From the outside, Professor Slughorn looked rather like an old walrus — thick silver mustache, shining bald head, and all.
At the moment, his expression brimmed with interest as he examined Snape from head to toe, leaving no detail unnoticed.
But he soon seemed to realize how intrusive his scrutiny might appear.
Before Snape could ask, he smiled, as if offering an explanation.
"Madam Lavinia has corresponded with me many times. She swore to me that you would be the most talented student I would ever encounter in my teaching career.
I've been looking forward to seeing proof of that for quite some time, Mr. Snape."
"I'll do my best not to disappoint you," Snape replied politely.
Beside him, Lily straightened her back unconsciously, her expression glowing with pride — which drew an amused chuckle from the professor.
James, however, looked far less pleased.
The professor's attention, combined with the small crowd that had gathered earlier to watch Snape's transfiguration display, made James feel his own spotlight being stolen. Old resentment mingled with new, and he began plotting ways to repay the favor.
"Potions," said Slughorn, his tone jovial and grand, "is an intricate discipline — a subtle science and an exact art. It can turn the impossible into reality... provided you have the gift for it."
Though his classroom atmosphere wasn't particularly strict, years of experience let Slughorn effortlessly capture every student's curiosity.
"The creation of a potion demands delicate hands and a sharp, focused mind.
Mastery doesn't only lie in brewing — it's also about knowing how to acquire ingredients, correct failures, and salvage what's been lost.
No great Potions Master succeeds without first failing spectacularly.
As such, the cost — in time, Galleons, and sleepless nights — is astronomical."
He paused, smiling broadly.
"But in return, a true Potions Master stands treasured by any age, any nation, any power. Wherever you go, your worth will be unquestionable!"
At his signal, the class opened their copies of *Magical Drafts and Potions*.
Soon, every student had some understanding of history's most famous brewers and their discoveries.
Lily's enthusiasm was obvious.
Having already studied privately under Snape, she was not unfamiliar with the theory — but this was her first chance to brew something with a proper cauldron and ingredients.
Her fingers twitched with excitement.
Perhaps Professor Slughorn had heard her silent wish because, after half an hour of lecture, his voice took on a cheerful lilt.
"Now then, for your first proper attempt, I propose something simple...
How about a Babbling Beverage?"
Lily's eyes lit up instantly.
From memory, she recalled the sweet, fizzy taste of that not-quite-potion — something like sparkling soda.
Despite the name, it was indeed a potion:
bubbly, sugary, and capable of making whoever drank it babble nonsensically for about five minutes. It was a children's favorite at parties.
Most importantly — she'd tasted one before.
Snape's version.
Which meant she knew exactly how it was brewed — and this was her chance to redeem herself for all those earlier "friendly" competitions!
Her eyes gleamed.
She leaned over and whispered, "Let's see whose comes out better. Loser's a big dummy."
"You've already lost to me one thousand four hundred fifteen times," Snape said flatly. "By any logic, the person who's lost that many times is already the dummy."
"Hey! That doesn't count!" Lily sputtered. "You're not including all the little ones, are you? You… you probably miscounted! What if I didn't lose that many times?"
"You've never actually *won*. Easy to keep track."
That earned him a murderous glare.
Lily turned bright red, officially too embarrassed to continue the argument.
Still, no matter how much he teased, Snape didn't mind indulging her.
If she wanted to add another loss to her record, so be it.
***
He began by squeezing juice from six Laughing Oranges, filtering out the pulp.
Then three drops of Ashwinder saliva.
A brisk stir, a pinch of Flowleaf picked during the full moon — five leaves — and a single lacewing fly.
After heating for seven minutes, bubbles began rising rapidly from the syrupy liquid, carrying a deliciously sweet scent powerful enough to make one's head spin.
As beginner potions went, *the Babbling Beverage* was among the simplest — indeed, one of the first Snape had ever learned.
However, for most of the students, even something this basic was apparently full of traps.
On the Gryffindor side, Frank Longbottom — the boy destined to father one of the "chosen few" — had already blundered from the very first step, forgetting to properly filter the residue from his juice. It would soon prove fatal to his drink's stability.
By the time he finished heating, he was bursting with pride and promptly gulped down a generous mouthful.
His eyes went wide.
He began hiccupping uncontrollably, and dozens of translucent bubbles floated from his mouth — each popping with a loud *pffft* and releasing a noxious stench.
Laughter erupted.
Then gagging.
Students scrambled to get away, retching and swearing.
Only poor Longbottom, blissfully unaware, chased after them with wide-eyed concern, filling the air with chaos and stink.
Amid the commotion, one of the pudgy boys from Snape's study group examined his own cauldron with satisfaction.
He cautiously sipped a drop — and instantly regretted it.
In his eagerness, he had added a few *extra* drops of Ashwinder saliva.
Within seconds, his face erupted with pustules, each swelling rapidly before— *pop!* —releasing viscous, foul-smelling pus across his robes.
The sight was ghastly, worse than poor Longbottom's ordeal.
Lily stared in horror at the disastrous chain of events.
Slowly, she looked down at her own pale-orange potion, her confidence wavering.
And just as she hesitated, the very voice she least wanted to hear purred beside her.
"All done?
Then go on—
taste it first, won't you?"
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