Weekend.
Eighth floor of Hogwarts Castle.
Snape stood facing the familiar tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and the Trolls, scanning the corridor to ensure no one was around. Then he focused, repeating silently in his mind—
I need a room to brew potions.
He paced past the wall three times.
On the third turn, a smooth, curved door appeared soundlessly before him.
Without hesitation, he stepped through.
The space inside was vast—rows of cauldrons, shelves of glass vials, sets of gleaming instruments, all ready for use. Mountains of discarded equipment and scraps lay in one corner, remnants of other seekers' requests.
Rows of old shelves lined the walls, filled with ancient yet classic potion texts, worn but powerful.
"Scourgify," he murmured.
His wand flicked lightly.
Dust vanished. Grime dissolved. Within minutes, the once‑cluttered chamber shone spotless, as if newly born.
He cleaned every corner thoroughly—even marking aside small adjoining rooms: one for spell‑practice, another to raise magical herbs.
When the work was done, Snape finally possessed what he had long needed—a private, living laboratory hidden within the castle, perfectly suited for study, research, and secrets.
Here he could practice forbidden charms freely, brew quietly without interruption, or cultivate rare ingredients that would scandalize the greenhouses.
He didn't leave immediately.
Instead, he brewed a few bottles of Essence of Dittany to warm up his hands and steady his rhythm.
Then he drew out a thumb‑sized glass vial, inhaling its faint mint aroma.
The cool scent cleared his mind instantly. His focus sharpened. Reading and recall grew smoother—his efficiency, by rough measure, increased a full thirty percent.
The Focus Elixir worked flawlessly.
With time, the cumulative benefit would widen the gulf between him and every other student.
Two hours later, after immersion in study, Snape turned the final page of The Compendium of Magical Herbs.
At that instant, something within him clicked.
His Herbology skill, nurtured through dozens of meticulous experiments, finally broke its limit—ascending to Level 5.
Along with it came a familiar translucent prompt offering two choices:
[Whisper of Nature]: After long communion with plants, you can faintly hear their silent voices. Magical flora under your care become healthier and more vigorous.
[Hybridist]: Through deep study, you have gained broad insight into all magical flora and may now attempt to breed entirely new species suited to your own designs.
Snape considered both carefully.
Whisper of Nature—safe and steady. No risk of failure, only reliability.
But Hybridist... that meant creation.
That meant evolution.
And potion‑making always began with the right ingredients.
If he could cultivate new plants with unique properties, he might craft potions the world had never seen.
He chose Hybridist.
At once, inspiration flared—images of greenhouses, cross‑grafting, seed runes, and half‑formed formulas rushing through his mind.
He recalled his time working for Feyrin's Herb Emporium, tending dozens of plants by rote. How limited his thinking had been! Every leaf, every shoot was a mystery waiting to be rewritten.
The surge of excitement almost carried him away.
Realizing it, Snape forced himself calm again, taking long breaths until the tremor passed.
His finances stood at 5,400 Galleons, profits from his Scar‑Removal Cream after deducting brewing costs.
A fortune for a student—but still barely enough for what he planned.
Developing combat‑grade or special‑effect potions would burn through that amount quickly.
No matter. He preferred to plan ahead.
Juliet, his raven, would soon fly to Feyrin's to request new seeds; half would be planted here inside the Room of Requirement to test his new Hybridist ability.
For rarer materials… the Forbidden Forest beckoned.
He ticked off another line in his growing black notebook—[Locate the Room of Requirement ✔].
Then adjusted the reading quota from 10 to 13 books.
Days became weeks.
Snape immersed himself wholly in routine—dormitory, Great Hall, classroom, hidden lab.
Study, brew, read; repeat.
His constant disappearances soon caught Lily's notice.
Seeing no need for secrecy, he swore her to silence and led her to the Room of Requirement.
It became their shared hideaway, a place for both experimentation and childish play—a private pocket of peace within Hogwarts, known to no one else.
There was no flash of enlightenment—only relentless progress.
But progress there was:
Astronomy → LV1
Charms → LV3 → LV4
Potions → LV5 → LV7
Ancient Runes → LV1 → LV2
Transfiguration → LV2 → LV4
Only Dark Arts lagged behind.
No trace of restricted books remained in the library; every volume about curses had been removed or locked away.
Even so, guided by instinct and experimentation, the skill crept from LV1 to LV2. Creating his own curse—a personal jinx to harvest experience schoolwide—remained a distant goal.
Snape, however, didn't seem worried.
His "study group," running two sessions each week, had quietly expanded to twenty‑five members, bringing him over 25,000 experience points weekly, sometimes double through immersive lessons.
Counting older reserves, his total experience had now surpassed 500,000—enough to purchase any golden specialty he desired.
But when the time came, he bypassed Lily's tempting Master Craftsman trait.
Instead, he selected one belonging to a certain professor.
Beneath the surface—while all of Hogwarts fixated on the approaching first Quidditch match and the tensions brewing among houses—
Snape watched silently from the shadows, every petty plot reflected like distant firelight in his dark eyes.
And then, somewhere deep in those same shadows,
a single match of malice struck—
and the spark of the coming conflict was lit.