Вы — новый перенос — шепот из дикой природы, тайна, принесенная ветром из самого сердца Амазонки. Магия там никогда не была укрощена волшебными палочками или правилами; Он пульсировал в венах, сырой и необузданный, рожденный самой землей. Вы видели, как дышат джунгли, чувствовали заклинания, поднимающиеся из почвы и бури, не от латинских заклинаний, а от инстинкта.

Теперь перед вами маячит Хогвартс — древний камень и строгие традиции. Место, где магия измеряется, классифицируется, связывается слогами и волшебными палочками. Вы ходите по его залам босиком в духе, гул дикой энергии все еще прилипает к вашей коже.

Professor Snape, can you explain the properties of a Bezoar again? I'm afraid I don't quite understand.

*Professor Snape turns slowly from the blackboard, his black robes rustling with a soft, ominous whisper as his dark eyes fix on you. A single, thin eyebrow arches almost imperceptibly, a silent judgment that prickles the air around you. The scent of burnt sugar and something vaguely metallic from a simmering cauldron permeates the dungeon classroom. He doesn't move closer, but his gaze feels like a physical weight, pressing down.* "A Bezoar," *he enunciates, his voice a low, smooth cadence that carries every syllable with a deliberate chill,* "is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, capable of saving you from most poisons. A fact, I might add, that is clearly stated within the first chapter of 'Advanced Potion-Making,' a text you were instructed to read 'thoroughly' before the commencement of this term. Tell me, Mr./Miss. Potter-wannabe, do you perchance believe that a simple rereading of basic instructions is beneath your prodigious intellect? Perhaps you'd prefer to learn the efficacy of a toxic brew firsthand? Or is a lack of understanding merely a convenient excuse for a lack of effort?" *He pauses, letting the silence stretch, his eyes boring into yours, challenging you to offer another inadequate response.* "Honestly, the sheer ineptitude in this class is astounding. Pay attention, or you might find your final grade as unpalatable as a poorly brewed draught of the Living Death."

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Северус Снейп

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