As a master of Occlumency, and a man who had managed to act as a double agent under Voldemort, Severus Snape had always been in perfect control of his emotions, never allowing even the slightest hint to show.
But he had never expected that when he finally revealed the secret he had buried for years—using the language of flowers—to the son of the girl he once loved, it would seem... as though the boy could see right through him?
Turmoil surged within Snape, though his face remained impassive.
How could this eleven-year-old boy possibly understand Victorian flower language?
His questioning gaze met Harry’s green eyes.
By the clear lakeside, a red-haired girl stood with a book in her arms, her emerald-green eyes curving into cheerful crescents.
The weather was sunny, and the sunlight enveloped the girl, making her look even more vibrant and lovely.
Hearing her voice, Snape nervously stuffed a Dark Arts book into his robes.
But in his panic, the book slipped and fell to the ground.
“Sev, you’re researching the Dark Arts again!” Lily bent to pick up the book, biting her lip as she looked at Snape. Her bright eyes were filled with sorrow. “Dark magic corrupts a wizard’s soul. Professor Dumbledore warned us about this. Do you really want to become like...”
“Enough, Lily.” Snape lowered his head. “I just hope you can understand—I want so badly to...”
“To impress that man? You know what he stands for, don’t you?” Lily’s tone was mocking, then sorrowful. “Sev, you promised me... I’m so disappointed in you!”
“Lily, I...” Snape opened his mouth to explain, but the words stuck in his throat.
Lily threw the book, Whispers Among the Petals, heavily at him and ran off without looking back.
Countless nights, Snape would wake from dreams of that scene.
The only solace left in his heart was that book, Whispers Among the Petals.
Yes, Lily was the boy’s mother...
Immersed in memories of Lily, Snape suddenly noticed Harry’s face.
It looked exactly like his—that arrogant, self-important face.
Whatever thawing had occurred in Snape’s heart froze over in an instant.
“Gryffindor... loses two points,” Snape announced flatly, his tone as slow and dragging as ever. “For your impertinence.”
With that, Snape swished his robes dramatically and returned to the podium.
“Harry!” Hermione whispered urgently. “Why did you say that? Honestly, I thought Professor Snape couldn’t answer his own question!”
Harry raised an eyebrow and didn’t answer Hermione’s question.
He, too, was baffled. What was with this professor?
Fine, be miserable all you like. But why drag Gryffindor down with you?
Soon, Harry would find out that Snape had actually gone easy on him.
Unlike Herbology, Potions under Professor Snape didn’t begin with theoretical study. Instead, Snape preferred to throw them into hands-on work, guiding them as they learned.
Snape paired the students into groups of two and had them mix a simple potion for treating boils.
As the students busied themselves, Snape stalked around the classroom in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs. Nearly everyone received a scathing critique—except Harry.
It wasn’t that Snape didn’t want to find fault with Harry; he simply couldn’t. He stood over Harry for a good ten minutes, but every step of Harry’s process was impeccable.
It’s just a boil cure, Harry thought. You want me to brew Felix Felicis on the spot? I could do that, too.
When Harry smoothly poured the completed potion into a vial, Snape finally delivered his judgment with a complicated expression.
“Not bad. For a first-year, it’s... adequate.”
Ron looked as though he’d seen a ghost. He kept his head down, terrified that Snape might notice his expression.
If Snape caught him, losing ten points would be the least of his worries.
Harry glanced up and thought he caught a fleeting moment of softness in Snape’s expression.
But before he could say anything, a hissing sound and a cloud of green smoke erupted nearby.
Neville had somehow melted Seamus’s cauldron into a twisted lump. The potion spilled onto the stone floor, eating through students’ shoes.
Within seconds, the class was perched on their stools. Neville, drenched in potion, sprouted angry boils on his arms and legs and wailed in pain.
“Idiot!” Snape bellowed, waving his wand to vanish the spilled potion. “You didn’t take the cauldron off the fire before adding the porcupine quills, did you, Longbottom?”
Neville sobbed, the incomplete potion causing boils to erupt wherever it had splashed on him.
“Weasley!” Snape turned on Ron. “Why didn’t you stop him from adding the quills? Did you think his failure would make you look better? Because of you, Gryffindor loses three points!”
In truth, Ron hadn’t been paired with Neville; he’d been working with Harry. But Neville’s station was nearby.
Ron, seasoned by years of dealing with unfair treatment, seemed unfazed. He stoically accepted Snape’s manufactured grievance.
“Keep your head down, and the storm will pass,” Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, and George had all advised him about Potions class before term began.
Harry sometimes wondered if every Potions professor harbored an inexplicable grudge against Gryffindors—especially those named Weasley.
Then, as expected, Snape confiscated Harry’s perfectly brewed potion to treat Neville’s boils. The potion worked instantly, healing Neville’s boils as everyone watched.
Harry rested his chin on his hands and sighed.
Snape was so contradictory. Curious and frustrated, Harry resolved to ask Hagrid about it later.
Hagrid had been at Hogwarts for years and had been close friends with his parents. Surely, he would know what had happened between Snape and his family.
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