Harry Potter: Magic and Guns

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The dungeons of Hogwarts, deep beneath the castle, were shrouded in a constant, chilly dampness due to the proximity of the Black Lake. The moisture seeped through the cracks in the stone and earth, blending darkness and dampness into an inseparable union. Compared to the region near the Hufflepuff common room, this area—close to the Slytherin quarters—was particularly cold and unwelcoming.

Even during the height of summer, a bone-chilling coolness lingered, causing a shiver to crawl down one’s spine. It was the perfect lair for serpents and reptiles. It was said that during the time of the founders, this area had been a genuine dungeon, and Salazar Slytherin, in his zeal for dark magic research, often required "special" materials for his experiments.

Though the scent of blood from centuries ago had long faded, the pervasive chill never left Hogwarts for a moment.

The Potions classroom was situated in this very space. While magic kept the dampness at bay, transforming the underground area into a cool storage for potion ingredients, today, it wasn’t just magic materials inside. The room was filled with a group of students who felt as if they’d been freeze-dried.

These young, innocent, and curious children once believed that studying magic would be an exciting, mysterious endeavor. Even the complexities of Transfiguration had held a certain allure. But after arriving here, things had changed.

They had walked through a long hallway, lined with specimen jars, before arriving in the dim classroom, which seemed to glow faintly green like moss. Their hearts sank. Though it was still hours before dusk, stepping into this room felt as though twilight had already passed. The twisted sense of time added layers to their growing unease.

As the clock ticked closer to the appointed time, the nervous students instinctively focused their gaze on the tightly shut door of the classroom. The heavy black oak door creaked open without a sound, and a tall shadow entered the dim room, stepping into the gloom cast by the doorway.

A pair of cold, deadened eyes met theirs, devoid of any emotion, sharp as icy blades. The moment those eyes met theirs, every student instinctively flinched.

"Silence."

In the already pin-drop quiet room, the students’ heartbeats seemed to grow faint in response to that single word.

As the figure stepped out of the shadows and stood before the classroom, they finally saw him clearly.

This tall, imposing man had sleek, thick black hair that fell to his shoulders, parted neatly down the middle in a somewhat old-fashioned style. His hair looked freshly washed, adding a slight puffiness to it, but this did nothing to diminish his cold and intimidating appearance.

Unlike the other professors, this man wore a large, black cloak. Beneath it, he was not dressed in the standard black uniform robes but in a slightly outdated yet immaculate black tailcoat, which outlined his well-proportioned frame. His white shirt underneath was without a tie, with the top two buttons undone, revealing the faint glint of a silver necklace.

As the saying goes, clothes make the man. Even with such a cold and emotionless expression, the outfit altered his aura somewhat.

If one were to describe him accurately, the image that came to mind would be that of a powerful mafia boss, a man with the authority to decide life and death, yet one who carried himself with cold elegance.

His hands might be stained with blood, but the vivid red never touched his body. He was neither a furious lion nor a venomous snake baring its fangs. Instead, an enigmatic air of cool authority emanated from him, untouchable and severe.

This was Severus Snape, the man no student at Hogwarts had ever dared to offend. Even the notoriously reckless Gryffindors, who took pride in their boldness, would bow their heads and shed their lion’s pride, becoming meek kittens under his gaze.

His cold eyes swept across the room, and the oppressive tension mounted steadily.

Snape scanned the classroom several times, his expression unchanging, yet the person he was looking for wasn’t there. Harry’s taller-than-average frame was impossible to miss, but it was as if he had vanished into thin air.

“Skipping class on the first day! Petunia, what kind of child did you raise?!”

“I always knew James was a useless idiot!”

“You should follow your mother’s example, Harry. If you keep taking after that fool of a father, I’ll break your legs!”

Though Snape’s face showed no sign of emotion, internally, his rage erupted like a volcano. He had reached the second stage of fury.

The silent, thirty-second stare-down was more than most of the young students could endure. They were only eleven, after all, and had never faced such an overwhelming presence before.

Just as some of the terrified children were on the verge of bursting into tears, hurried footsteps approached from the distance.

"Knock, knock, knock."

The sound of someone rapping on the wooden door interrupted the atmosphere of intimidation that Snape had unintentionally created. He blinked, noticing the students before him—many of them on the verge of tears. But Snape had no intention of offering comfort. He neither knew how nor cared to try.

"Enter."

Snape’s icy voice broke the silence. As his gaze shifted, the children, whose bodies had been coiled with tension, finally released a breath of relief. They dared not make much noise, covering their mouths with their sleeves as they quietly gasped for air.

The door opened, and a slightly winded Harry stepped inside, struggling to catch his breath. Despite the one-hour break between Charms and Potions, a small experiment with Professor Flitwick had taken up far too much time. To make matters worse, Harry had dazed off for a while afterward. By the time he realized, there were only five minutes left before class. Even after rushing as fast as he could, he was still late.

"Sorry I'm late," Harry muttered, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he hurried into the room. "Sorry, Prof—"

His words caught in his throat when he saw Snape’s attire. The word “godfather” nearly slipped out. Snape looked just too much like one today.

"Sorry, Professor, I’m late."

Harry quickly corrected himself and spoke hastily, feeling a wave of overwhelming shock much like Snape had earlier.

‘Where’s the greasy, pale Snape I was promised? With this look, no wonder you've been single for a decade! Honestly, with this outfit, you could easily get married or, at worst, resort to some morally questionable deeds! It would be such a waste not to!’

Harry shoved those thoughts out of his mind as he noticed Snape’s slight frown. If he didn’t give a good explanation soon, not even the fact that Snape was his godfather would save him from a grim fate.

“Professor Flitwick invited me to join his dueling club, and I lost track of time because of that…”

“Enough.”

Snape’s voice, still cold, cut Harry off mid-sentence.

“Take your seat.”

Snape turned away and pulled a parchment from his robes.

The other students silently watched Harry as he walked to his seat. In that brief moment, they had already started imagining Harry's untimely demise. Yes, demise.

The students weren’t being overly dramatic—it was Snape’s infamous reputation that had reached their ears through the older students. Though the upperclassmen had only hinted at his terrifying ways, the clues and the events just witnessed were enough for the younger ones to form their own conclusions.

Rumor had it that anyone unlucky enough to fall into Snape's clutches would be subjected to inhumane experiments. If they came out of it intact, they were fortunate. But those who emerged disoriented and with fuzzy memories of what happened during their detention were said to be the most unfortunate. Though they would later excel at brewing a particular potion, people suspected Snape had extracted something vital from them—maybe even part of their soul.

These minor "rewards" were merely a distraction, as Snape was the sort of person who would always ensure you lost more than you gained in any deal.

Among the many legends that floated through Hogwarts, those about Snape were few but always the scariest.

When Harry sat down, Neville, seated next to him, immediately clasped his hands together in a silent prayer, hoping that Merlin himself would spare Harry and keep him safe.

But the anticipated punishment never came. Harry sat down without incident, unpacked his books, and set his tools on the desk. Snape returned to the front of the room, and his next words weren’t about Harry.

“Hannah Abbott.”

Snape began taking roll. There were no additional comments, no points deducted from Hufflepuff, and Harry wasn’t penalized for his tardiness.

As the number of names on the parchment dwindled, the tension in the room slowly eased. The students started to realize that perhaps the rumors they’d heard weren’t entirely true.

Sure, Snape was intimidating. His expressionless, cold face made him distinct from any other professor. But beyond that, his strict demeanor was no different than Professor McGonagall’s; both demanded discipline in the classroom. This sternness was something the students could get used to.

The kids who had nearly been scared to tears moments earlier now began mentally defending Snape, as if doing so might help them regain some dignity after being so close to crying.

“Now that you’re all here,” Snape said, tucking away the parchment. His voice was calm but commanding, drawing everyone’s attention.

“You’re here to learn the precise science and exacting art of potion-making. Given that this does not require you to foolishly wave a wand, many of you will doubt it qualifies as magic.”

The students instinctively shook their heads, eager to convince Snape they believed in the importance of potions. Not just because Professor Flitwick had emphasized its significance in his class, but also because they had, by now, completely abandoned any doubts about Snape.

This subtle shift in the students’ behavior made Snape pause briefly. Could it be that this year’s first years were a bit different from those in the past? Smarter, perhaps?

Carrying this thought, Snape’s mood lifted ever so slightly. Not quite as much as the satisfaction he felt knowing Flitwick had recognized Harry’s incredible talent, but it was a rare improvement nonetheless.

“Perhaps,” Snape continued, “after careful instruction, you will learn to appreciate the simmering cauldron, the delicate wisps of steam, and the enticing aromas they emit. You may one day understand the sheer magic that courses through the veins, that spellbinding power capable of thrilling the mind and bending the will.”

“I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—”

His calm words carried an undertone of dark temptation, stirring in the students an involuntary sense of longing.

“Blending — combining ingredients of different magical properties in the cauldron. Your hands, your magic, they are the wand that guides this process. We brew potions, yes, but what we are truly creating are miracles beyond the reach of any spell.”

“While spells may solve ninety percent of the world's problems, it is the remaining, most difficult ten percent that requires the miracles we draw from the cauldron.”

“Put away your wands. Open your books.”

Snape tapped the blackboard lightly, and several neat lines of text appeared, listing the instructions.

“Now, each of you go and weigh the ingredients for a Boil-Cure Potion. I will demonstrate how to handle the different components. Begin.”

A murmur of movement spread through the classroom, though the students didn’t rush. They carefully identified the types and quantities of ingredients they needed. Though there were slight differences between the recipe in the book and the one Snape had written on the board, none of them hesitated to follow the blackboard’s version. No one could quite explain why, but it felt like the natural choice.

As time passed, the students became more certain of one thing: Snape was indeed a strict professor, but not the twisted figure the rumors had painted him to be. Though his icy demeanor was intimidating, it became clear that Snape’s stern approach was similar to Professor McGonagall’s — demanding, but not unreasonable.

Just look at Neville Longbottom, the clumsy boy who had already made several mistakes. Snape hadn’t yelled or threatened to hang him by his ankles. Instead, he merely shot Neville a warning glance, stopping him from further blunders. Toward the end of class, Snape even offered him a few words of advice.

Everyone knew that, despite his fearsome reputation, Snape’s mastery of potions was never in question. In a school filled with exceptionally talented professors, only three could be called masters: Flitwick, the Dueling Master; McGonagall, the Transfiguration Master; and Snape, the Potions Master.

To receive guidance from such an expert was more than a privilege — it was a rare honor.

Why, then, was clumsy, bumbling Neville being helped so many times? Aside from the fact that Snape might be a strict-but-kindhearted professor, no other explanation seemed to fit.

Even Neville, the subject of all this attention, felt a surge of gratitude towards Snape. He knew he was always making mistakes, but Snape’s repeated assistance had helped him stumble his way to success.

When the cauldron before him finally emitted a soft, green glow, Neville nearly wept with joy. For the first time in his life, he had completed something without messing it up. And then, to his surprise, Snape’s next words almost brought him to tears.

“Not a bad potion.”

Snape nodded slightly at the cauldron before glancing at Harry. Snape had nearly lost his temper earlier and wanted to tear Neville apart for almost ruining the potion. If it hadn’t been for Harry helping him out, that fool would have messed up the entire brew! Of course, Snape could have spun that situation into an opportunity to give Harry extra points for “helping a fellow student,” but that excuse would’ve only earned three to five points, and he didn’t want to draw attention to his relationship with Harry. If Neville succeeded, however...

“Hufflepuff, twenty points.”

As Snape walked away, Neville looked at him as though he had just seen a giant towering above him. ‘Professor is encouraging me, right? I made so many mistakes, but he still... still...’ Neville wiped away his tears, overwhelmed by the first real encouragement he had ever received in his life.

Other students, who were also watching, found themselves thinking similar thoughts. They, too, felt the gentle warmth in Snape’s actions, and when they glanced at his cold, retreating figure, there was a new emotion in their eyes—respect and gratitude.

‘Professor Snape may look scary, but he really is a good person.’

(End of chapter)