Wednesday mornings at Hogwarts had a different weight to them.
The castle itself seemed to wake more slowly, as though the stones remembered every whispered spell and secret brewed in its corridors. The torches along the dungeon staircase flickered in low golden halos, their light catching against the slick sheen of ancient rock. The air grew cooler the deeper one descended, tinged with the sharp scent of damp earth and something subtler—metallic, herbal, alive.
Mira Silverthorne walked at an unhurried pace beside Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, her polished black shoes making soft, deliberate sounds against the worn stone steps.
Her silver-white hair was coiled neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck, held in place by the hairpin Draco had given her for her birthday—a delicate piece of silver shaped like intertwined branches cradling a pale blue gem. The gem caught the torchlight and glowed faintly, like a star glimpsed through mist.
Draco noticed it, as he always did.
“You’ve pinned it higher today,” he observed quietly.
Mira’s luminous teal eyes flicked toward him, amused. “It keeps better balance that way. Potions requires steadiness.”
Blaise arched his brow. “You say that as if the rest of us are about to explode something.”
Draco gave him a sidelong glance. “Speak for yourself.”
They reached the dungeon corridor just as the Gryffindors rounded the corner ahead of them. Harry Potter walked beside Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Harry’s messy black hair looked as though it had been unsuccessfully negotiated with that morning. Ron appeared half-awake. Hermione, on the other hand, carried her books clutched against her chest like sacred texts.
Mira’s gaze lingered on her brother for a fleeting second—just long enough to measure his posture, the faint crease between his brows, the restless energy he never quite hid.
Then Mira took her seat beside Draco and Blaise at a front table. She preferred to see everything clearly.
The dungeon door swept open.
Professor Severus Snape entered like a shadow come to life—black robes flowing, pale face expressionless, dark eyes sweeping the room with immediate, assessing scrutiny.
“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class,” Snape began in his soft, dangerous voice. “As such, I do not expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making.”
His gaze drifted—deliberately—toward Harry.
“However… for those select few…”
The pause stretched, deliberate and heavy.
“…who possess the predisposition…”
His eyes flicked, just briefly, toward Mira before returning to Harry.
“…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death.”
A few students shifted uncomfortably.
Ron blinked.
Hermione’s hand twitched in anticipation.
The dungeon was utterly silent.
Mira listened carefully. Not to his words—but to his tone.
Measured. Controlled. Testing.
Snape’s eyes shifted suddenly to Harry who was busy writing something in his notes, "Then again, maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough to not pay attention."
Hermione nudges Harry. He quickly stops writing and looks up at Snape.
Snape moved closer, “Mr. Potter.”
Harry stiffened.
“Our new… celebrity.”
A ripple of discomfort moved through the Gryffindor side.
“Tell me,” Snape drawled, “what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
Harry stared.
Silence.
Ron leaned slightly away, as though hoping invisibility might be contagious.
Hermione’s hand shot into the air so quickly her sleeve rustled.
Snape did not look at her.
“I don’t know, sir,” Harry admitted.
Snape’s lip curled faintly, "You don't know? Well, let us try again. Where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?”
Hermione’s hand waved frantically.
Snape ignored her.
Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I—I don’t know, sir.”
Hermione’s hand was practically vibrating.
“And what,” Snape continued silkily, “is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”
Harry opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“I don’t know.”
A few Slytherins snickered.
Mira did not.
"Pity. Clearly, fame isn't everything is it, Mr. Potter?" Snape snarked and then his gaze moved again—this time deliberately.
“Perhaps someone else would care to enlighten Mr. Potter.” His eyes settled on Mira, “Might you, Miss Silverthorne?”
Every Slytherin at the table straightened.
Draco’s posture sharpened instantly.
Blaise tilted his head, interested.
Mira rose smoothly to her feet.
Her voice was calm. Even.
“Powdered root of asphodel added to an infusion of wormwood creates a Draught of Living Death, sir,” she said. “It is a powerful sleeping potion that induces a deathlike slumber.”
A ripple of whispers passed through the room.
Snape inclined his head slightly.
“And the bezoar?”
“A stone taken from the stomach of a goat, sir. It will save you from most poisons.”
Hermione looked stunned—and relieved.
Snape’s dark gaze remained steady.
“Monkshood and wolfsbane?”
“They are the same plant, sir. Also known as aconite.”
The dungeon felt very still.
Hermione slowly lowered her hand.
Snape regarded Mira with an unreadable expression.
“And how,” he asked quietly, “would you prepare asphodel for optimal infusion?”
“Finely powdered,” Mira replied without hesitation. “But only after drying in indirect sunlight. Direct exposure reduces potency by nearly one-third.”
A flicker—just barely visible—passed through Snape’s eyes.
“Correct,” he said at last.
He moved back to the front of the room.
“Ten points to Slytherin.”
A collective murmur rose.
Draco’s mouth curved into a satisfied smile.
Snape turned sharply. “Silence.”
He paused, gaze lingering on Mira for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Open your books to page twelve. Today you will attempt to brew a simple Cure for Boils. If—” his voice darkened, “—you are capable.”
Simple, perhaps, to someone trained in precision.
Not simple to the careless.
The ingredients were laid out:
Dried nettles
Snake fangs
Horned slugs
Porcupine quills
Mira inhaled faintly.
Control your flame.
Time your additions.
Never rush a boil.
Draco leaned closer. “You’ve made this before.”
“Yes,” she admitted softly. “But not in this cauldron.”
That mattered.
Different metals conducted heat differently.
Blaise observed her hands carefully as she began.
She crushed her snake fangs with even pressure—never pounding, never shattering them unevenly.
Her nettles were measured precisely.
The slugs were added only after the base reached the correct simmer—not before.
Draco worked with determination beside her, though less refined in movement.
Blaise watched both with quiet interest.
Mira adjusted the flame with a subtle twist.
The potion shifted from murky green to a clearer, pale blue-green hue.
She waited.
Counted heartbeats.
Then—
She added the porcupine quills.
Not all at once.
Not recklessly.
One at a time.
The surface shimmered.
Not violently.
But with quiet harmony.
Across the room, a cauldron exploded.
Ron Weasley yelped as boils erupted across his skin.
Snape’s robes billowed as he swept across the room.
“Idiot boy! I told you to add the quills after taking the cauldron off the fire!”
Mira did not look up.
She did not need to.
She could hear the difference between a potion failing and one stabilizing.
Her own mixture had reached the correct sheen.
Silvery steam curled upward.
Draco stared into it.
“It looks… perfect.”
“It should,” Mira said gently.
Snape’s footsteps approached.
The classroom quieted.
He stopped beside their cauldron.
His black eyes lowered.
The potion’s surface was smooth. Clear. A faint silver gleam danced beneath.
Snape said nothing for a long moment.
Then—
“Miss Silverthorne.”
“Yes, Professor?”
“This is… textbook.”
There was something in his tone that was not displeased.
“But,” he added quietly, “you altered the method.”
Draco stiffened slightly.
Blaise’s eyes flicked toward her.
Mira met Snape’s gaze calmly.
“Yes, Professor.”
“You did not follow the textbook instructions precisely.”
“No, sir.”
“And why,” Snape asked softly, dangerously, “would you presume to improve upon established methodology?”
The room seemed to lean in.
Mira did not waver.
“The textbook instructs adding all the porcupine quills at once after removing the cauldron from heat. However, that can cause minor instability if the base temperature remains too high.”
Snape’s gaze sharpened.
“I allowed the potion to cool an additional five seconds,” she continued, “and added the quills individually. It prevents sudden reaction spikes and produces a clearer consistency.”
Draco blinked.
Blaise’s expression shifted into something akin to admiration.
Snape leaned slightly closer to the cauldron.
His fingers hovered above the steam.
The faintest flicker of approval crossed his features.
“You are correct,” he said quietly.
The class collectively held its breath.
“The textbook does not account for cauldron variance.”
His gaze returned to her.
“Twenty points to Slytherin.”
A murmur rippled across the room.
“Ten,” he continued smoothly, “for flawless execution.”
“And ten for understanding why the execution works.”
Draco’s shoulders straightened with visible pride.
Mira inclined her head slightly.
“Thank you, Professor.”
Snape turned away—but not before something almost imperceptible shifted in his expression.
Recognition.
Not favoritism.
Not indulgence.
Recognition of discipline.
ns216.73.217.23da2
and then Add to home screen.