The morning after, Defense class arrived shrouded in mist and the scent of damp stone. Amaechi walked to breakfast with Blaise and Millicent, robes crisp, boots silent against the corridor floor. She exchanged few words—her mind was already turning ahead.
Today was Potions.
Professor Snape's classroom was in the dungeons, which felt colder and darker than even the Slytherin common room. Long tables lined with brass scales and stained glass jars holding things that blinked or floated greeted them.
Snape swept into the room like a stormcloud with no rain.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he intoned, voice low and dangerous. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."
He scanned the room, eyes pausing a second longer on Harry Potter. "I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as thick as you look."
Snape prowled the front of the classroom, and without preamble, he turned toward Harry.
"Potter!" he barked. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry blinked. "I don't know, sir."
Snape's mouth twitched with disdain. "Clearly, fame isn't everything."
He continued his questioning. "Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
Again, Harry hesitated. "I don't know, sir."
Snape's tone sharpened. "And what is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"I—I think they're the same plant," Harry said.
Snape sneered. "Correct. And yet your tone makes it sound like a lucky guess. Perhaps next time you'll read your textbooks instead of waiting for applause."
Ron muttered something under his breath.
Snape's eyes snapped toward him. "Something to add, Mr. Weasley?"
Ron scowled. "No, sir."
"Excellent. Then kindly keep your commentary to yourself."
Amaechi watched the exchange closely. Snape's attention was clearly skewed—more pressure for Potter, less notice for anyone else, and far too much satisfaction in catching him off guard. She noted how Harry's jaw tightened and how Ron glared at the professor. Even Hermione looked unsettled, her quill paused mid-sentence.
It wasn't simply a matter of discipline. Snape was provoking Harry—poking at him like a test subject in a potions lab. There was personal bias here, and it left a bitter taste in Amaechi's mouth.
She was paired with Draco.
Neither objected. In fact, the moment Snape gave the instructions for their first potion—a simple Cure for Boils—they got to work in quiet sync.
Draco weighed the dried nettles, Amaechi crushed the snake fangs with steady hands. When Draco glanced over, she noticed his surprise at her confident handling of ingredients.
"You've brewed before," he muttered.
"Once or twice."
"You're full of surprises."
She gave a sly smile. "You've seen nothing yet."
Their cauldron was the first to bubble with the correct hue—deep blue with a hint of green swirl. Snape glided by, glanced in, then moved on without comment.
That, in itself, was high praise.
Draco smirked slightly. "He noticed. He just won't say it."
"Better that way," Amaechi replied. "Praise can make you sloppy."
To their left, Neville Longbottom had managed to create a small explosion. His cauldron bubbled over, covering Seamus and Dean with purple smoke. Snape looked furious.
"Idiots. Ten points from Gryffindor!"
Amaechi didn't flinch. The chaos only emphasized her preference for calculated control. She glanced across the room and saw Harry watching her briefly before turning back to his own less successful mixture.
She met Draco's eyes for a moment.
"This could be interesting," she said quietly.
He nodded. "For once, we agree."
Dormitory Evenings
That night, Amaechi sat cross-legged on her bed, her dormmates gathered loosely nearby. Daphne Greengrass asked about her wand. Tracey Davis was more curious about her hair.
"It's natural?" Tracey asked.
Amaechi nodded. "Curly magic—works like a charm."
They giggled. Even Millicent cracked a smile.
Later, when the lights dimmed and the castle grew still, Amaechi pulled out the tiny mirror her uncle had enchanted.
"Show me the last person who said my name," she whispered.
The glass rippled, revealing an image of Draco Malfoy, seated in the Slytherin common room, head tilted, lips moving—but the sound didn't carry.
He had been speaking about her.
She didn't know whether to feel wary or intrigued.
A Whisper in the Forest
It was past curfew when she woke to a strange sensation—like being called by a current, pulled forward by something unseen. She wrapped her cloak around her and slipped through the shadows of the dungeon corridor.
The air grew colder as she neared a narrow stairwell she hadn't noticed before. It led out to a courtyard and beyond to the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
There, something waited.
A shape. Low to the ground, fluid as water, its eyes glowing faintly blue.
Amaechi froze. Her Siren blood sang.
The creature didn't growl. Didn't attack. Just… watched.
Then, with a swish of silver mist, it vanished between the trees.
She stood alone beneath the moonlight, pulse steady.
Something ancient had taken notice.
And Amaechi Orakwue intended to find out why.