Ever since the Second Great War of the magical world, there has been an entirely new attitude within the Potions classroom of Hogwarts. Gone are the days when the ‘ickle firsties’ would wander nervously through the dungeons, quaking with fear as the infamous Bat of the Dungeons would sneer at their so called ‘pathetic excuse of a potion’, his robes billowing around him in the dank gloom. 

Ever since the War, potions have been held on the first floor instead. 

Now, we find the first year students in their moderately-lit classroom, chatting away to one another, speculating. It was with great awe and eagerness that they awaited their Professor, not with the fear and trepidation of previous generations. Their teacher was not the ‘Greasy Git’ or the ‘Bat of the Dungeons’, but rather a Hero of the War.  

Silence erupted as the classroom door swung open without a creak. Students craned their necks to catch a better glimpse of the Professor. He did not storm in, cloak flapping. Rather, the first thing the students noticed was not the teacher, but rather the chair he was seated in. 

A wheelchair. 

The next thing people noticed, again, wasn’t the Professor, but rather the person who was pushing the chair. Excited whispers spread like wildfire throughout the class. I can’t believe it! He’s here? The young man pushing the chair was a handsome lad with a messy mop of jet black hair, circular glasses, and an lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. It’s Harry Potter! 

With the exception of a small aggravated twitch of his hands, the man in the chair appeared not to have noticed the murmurs. Instead, he wordlessly summoned a cauldron onto the low table that sat atop a raised dais. Once next to the table, he finally had the attention of the class as The-Boy-Who-Lived respectfully took a seat in the corner. 

Despite his condition, the man sat in his chair with a quiet dignity, long fingers steepled as he scanned the room with a piercing gaze. Their teacher wore black robes in a no-nonsense fashion, collar carefully buttoned all the way up his neck. The students didn’t have to wonder why. Everyone knew what he had endured in the last year of the War. Everyone knew what was under the collar, why he was in a chair. 

“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class...” Mr. Potter couldn’t help but notice the small upturn of Professor Snape’s lips.