Chapter 2: The Supply Cupboard

The supply cupboard door stood half-open when she approached it, and whatever waited inside looked nothing like the organized shelves she'd hoped to find. Instead, darkness filled most of the space beyond the threshold. A single torch mounted on the adjacent wall threw weak light across the opening, enough to reveal stacked jars and containers that seemed to have been shoved into place without any consideration for order or safety.

She glanced back at Snape. He had returned to his marking, quill scratching across parchment with methodical precision. He didn't look up to acknowledge her hesitation, which meant she was expected to simply begin without further instruction or guidance.

The cupboard smelled like dust mixed with something sharper. Years of accumulated magical residue, probably, the kind that built up when volatile ingredients sat too close together for too long. She reached for the nearest jar and pulled it into the torchlight to read the faded label.

Dried nettles. Simple enough, though the jar felt lighter than it should have been, given the volume inside. She set it on the floor outside the cupboard and reached for the next container.

This one held crushed scarab beetles, their iridescent shells catching the light in fragments of green and blue. The preservation spell on the jar had started to fail based on the way the edges of the beetles had begun to oxidize. She made a mental note to set this one aside for disposal rather than returning it to the reorganized shelves.

Working through the first shelf revealed the extent of the chaos. Ingredients had been placed in no discernible order, expensive materials shoved next to common supplies, volatile substances stored beside stable ones. Someone had clearly just grabbed whatever space was available without thinking about chemical interactions or the basic principles of proper storage.

She found a container of moonstone powder wedged behind several jars of pickled slugs. The moonstone jar's seal had cracked, allowing moisture from the slug containers to contaminate the powder. Ruined completely, though the powder itself probably cost more than everything else on this shelf combined.

The waste bothered her more than it should have. Ingredients like moonstone powder required specific conditions to harvest, certain moon phases, and weather patterns that only aligned a few times each year. Throwing away a full jar because someone couldn't be bothered to store it properly felt criminal somehow.

She set the damaged container with the oxidized beetles and continued working through the shelf. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, checking each jar for damage, reading labels in the dim light, making quick decisions about what could be salvaged and what needed disposal.

A jar of dried wolfsbane went into the pile for alphabetization. The lacewing flies beside it had expired based on the date written on the label, so she added them to the disposal stack. Porcupine quills, still good. Powdered griffin claw, contaminated by proximity to a leaking bottle of some unidentifiable liquid.

The work required focus that pushed away thoughts about everything else. She didn't think about missing the Welcome Feast or the fact that all her classmates were probably settling into their dormitories by now. She just sorted ingredients, checked dates, examined seals, and built three separate piles on the floor outside the cupboard.

Dust coated everything deeper in the cupboard. She had to wipe each jar with her sleeve before she could read the labels, leaving gray smudges across her robes. The fabric would need cleaning later, but that seemed like a distant concern compared to the immediate task.

After some time, she moved to the second shelf and immediately encountered a different problem. Jars had been stacked two and three deep, making it impossible to see what sat in the back without removing everything in front. She started pulling containers forward, lining them up on the floor beside her growing piles.

More jars emerged from the depths of the second shelf. Aconite, properly stored in a dark glass container. Bat spleens that looked perfect until she noticed the date showed them to be nearly seven years old, well past their effective use period.

Each jar received examination, each label was read, and every preservation spell was checked. Her back started to ache from bending over the low shelves, but she ignored the discomfort.

The third shelf held heavier containers. Stone jars filled with thick liquids, ceramic pots sealed with wax, and glass bottles containing materials that had settled into layers of different colors. She had to use both hands to lift some of them, checking labels that had been written in handwriting she didn't recognize.

Some of the writing looked old enough to predate Snape's tenure as Potions Master. One jar carried a label written in script so faded she could barely make out the words. Salamander blood, based on what she could decipher, though the date had worn away completely.

Her pile of salvageable ingredients had grown substantial by the time she finished the third shelf. The disposal pile looked nearly as large, a damning commentary on how poorly this cupboard had been maintained. She started to consider the logistics of alphabetization, trying to calculate how much shelf space she would need once everything was properly organized.

Her fingers had started to ache from handling so many containers, and dust had worked its way under her fingernails. She kept going, pulling jars forward, checking labels, and making decisions about salvage versus disposal.

She found jars with no labels at all, forcing her to open them carefully and identify contents based on appearance and smell. Some proved easy enough to recognize; on the other hand, some didn't.

The unlabeled jars went into a separate pile that she would need Snape's input to sort properly. She wasn't about to guess at ingredients, especially when misidentification could lead to dangerous interactions during future brewing.

After hours, the last jar was taken from the top shelf, and she surveyed the results of her work. Three large piles covered the floor outside the cupboard. Salvageable ingredients that needed alphabetization. Ruined materials requiring disposal. Unidentified items that needed Snape's evaluation.

The cupboard itself stood empty now, its shelves bare and dusty. She would need to clean them before reorganizing, wiping away years of accumulated grime. But first, she needed to sort through the salvageable pile and determine the best arrangement for putting everything back.

She started grouping ingredients by their first letter, creating smaller sub-piles that would make alphabetization easier. All the A ingredients together, then B, then C. The work was tedious but straightforward, requiring attention to detail rather than any particular skill.

Aconite, asphodel, ashwinder eggs. Bat wings, beetle eyes, bicorn horn, boomslang skin. Caterpillars, crushed, chizpurfle fangs. She worked through the alphabet, building organized groups from the chaos that had filled the cupboard.

Some letters had surprisingly few ingredients. Nothing started with Q in her salvageable pile. X presented similar scarcity. Other letters overflowed with options. M alone included moonstones, moonstone powder, mandrake root, murtlap tentacles, and at least a dozen other materials.

She was organizing the R ingredients when Snape's voice cut through her concentration.

"That jar."

She looked up, trying to determine which container he meant. Snape had risen from his desk and now stood several feet away, his attention fixed on something in her organized piles.

"Which jar, Professor?"

He gestured toward a dark glass bottle she had placed among the R ingredients.

She picked it up and read the label. "Rose thorns, Professor."

"Which belongs where, precisely?"

The question carried the weight of a test. She checked the label again, noting the faint handwriting that identified the contents. Rose thorns, dried and preserved in a glycerin solution. Nothing ambiguous about the classification.

"Under R," she said. "For rose thorns."

"You don't categorize by the full plant name?"

She considered this, turning the bottle in her hands. The preservation method mattered for brewing purposes, but cataloging systems typically relied on the primary ingredient descriptor. "Most references list them as rose thorns rather than thorns of a rose. The emphasis falls on the specific part used, not the source plant."

Snape's expression revealed nothing. He stood there watching her, waiting for what she couldn't determine.

"If the system categorizes by plant name first," she continued, "then this would go under R regardless. Rosa is the genus. Either way, the placement remains correct."

The silence that followed stretched long enough that she began questioning her own logic. She had organized ingredient stores before, during summer work at her mother's apothecary. The principles were the same whether dealing with magical or mundane materials.

"Continue," Snape said finally. He returned to his desk without further comment, settling back into his chair with the same rigid posture he had maintained all evening.

She set the rose thorns back in their designated pile and resumed her work. The exchange had shaken her concentration slightly, made her second-guess decisions that should have been straightforward. She forced herself to focus on the task rather than wondering whether she had just made some catastrophic error in reasoning.

The remaining ingredients sorted themselves with less drama. A rag materialized from somewhere in the classroom, probably conjured by Snape, though she hadn't heard him cast the spell. It appeared on the floor beside her disposal pile, folded neatly and smelling faintly of lemon.

She used the rag to wipe down each shelf, removing layers of dust and grime that had accumulated over what must have been years. The wood underneath showed than expected, rich grain that had been completely obscured by filth. Someone had built this cupboard with quality materials, then allowed it to deteriorate into chaos.

When the shelves finally looked presentable, she began the process of returning ingredients to their proper places.

She checked each placement twice, ensuring that volatile substances were isolated correctly.

She stepped back to examine her work. The cupboard looked completely transformed. Clean shelves held neatly arranged ingredients, properly spaced and sensibly organized. She had rewritten several labels whose ink had faded to illegibility, using her neatest handwriting to ensure future users could identify contents without difficulty.

Snape's chair scraped against the stone floor. She turned to find him approaching the cupboard, his expression as unreadable as ever. He stopped beside her and began examining the shelves, checking placements with the same methodical attention he applied to marking student essays.

His inspection took several minutes. He pulled random jars forward to examine labels, checked the isolation of volatile materials, and ran one finger along a shelf edge to test for remaining dust. She stood aside and watched, trying not to fidget while he evaluated her work.

The silence felt oppressive. She couldn't tell whether his lack of commentary meant satisfaction or mounting criticism. Snape's face revealed nothing, his dark eyes moving across the organized shelves with systematic precision.

Finally, he stepped back from the cupboard. "You're dismissed."

No praise, no acknowledgment, not even criticism to indicate what she might have done differently. Just a curt dismissal that carried the weight of finality.

She gathered the disposal pile containers into her arms, unsure whether she was meant to handle their destruction or leave them for Snape to manage.

"Leave those," he said, not looking at her. "I'll dispose of them properly."

She set the containers back down and crossed the classroom to the door. Her fingers had just closed on the handle when Snape spoke again.

“Your House will not lose points tonight,” Snape added.

The words stopped her mid-motion. She turned slightly. Snape had returned to his desk and was once again bent over his marking, apparently finished with the entire interaction.

She left the classroom before he could change his mind or add some cutting remark. The corridor outside felt warmer than she remembered, though that might have been relief at finally being released from detention.

Her footsteps echoed against the stone as she made her way back toward the main stairs. Other students had long since settled in for the night, leaving the corridors empty and quiet. She passed trophy cases and suits of armor, climbed stairways that shifted while she was halfway up, and navigated the familiar path back to her common room.

Behind her, down in the dungeons, Snape stood beside the reorganized supply cupboard. He examined the labels she had rewritten, noting the controlled precision of each letter. The handwriting showed discipline, careful attention that extended beyond mere functionality into something approaching art.

His gaze moved across the shelves one final time before he turned away. Something caught the torchlight near the bottom shelf, a small flash of metal against the stone floor. He bent down and retrieved a single earring, silver, green-stoned, evidently fallen during her work and left behind in her haste to leave.

He held it briefly, then set it on his desk beside the stack of parchment. The disposal pile still waited near the cupboard, but those containers could wait until morning. He returned to his marking, quill scratching across parchment in the quiet classroom, and did not look at the earring again.