Harry Potter: Returning from Azeroth

"Potions—a subject that even the most diligent mediocrity cannot truly grasp." Snape's voice echoed through the classroom. "I can say with absolute certainty that the vast majority of you will never qualify for my N.E.W.T.-level Potions class."

"It is difficult to convey the wonder and complexity of potion-making through mere words, but fortunately... Harry?"

Snape suddenly stopped, pulling a small vial from his pocket and holding it aloft for the class to see. "Tell me its name."

The golden liquid swirled within the bottle, shimmering like molten gold, flecked with tiny stars. Given its rarity and miraculous properties, there were only a few potions in existence that fit the description.

"It's Felix Felicis, Professor," Harry answered, staring at the potion said to bring unfailing luck. Truth be told, the moment he read about it before term started, he had wanted to try it. Unfortunately, it was far beyond his skill level.

Not only were the ingredients prohibitively expensive—some even unavailable in Diagon Alley—but brewing it was an arduous process. It required precisely six months to complete, with no room for error. A single misstep would turn it into poison.

Only a true Potions Master could successfully craft it.

"Correct. Felix Felicis. Two points to Gryffindor." Snape's voice was soft, almost absentminded. "This small vial contains enough to grant its drinker a full day of perfect fortune. I daresay, for your feeble minds, it might just offer a glimpse into the true wonders of potion-making."

"At the end of today's lesson, I will award this vial to whoever brews the most perfect batch of Boil-Cure Potion."

Harry had the distinct feeling Snape was looking directly at him when he said that.

The golden Felix Felicis remained suspended in midair at the center of the room, gleaming tantalizingly. The young witches and wizards instantly redoubled their efforts, grinding their ingredients with newfound fervor.

With such enthusiasm in the air, Snape began his rounds.

And today, everyone had the privilege of his attention.

"Foolish! Is your skull as thick as a troll's? Or has a troll taken residence inside it? Grinding snake fangs—surely even your walnut-sized brain can comprehend the meaning of 'grind'?"

"Y-Yes, sir," Ron stammered, his hands trembling.

"Yes? If you understand, then explain to me why you're smashing them instead! Are you attempting to showcase your brute strength? Two points from Gryffindor for your arrogance."

With a dramatic sweep of his robes, Snape moved on.

"...I nearly had a heart attack," Ron muttered under his breath, wiping cold sweat from his brow. He whispered to Neville, his assigned partner, "Merlin's long stockings, I think my underwear's soaked through."

"D-Don't talk, Ron," Neville replied, his nerves stretched to their limit as he struggled to prepare a tray of Flobberworms. His hands were shaking violently. "If he hears us, he'll take more points."

Halfway through the lesson, the Gryffindors reached a collective understanding—Harry was Harry, and they were just... them.

To be fair, when Snape awarded Gryffindor twenty points at the start of class, most of them had been confused. It contradicted every tale they'd ever heard from upper-year students.

According to those stories, getting Snape to award Gryffindor points was harder than getting him to drop dead.

And yet, here they were, alive and well, with twenty extra points.

Some had even dared to hope—perhaps their fear had been unfounded. Perhaps Snape wasn't as terrifying as the older students had claimed.

That illusion shattered the moment Snape unleashed his verbal onslaught.

Until they heard it firsthand, none of them had imagined it was possible for someone to string together such a relentless barrage of biting insults without uttering a single profanity.

Even the Slytherins weren't spared. Mistakes were met with the same sharp rebuke, the same withering contempt.

Snape didn't need crude words—yet he could reduce a student to the verge of tears with nothing but his tongue.

Felix Felicis was like a carrot dangling before a herd of donkeys, driving them forward despite the pressure Snape inflicted.

All except for one person—one exception.

"Wait! Harry?!" Hermione suddenly hissed, eyes wide. "Why did you cut off the Flobberworms' antennae? We're supposed to stew them whole!"

"Don't worry, Hermione," Harry reassured her. "It won't affect the potion."

"How could it not?" she gasped. "You didn't follow the book! We're doomed—he's going to murder us!"

Hermione was practically hopping in place, frantic. She wasn't just desperate to prove she wasn't the "dull-witted fool" Snape had accused them all of being—she genuinely wanted that vial of Felix Felicis.

"Oh? Not following the book?" Snape had already noticed. He strode over, standing behind Harry. "Explain your reasoning, Potter."

"Professor, I think we still have time to restart," Hermione blurted out anxiously, but Snape ignored her.

"I read Phyllida Spore's An Analysis of Magical Ingredients," Harry began. "She explains that the only truly useful part of a Flobberworm is its antennae. Since they're so small and require careful preservation, they aren't sold separately, which is why potion-makers have to prepare them themselves. In other words, the Flobberworm's body is just excess waste."

"I believe that in alche—I mean, potion-making, the fewer impurities in the mixture, the higher the final product's quality. Ingredients should be refined as much as possible to preserve their potency."

"Excellent. Very well done." Snape's expression was almost pleased. "Potency—yes, potency. Even many of my N.E.W.T. students fail to analyze potions from that perspective. Another ten points to Gryffindor."

"I expect all of you to come and observe Potter's technique," he announced. "I don't expect you to match his precision, but at the very least, it might stop you from drowning your workstations in Flobberworm mucus."

"As I said at the start of this lesson, while you lot fumble through your textbooks like mindless drones, those with true talent are already thinking ahead—forming their own understanding."

"...Are you alright, Hermione?" Harry couldn't help but check on her. She looked... well, not great.

Like a tree struck by lightning.

Especially when Snape had said 'those with true talent'—she physically flinched.

"…I'm fine, Harry," she croaked, her voice hoarse. "Let's finish the potion."

She tried to smile, to brush it off, but it looked more like she was on the verge of tears. Even Harry felt a little guilty.

He hadn't meant to destroy her.

The rest of the lesson passed under Snape's relentless bombardment, punctuated only by the occasional—and shockingly genuine—praise for Harry's work.

It could be said with certainty: by the end of class, every student, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, had suffered under Snape's equal-opportunity verbal lashing.

Well... perhaps not entirely equal. Gryffindor still bore the brunt of it. And they'd lost points. At least Slytherin had been spared that much.

Particularly Ron and Neville, who had been subjected to the worst of it.

Ron, under Snape's unrelenting pressure, felt like he was going to explode.

Then he actually did explode.

The bottom of his cauldron burned clean through, sending a spray of green liquid in every direction—though, thankfully, no one was injured.

At least, not physically.

Ron and Neville would have been drenched if not for Harry's quick reflexes, conjuring a gust of wind to shield them.

But even Felix Felicis couldn't protect them from Snape's wrath.

"Idiot! Imbecile! You must remove the cauldron from the fire before adding porcupine quills! How do you still manage to mess up even when following the book step by step?!"

"Do you have trolls for brains?!"

Neville and Ron, like two small boats tossed about in a raging storm, shrank back against the wall, heads down, wishing they could sink into the floor.

"...As for you, Harry, that was a well-timed spell. Since you protected your classmate—ten points to Gryffindor." Snape turned away, exhaling slightly.

There wasn't enough time left in class to remake the potion, so Ron and Neville remained standing miserably against the wall. Every time Snape walked past, he would let out a disdainful snort, making them lower their heads even further.

Finally, the torturous Potions lesson neared its end. Snape was inspecting each group's potion, and now, at last, it was Harry and Hermione's turn.

"Very good," Snape murmured, gazing into the bottle of potion. "Just as I said, Harry, you have a natural talent for this… You have not disgraced your mother... This is excellent."

"As agreed, this bottle of Felix Felicis is yours, Harry." Snape summoned the small vial of shimmering gold liquid and placed it in Harry's hand. "Use it wisely."

"Thank you, Professor. I will." Harry nodded.

As a potion, Felix Felicis wasn't without its drawbacks—overuse could lead to recklessness, arrogance, and even a distorted sense of reality.

"I'll split it with you later when we get back," Harry said to Hermione after Snape had walked away, shaking the tiny bottle. "We worked on this potion together, after all."

"No need!" Hermione's voice wavered slightly, but she still spoke firmly. "That's yours. I didn't really help at all!"

Without waiting for Harry's response, Hermione clutched her books and bolted from the classroom—vanishing into the crowd of students who fled Potions class as if escaping disaster.

That girl... Harry sighed.

Her competitiveness was a little much, honestly. He couldn't help but think that if Ron and Hermione's personalities could balance each other out a little, things would be much easier—one wouldn't be so obsessed with winning, and the other wouldn't keep throwing out lines like, "Not surprising, it's you, Harry."

Harry glanced at Snape, only to find the professor staring back at him. Snape seemed like he had something to say… or maybe Harry was just imagining it.

The classroom was now empty except for the two of them.

"...Honestly, Professor, showing this much favoritism towards me probably isn't a good idea," Harry said, walking over. "Other students will take issue with it—whether with you or with me—it's not going to end well."

"Lily… your mother… your mother asked me to take care of you, Harry," Snape's gaze turned hollow, his voice distant. "I swore it to her. You saw it with your own eyes."

Maybe it was because of his past experiences. Maybe it was because he had seen someone again whom he thought he never would.

Either way, Harry was beginning to realize that Professor Snape had… issues. Or perhaps, Snape's understanding of love was just a little… off.

To Snape, care and protection meant favoritism.

It was unconditional bias, openly displayed without restraint or concern for how others might perceive it.

In Snape's world, there were only two kinds of people: those he cared about and those who didn't matter. And he never cared about the latter.

Once, this bias had manifested in his blatant favoritism toward Slytherins, his arbitrary awarding and docking of house points without regard for fairness. Now, all of it had simply shifted onto Harry.

Snape only knew how to love in this way—because this was what his life had taught him.

It was clumsy, so much so that even when he wanted to express himself, he couldn't put it into words. At least, Harry was fairly certain that what Snape truly wanted to say right now had nothing to do with any of this.

What he really wanted was to ask—Could you let me see her soul again?

But Snape acted as if that thought had never crossed his mind, as if nothing had happened at all.

"You're setting me up to be hated, you know," Harry couldn't help but remark. "Besides, I already told you that day, Professor—I have my own plans for my future. I don't need anyone acting like a guardian, telling me what to do, even under the pretense of looking out for me."

Snape's brow twitched. He looked like he wanted to say something—probably something along the lines of "Arrogant, just like your father." But in the end, he held back.

Unlike that useless father of his, Lily's child possessed power beyond that of an ordinary wizard—Snape had witnessed it himself.

"This is not interference," Snape said quietly. "Not even Dumbledore can protect every student at Hogwarts… And not every professor is worthy of trust. Especially certain ones… with questionable behavior."

Harry raised an eyebrow. Was Snape implying that Quirrell was suspicious?

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