Oh. That's nice.

"Are we going? You should write him back if so."

"Yes, all right."

He writes a very polite note back saying he would like to do that and might bring a friend or two, and asks Muninn to carry it.

Off he goes.

Dayo meets up with them on the way to the dungeons.

"It's kinda annoying that we only have the one class together."

"Well, maybe it'll be different in different years."

"Probably," he agrees.

Parkinson catches up to him. "Evans," she tells Victor neutrally. "Weasley. Longbottom."

"...Parkinson."

He mumbles something.

"Hello," says Victor.

She pulls Dayo aside and starts talking to him about something.

"I don't get that."

"What do you mean?"

"I dunno, it's just weird, the two of them."

"I don't see why."

He shrugs.

They soon reach the classroom, which is empty of Professors.

Well all right then. Given the opportunity, Victor likes to sit close to the front but not actually all the way there, so he can see and hear the teacher clearly without drawing attention to himself.

And then the giant bat walks into the room.

He is of course not really a giant bat but the way he stalks and his cloak billowing behind him as he does give that very strong impression. When he reaches his table he starts taking the roll call and, like Flitwick, pauses at Victor's name, but not to gasp in surprise.

"Ah, yes," he says softly, "Victor Evans. Our new—celebrity." That last word is said with something that is almost—disgust, his mouth curling in distaste and his eyes narrowing with disdain.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle giggle behind their hands, but Parkinson gives Malfoy a light shove and gives him a "cut it out" look.

The Professor eventually finishes taking the roll call and starts speaking.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," he begins. He speaks in barely more than a whisper, but they catch every word—like Professor McGonagall, Snape has the gift of keeping a class silent without effort.

And he looks at Victor after saying every fourth word.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes," he continues, his eyes lingering at Victor again, "the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach." And at that word he is definitely looking directly at Victor—he doesn't even try to disguise it.

This is a really alarming teacher. Victor wishes he had sat farther back.

"Evans!" says Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

(aaaaaa)

"I'm sorry, Professor, I don't know," he says.

Snape's lips curl into a sneer, if a sneer could contain enough venom to kill a cobra. "Tut, tut—fame clearly isn't everything.

"Let's try again, Evans. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"