Pity The Living (Dramione)

First Year: Flashback #2

Mid-September 1991, The Dungeons, Potions Class

The dungeons were cold, far colder than the rest of the castle. The damp air seemed to cling to Hermione's skin as she and the other first-year Gryffindors made their way to their first Potions lesson. Torches flickered weakly against the stone walls, casting eerie shadows that danced as they passed.

Hermione clutched her books tightly, excitement and nervousness swirling within her. She had heard tales of Professor Snape—how he was both brilliant and terrifying, how he favored Slytherins and had little patience for mistakes. But Hermione was determined to prove herself, as always.

As they entered the classroom, the atmosphere grew even more oppressive. The room was lit only by the torches and the dim light filtering through the narrow windows, giving everything a greenish hue. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars containing ingredients that ranged from the fascinating to the grotesque.

Hermione took a seat near the front, her quill ready, eager to take notes. She glanced around and noticed Draco Malfoy and his fellow Slytherins slinking into seats near the back, their expressions smug. Draco's eyes met hers for a brief moment, and he sneered, his lip curling in that now-familiar way. Hermione quickly turned back to her parchment, determined not to let him get to her.

Professor Snape swept into the room with the dramatic flair of a large bat. His black robes billowed behind him as he moved to the front of the class. His expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," Snape began, his voice silky and cold. "As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. However, for those select few..."

His gaze flicked briefly to the Slytherins, Harry, and then to Hermione, as if daring her to prove herself, "who possess the predisposition... I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death."

Hermione leaned forward, hanging on every word, her quill poised to scribble down notes.

"Then again," Snape continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities that should be nurtured." His eyes narrowed as they flicked over Hermione again, as though he knew more about her than she did herself. She shivered involuntarily.

He began the lesson with a list of ingredients for a simple potion, the Draught of Peace, and the students quickly set to work. Hermione was confident as she carefully measured and added each ingredient to her cauldron. She was in her element—focused, precise, determined.

As the class went on, Snape began asking questions, firing them off in rapid succession. He seemed to relish in making the students squirm under his scrutiny.

"Granger," he suddenly snapped, and Hermione looked up, startled. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Hermione's hand shot up before she could even process the question. She had read about this just the night before.

"It creates a powerful sleeping potion known as the Draught of Living Death, sir," she answered confidently.

  Snape raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, a snicker echoed from the back of the room. Draco Malfoy was smirking, and his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, were snickering with him.

"Granger, the know-it-all," Draco drawled mockingly, loud enough for the whole class to hear. "Is there anything you don't know?"

The Slytherins erupted into laughter, and Hermione felt her face flush with embarrassment. She gripped her quill tightly, the heat rising in her cheeks.

"Silence," Snape's voice cut through the laughter like a knife. The room fell silent immediately. He didn't reprimand Draco directly, but his icy gaze flicked back to Hermione.

"Correct, Miss Granger," Snape said, his voice softer now, though there was no warmth. "Five points to Gryffindor. However," he added, his tone dripping with condescension, "do try not to let your eagerness get the better of you. There is a fine line between being knowledgeable and being insufferable."

Hermione nodded stiffly, the small victory of earning points for Gryffindor doing little to ease the sting of his words or the Slytherins' laughter. She forced herself to focus on her potion, refusing to let Draco's taunts and Snape's thinly veiled disdain rattle her.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur of ingredients, instructions, and careful stirring. When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of class, Hermione quickly packed her things, eager to escape the cold, oppressive atmosphere of the dungeons.

As she hurried toward the door, she felt a slight bump and realized Draco had deliberately brushed past her, his smirk still firmly in place.

"Better watch it, Granger," he sneered in a low voice. "Wouldn't want to brew something you can't handle."

Hermione glared at him, her mind racing with a dozen retorts, but before she could respond, he was already striding away, Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him like hulking shadows.

Hermione let out a frustrated sigh and followed her fellow Gryffindors back to the warmth of the upper floors. She knew she shouldn't let Draco get to her, but something about his taunts stuck with her. She couldn't shake the feeling that he enjoyed getting under her skin, and worse, that he was good at it.

But as she climbed the stairs, determination settled over her. She wouldn't let Draco Malfoy—or Professor Snape, for that matter—shake her confidence. She had worked too hard to get to Hogwarts and would prove herself, no matter what.

As they entered the bustling corridors above, Hermione pushed the encounter to the back of her mind and focused on her next class. She had come to Hogwarts to learn, and that was exactly what she would do—no matter who tried to stand in her way.