you've removed it from heat. Not before."
He moved on.
Passed another. "Too thick. Start over."
Then paused.
At their table.
He peered into the cauldron.
The potion was nearly perfect—a shimmering teal with a slight lavender swirl that hadn't yet fully faded.
Snape's nostrils flared. He looked at the precise cuts, the measured movement, the stillness of both students.
"Adequate," he muttered. "If you intend to pass your O.W.L.s five years early."
Hermione beamed slightly.
Snape's eyes narrowed.
"However," he continued coolly, "next time, I suggest you both remember—books can only guide you so far. Listen to your brew. Feel its rhythm. Learn its temperament."
Barrett gave a small nod. "Understood."
Snape lingered, as though expecting arrogance or rebuttal.
But neither student gave him one.
He walked on.
When class ended, most students slunk out, glad to escape the dungeon's chill and Snape's cutting remarks.
Barrett and Hermione packed up slowly, quietly.
"You didn't even glance at the book," she said, clearly both impressed and frustrated. "Do you really memorize every recipe?"
"No," Barrett replied. "I just understand them."
Hermione frowned. "That's the same thing."
"No," he said again, brushing past her. "It's not."
She watched him go, eyes narrowing, curious and annoyed all at once.