Previously, influenced by various narratives and interpretations he had encountered, Sean had entertained the notion that the animosity between Snape and Harry might not be as starkly one-sided as it often appeared. Perhaps Snape did single Harry out to some extent, but the depth of Snape's supposed hatred for Harry might have been, in part, a misunderstanding filtered through Harry's own perspective. After all, Snape had, on multiple occasions in those stories, intervened to help Harry, even ultimately sacrificing his life for him. Perhaps Snape didn't truly hate Harry solely because of Lily.
But now, sitting directly in front of Harry, as Sean witnessed the unadulterated look Snape directed at the boy, he knew with a chilling certainty that his earlier speculations were just that – speculations. Those 'perhapses' were merely wishful thinking. The raw hatred and simmering anger in Snape's dark eyes were undeniably real. Snape was, it seemed, a man capable of profound contradictions: willing to lay down his life for Lily Evans's child at a critical juncture, driven by a deep need to atone for past mistakes, yet simultaneously harboring an indescribable, visceral resentment towards James Potter's son.
Seeing Snape in this light, Sean sighed inwardly. It was abundantly clear that altering the deeply entrenched, toxic dynamic between Snape and Harry was an impossible task. This was not something he could, or should, interfere with.
The consequences of past bullying, it seemed, could indeed be borne by the bully's child.
Perhaps for the vast majority of the wizarding world, James Potter's undeniable achievements in combating the dark wizard known as No-Nose and his ultimate sacrifice in protecting his child unequivocally cast him as a hero. And indeed, by most definitions, he was. But for Severus Snape, especially the tormented young Snape who had endured years of James Potter's taunts and torments, James was, and would forever remain, simply a bully.
"Harry Potter..." Snape's voice, a slow, soft drawl laced with an unresolvable undercurrent of hatred, caressed the name as he held the attendance roll. He looked up, his eyes fixing on Harry. "Ah, yes. The legendary Savior. A truly famous individual."
At Snape's words, Malfoy and his two ever-present, oafish henchmen, Goyle and Crabbe, let out derisive snickers. As Snape's godson, Malfoy enjoyed a certain immunity in Potions class; he was one of the few who could flout minor rules without incurring Snape's immediate wrath. Sean shot a disinterested glance at Malfoy. He was, in Sean's estimation, a thoroughly spoiled young master. If Malfoy didn't directly provoke him, Sean wouldn't even bother expending the energy to pay him any attention.
"You are here," Snape continued, his voice resonating through the suddenly silent dungeon classroom, "to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. This is not a place for foolishly waving your wands. Therefore, many do not even consider potion-making to be true magic."
His gaze swept over the first-years, lingering on no one in particular. "I do not expect many of you to understand the subtle beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses..."
After briefly expounding on his rather poetic, if somewhat intimidating, understanding of Potions, Snape's gaze once again landed squarely on Harry. Under Harry's increasingly uncomfortable and silently protesting stare, Snape prepared to once again target the son of his old nemesis.
"Potter!"
Snape glided down from the podium, his black robes billowing around him, and came to a halt directly in front of Harry's desk. His empty, vacant eyes bored into Harry. He said, enunciating each word with deliberate precision, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Hearing the question, Harry's face took on an expression of profound bewilderment, as if he were questioning the very nature of reality. He could understand each individual word Snape had uttered, but strung together in that particular sequence, they held absolutely no meaning for him.
Meanwhile, Hermione Granger, seated beside Harry, shot her hand high into the air, her arm ramrod straight, desperate for the chance to prove that she was not, in fact, a fool, but rather a clever individual who readily understood the alleged charm of Potions. Unfortunately for Hermione, Snape's attention was entirely elsewhere. He completely ignored her eagerly raised hand and continued to stare intently at Harry.
"I… I don't know, sir," Harry finally stammered.
This answer did not seem to surprise Snape in the slightest. He let out a soft, contemptuous chuckle. "Tsk, tsk. It appears fame isn't everything, is it? Clearly, it does not guarantee that a person knows everything."
He paused, letting the silence hang heavy. "Let us try again then, shall we?"
"Potter. If I asked you to find me a bezoar, where would you look?"
"I don't know, sir," Harry repeated, his voice a little smaller this time.
At this point, Harry was beginning to feel a flicker of anger himself, but he managed to suppress it under the weight of Snape's imposing presence and unwavering stare.
"Third question, Potter, who apparently hasn't even bothered to open his textbooks before the start of term. What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Now, Hermione, unable to contain herself any longer, shot a quick, sympathetic glance at Harry, then stood up, her hand still raised high, practically vibrating with the desire to answer the question on Harry's behalf. But Snape would not grant Hermione this opportunity. His cold, dark eyes remained fixed solely on Harry.
"I don't know, sir!" Harry finally burst out, his tone now undeniably tinged with frustration and anger. "But I think Hermione knows! Or maybe someone else does. Why don't you ask them?" He looked at Snape, his expression a mixture of confusion and burgeoning defiance.
Seeing Harry's frustrated expression, Snape seemed to savor a small, private victory. He slowly stepped back two paces, his lips curling into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "Mr. Bulstrode," he said softly, his voice deceptively mild, "you will tell Potter the answers to those three questions."
Sean heard Snape's words and hesitated. He wasn't particularly eager to answer these three questions, especially not at Harry's expense. Harry had been genuinely decent to him, quite sincere in his interactions, and had even actively tried to help when Sean had fought with Goyle and Crabbe on the train. Sean held a degree of goodwill towards Harry, and because of this, his movement to stand up was a bit slow, a subtle show of reluctance.
It was precisely at this moment of slight hesitation that another figure in the classroom abruptly stood up. In that instant, both Snape and Sean simultaneously remembered that there was, in fact, another student named Bulstrode in this particular Potions class.
Millicent Bulstrode looked awkwardly at Snape, his face a mask of embarrassment. Snape, in turn, fixed Millicent with a cool, appraising stare.
Under Snape's unwavering gaze, Millicent's expression became even more strained. He opened his mouth, but no words seemed to come out. In the end, he could only manage a mumbled, "Professor… I'm very sorry."
"Sorry?" Snape repeated, his voice dangerously soft. "Is that the answer you give me, Mr. Bulstrode? As the Head of Slytherin House, I must say, I am very disappointed in you."
Millicent knew, with a sinking feeling, that he had done something incredibly foolish. When Snape had called out "Bulstrode" just now, he had subconsciously, reflexively, assumed Snape was addressing him. It wasn't until he was already on his feet that he suddenly remembered the earlier scene before class, when Sean had been assisting Snape with the preparation of materials. It was highly probable no, it was practically certain that Snape had been calling Sean, not him, Millicent.
If Millicent had actually been able to provide the answers to Snape's questions, the situation might have been salvageable. But, as it was, he couldn't answer a single one, thus making a complete fool of himself for no discernible reason. Of course, he wouldn't dare to direct his simmering resentment towards Snape. So, the hatred he felt, born from his own public embarrassment, was entirely, and unfairly, attributed to Sean.
"Sit down, Mr. Bulstrode," Snape said, his voice laced with disdain. "I trust that next time you attend Potions class, you will at least have the common courtesy to preview the textbook. Do not be like certain… famous Gryffindors." Having delivered this pointed remark, Snape once again turned his attention to Sean. "Buls… Sean," he corrected himself, "you will answer those three questions."
Since matters had progressed to this point, Sean naturally couldn't delay any longer. He had no choice but to stand up and provide the answers to all three of the questions Snape had just posed to Harry.
"Powdered root of asphodel and an infusion of wormwood, when combined correctly, can be brewed into the Draught of Living Death, which is an extremely powerful sleeping potion," Sean stated clearly. "A bezoar can be taken from the stomach of a goat; it is a potent antidote to most poisons. Monkshood and wolfsbane are, in fact, different names for the same plant, which is also known as aconite."
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