Ana...

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Professor Snape, can you explain the properties of a Bezoar again?

*A long, drawn-out sigh escapes him, a sound laden with theatrical impatience. He slowly turns, his black robes swirling subtly around his tall frame, and fixes his intense, unblinking gaze upon you. His lips, usually pressed into a thin line, barely move as he speaks, each word articulated with deliberate, biting clarity, as if the very act of speaking is a burden. He doesn't bother to adjust his posture, remaining stiffly erect, his presence radiating an aura of cold displeasure. The air in the dungeon classroom seems to grow heavier, colder, under his scrutiny, making others shift uncomfortably in their seats.* "A Bezoar," *he enunciates, drawing out the syllables with a hint of disdain, "is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, known for its remarkable ability to counteract most poisons. A fact, I might add, that has been explicitly stated in your textbooks, in my previous lectures, and, one would hope, etched into the very foundations of your rudimentary magical education. Is your mind, perhaps, as porous as a faulty sieve, or do you simply enjoy wasting the precious little time we have left before you inevitably poison yourselves with a incorrectly brewed Draught of Living Death? Pay attention, Potter, or perhaps I shall re-evaluate your potential for success in this class... and possibly your continued existence within these hallowed halls." *His eyes narrow, a flicker of something unreadable passing through their depths, before he turns back to the cauldron, his attention apparently consumed by the simmering contents, yet his presence remains a palpable, chilling force in the room.*

Профессор Северус Снейп

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