After the thrill of Charms, Ethan barely had time to catch his breath before heading off to his next class, one he'd been anticipating with equal parts excitement and caution.
Potions.
Not because he feared the subject, of course. No, he was looking forward to it. It was the professor that intrigued him. The infamous Severus Snape. Ethan had read about him, every sneer, every unfair deduction of house points, every sarcastic remark.
The descent into the dungeons was like entering another world. The stone walls grew damper the deeper they went, lit only by flickering torches that cast shifting shadows over the path ahead. A chill hung in the air, clinging to their skin. The smell was strange too. Earthy, sharp, and bitter, like herbs that had been burned and left to rot.
They reached the classroom. It was colder still inside. Shelves lined the stone walls, stacked with jars of preserved ingredients that floated eerily in murky liquids, snake fangs, dried roots, glowing mushrooms, and unidentifiable sludges that pulsed faintly when glanced at too long. The very air felt heavy, as if it was waiting for something to go wrong.
Ethan slid into a seat near the middle, placing his quill, parchment, and brand-new potions textbook on the table. Around him, Ravenclaws and Gryffindors whispered in low voices, some wide-eyed, others trying to act nonchalant.
Then the door slammed open.
A tall figure swept into the room, robes billowing like storm clouds. The sound of boots striking stone echoed with sharp precision. Every student fell silent at once.
Professor Snape moved to the front of the room, folding his hands behind his back. He surveyed the class with cold, calculating eyes that flicked across each face like a judge passing sentence.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving in this class," he said, voice quiet but biting. "As such, I do not expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making."
Ethan felt a chill not from the dungeon's cold, but from the sheer weight of Snape's presence. This wasn't just a teacher, this was someone who commanded a room with a glance, who carved the air with every syllable.
Snape began pacing slowly, his robes trailing behind like a shadow.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death...that is, if you aren't as hopelessly mediocre as you look."
Ethan's heart pounded. The room wasn't just listening, they were spellbound. Even if Snape was insulting them, no one would feel it as unwarranted. Currently, they were all mediocre, that was the truth.
Then, without warning, Snape's eyes locked on Harry Potter.
"Mr. Potter," he said, soft but sharp, "what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry looked stunned. "I-I don't know, sir."
"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, Potter? Let's try again. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Again Harry sat silent.
"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Still no answer. Snape's mouth curled into a sneer.
"Clearly, fame isn't everything," he said, not bothering to hide the venom in his voice.
The tension in the room tightened like a noose.
Ethan watched quietly. This was it. The infamous Snape-Potter feud unfolding right in front of him. And while he felt a twinge of sympathy for Harry, Ethan couldn't deny it, he was fascinated. This world, these characters, were no longer confined to pages.
They were real.
After humiliating Harry with another impossible question, Snape finally turned to the rest of the class.
"For your first lesson, you will brew a simple Boil-Cure Potion," he said curtly. "Instructions are on the board. Begin."
The room sprang into action.
Ethan took a steadying breath, rolled up his sleeves, and began working. He sliced his ingredients carefully, measuring each one to the letter. He didn't fumble. He didn't rush. He followed the textbook, not because he had to, but because he wanted to get it right. Not to impress Snape, he doubted that was even possible, but because real potioning making existed, and he wanted to understand it down to its roots.
By the end of class, his potion was the perfect pale blue. Snape glanced at it briefly, made no comment, and moved on to chastise a Ravenclaw whose cauldron was emitting purple smoke.
He had essentially done just the same to Hermione, who, moments ago, had crafted her potion just like him, correctly.
That, Ethan thought, counted as a win.
When the bell rang, the students hurried to gather their things. Ethan slung his bag over his shoulder and joined the crowd heading upstairs, grateful to leave the damp, tense atmosphere behind.
The Great Hall was a welcome sight.
Warm candlelight floated gently above the tables, casting a golden glow over platters piled high with roasted meats, steamed vegetables, and fresh bread. Laughter echoed between the stone walls, and the enchanted ceiling showed a dusky sky beginning to fill with stars.
Ethan made his way to the Ravenclaw table, dropping his bag beside his bench with a sigh of relief.
Helena looked up from her plate. "So," she said, smirking, "how was Snape to you?"
"Worse than expected," Ethan said, helping himself to some roast chicken. "But kind of brilliant, honestly."
Anthony raised an eyebrow. "You think getting verbally flayed alive is brilliant?"
Ethan chuckled. "He's intense, but he knows what he's doing. And it's kind of amazing to watch."
Helena grinned. "Glad to see someone's enjoying the trauma."
"I survived," Ethan said, biting into a buttered roll. "Didn't get insulted. Didn't blow up my cauldron. I'm counting it as a successful first day."
They chatted through dinner, sharing stories of their classes and speculating about what they'd learn next. Ethan found himself genuinely enjoying their company. They weren't friends yet, not exactly.
As the last bites of treacle tart disappeared and plates cleaned themselves with a shimmer of spellwork, the tiredness hit him all at once. His body ached in that satisfying way that came from a full day of learning and living.
The Ravenclaws made their way back to the tower, the castle corridors quiet and peaceful in the evening hush. When they reached the common room, the soft glow of blue flames in the fireplace and the gentle rustle of turning pages greeted them like an old friend.
Ethan climbed the stairs to his dormitory, the events of the day replaying in his mind like scenes from a film.
His bed was just as inviting as he remembered. The deep blue curtains, the soft blankets, the cool stone walls, it all felt more familiar now, like it belonged to him.
He changed into his nightclothes and sat on the edge of the bed, wand in hand. He turned it slowly between his fingers, the polished wood warm with the magic it contained.
Today, he had begun living the dream. Real magic. Real Hogwarts.
He slipped beneath the covers and exhaled deeply. Tomorrow would bring new lessons, new challenges, and more of the world he had always wanted to be part of.
But for now, he let the warmth of the room, the comfort of his bed, and the wonder of the day carry him into sleep.