Chapter 16 Potions Class Tension
Liora’s naivety causes a class mishap; Mattheo shields her from reprimand. Cliffhanger: Snape suspects Mattheo’s involvement.
The dungeon classroom of Hogwarts smelled like damp stone, crushed roots, and a faint hint of some brew bubbling for far longer than it should. Liora Potter sat upright at her table, quill poised, determined—this time—to get Potions right.
The determination lasted roughly three minutes.
“Today,” Professor Snape drawled, sweeping into the room like a storm cloud with too much contempt for anyone beneath it, “you will be attempting a Mild Restorative Draught. A simple potion… if one possesses basic competence.”
His obsidian eyes glided across the room, lingering on her for a fraction of a second too long.
Liora felt her stomach twist.
He knows I’m terrible at this.
He definitely knows.
Her cauldron sat in front of her like a silent dare.
Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were paired for the session, leaving her at a shared table with Maren Beckley, a soft-spoken Ravenclaw girl with a precise wand and terribly intense focus. Mattheo Riddle, of course, sat two rows behind them with the Slytherins, lounging as if Snape’s class existed solely for his amusement.
Liora tried not to glance back at him. Really, she did. But every few minutes her eyes drifted toward the back row.
He, naturally, never paid attention when she looked. Mattheo stared lazily at the board or rolled a peppermint between his fingers, utterly unbothered by life in general. Cool, composed, unreadable.
And probably brilliant at Potions, she thought miserably.
Snape’s voice cut through her spiralling thoughts.
“For heaven’s sake, begin.”
Students scattered to gather ingredients.
“Okay,” Liora whispered to herself, grabbing a bundle of ginger root. “No mistakes today. Just… chop, crush, stir. Easy.”
Maren returned balancing flasks. “Heat your cauldron to medium. I’ll slice the ashwinder scales.”
Liora nodded, lighting her flame. “Medium heat… right.”
The flame instantly roared into life—far too high.
Maren yelped, leaping back. “No—no, turn it down! Liora!”
“I’m trying!” Liora frantically twisted the dial, but it jammed, stuck between settings. Bright orange fire licked the bottom of her cauldron, heating it faster than she could blink.
Inside, the mixture began to shimmer strangely.
That was not what it was supposed to do.
“Maren, is it supposed to—?”
“NO.”
Liora grabbed her wand. “Refrig—refrigera—wait, no—what’s the spell? Oh no—”
The mixture hissed violently. A puff of purple smoke burst upward, spiralling like a furious ghost directly into her face.
The room froze.
Snape turned with the slow precision of an executioner. “Miss Potter…”
She coughed out lavender smoke.
“I—I can explain—”
But she couldn’t explain. Her eyes were watering; the potion’s fumes tingled unpleasantly on her skin. The cauldron rattled like it was ready to explode.
And that was when she felt the air shift.
Mattheo moved.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. He simply placed a hand atop her cauldron as he passed—barely a brush of fingertips—and something impossible happened.
The potion stilled.
The smoke thinned.
The temperature of the metal dropped instantly, as if pulled into silence.
Liora blinked up at him, stunned. “What—how did—”
“Your flame’s too high,” he muttered, adjusting the dial with one swift, practiced twist. “Basic control.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. Didn’t wait for thanks. Didn’t give so much as a smirk.
He just kept walking, returning to his seat as though he hadn’t just saved her from turning the entire Potion classroom into a lavender warzone.
Snape arrived a second later, robes billowing. His dark gaze flicked between the perfectly calm cauldron and Liora’s still-smoking hair.
“Miss Potter…” he said softly, dangerously. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” Liora squeaked. “I mean—I did something, but then it… stopped. I don’t know how.”
Snape narrowed his eyes.
His nostrils flared—just slightly. He turned toward the back of the room.
His attention locked on Mattheo.
Liora’s breath hitched.
Snape spoke with the sharpness of a knife being drawn.
“Mr. Riddle.”
Mattheo didn’t lift his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Approach.”
The room was silent as Mattheo stood, sauntering forward with deceptive ease, hands in pockets. Students watched with fascinated tension—Slytherins with indifference, Ravenclaws with scholarly dread, Hufflepuffs with wide-eyed horror.
When Mattheo stopped in front of Snape, Liora swore she could feel electricity in the air.
Snape’s voice cut through the gloom.
“You did something just now.”
It wasn’t a question.
Mattheo lifted one eyebrow. “Did I?”
“You stabilized a potion across the room without casting a spell. And without being assigned to that cauldron.”
A murmur rippled through the students.
Liora stared. He did that? Without a spell? How?
Mattheo shrugged. “Pure instinct. Her cauldron was about to blow up. I prefer not to spend my afternoon scrubbing soot off my robes.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Or perhaps you had another motive.”
Mattheo’s jaw tensed.
Snape took one slow step forward.
“Miss Potter is not your responsibility.”
Something dark flashed in Mattheo’s expression—anger, amusement, challenge—Liora couldn’t tell.
“No,” he said. “She isn’t.”
Their eyes met like two dragons sizing each other up.
“But you did help her,” Snape said.
Mattheo smiled, sharp and cold. “You’d prefer I didn’t?”
Snape’s voice dropped to a chilling whisper. “I prefer you stop interfering in things you should not be involved in.”
The entire room held its breath.
Liora’s heart hammered.
Why is Snape talking like this?
What does he think Mattheo is involved in?
What does he know?
Before she could process it, Snape stepped back.
“Return to your seat, Mr. Riddle.”
Mattheo pivoted slowly, only then glancing at her. A single, unreadable look.
Liora swallowed.
He sat down. Snape resumed the lesson. Maren whispered, “Liora, what just happened?”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it again.
She had no idea.
The rest of class crawled by in a blur of whispers, stolen glances, and Snape’s increasingly suspicious glare flickering between her and Mattheo. Liora managed to finish her potion without further incident, though it turned a slightly sickly shade that suggested it would restore absolutely nothing.
By the time class ended, students spilled from the dungeon fast enough to be mistaken for fleeing.
Liora bundled her books and hurried toward the hallway—only to feel a chill sweep her spine.
Snape’s voice echoed after her.
“Miss Potter. Remain.”
She froze.
Slowly, she turned.
Snape stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable, his dark gaze flicking once—not subtly—toward where Mattheo walked away with Theo Nott.
Then back to her.
“Miss Potter,” he said quietly, “we need to talk about Mr. Riddle.”
Her stomach dropped.