The stairs leading down to the Potions classroom wound deeper and deeper, the stone steps growing narrower and the air increasingly damp and cold.
Alvin Vance followed the crowd of Slytherin first-years, passing through several heavy stone doorways before finally stopping in front of a massive oak door.
There was no handle on the door, only a silver carving of a serpent coiled in the center of the wood.
Draco Malfoy stepped forward and knocked three times.
The silver serpent’s eyes glowed with a faint green light, and the door slid open without a sound, revealing a dark stairwell descending even further.
“The Potions classroom is on the level below.
Follow me and don’t get lost.
I don’t want anyone losing their way on our Head of House’s lesson,” Draco whispered, his tone carrying a familiar, slightly performative edge.
Alvin didn’t respond, quietly following behind him, his eyes scanning the walls as they walked.
The further down they went, the sparser the torches on the walls became, and the dimmer the light grew.
The air was thick with a complex mixture of scents: dried herbs, aged preservatives, some kind of pungent mineral, and a faint, unsettlingly sweet, metallic tang.
Finally, the line stopped before a half-open door.
Dim, yellow candlelight seeped through the gap, revealing rows of neatly arranged desks and benches inside.
Alvin took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The Potions classroom was much larger than he had imagined.
The vaulted stone ceiling loomed high above, lost in the shadows, while the surrounding walls were lined with shelves of glass jars.
Floating inside them in preserving fluid were all sorts of grotesque biological specimens: curled tentacles, disembodied eyeballs, strange wide-mouthed fish, and various organs and tissues he couldn’t begin to identify.
The dim candlelight flickered through the jars, casting eerie, wavering shadows across the room.
There was no warm fireplace like the one in the common room; the entire space was as cold and damp as a dungeon.
In fact, it *was* a dungeon.
Stone desks were arranged in neat rows, each set with brass scales, jars of sealed ingredients, and a set of gleaming glass phials.
The complex scent in the air was much stronger here, almost suffocating.
At the front of the classroom, behind the teacher’s desk, a dark figure stood in absolute silence.
Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House.
He leaned casually against the edge of the desk, his black robes draping around him like bat wings.
His arms were crossed over his chest, and his dark eyes swept coldly over the students filing in.
He said nothing and did nothing, yet simply by standing there, he seemed to make the temperature in the room drop several degrees.
Alvin’s gaze lingered on him for a moment.
He could sense an incredibly condensed, sharp, and suppressed magical aura radiating from Professor Snape.
Unlike Professor McGonagall’s sense of order—which felt like a sword sheathed in its scabbard—Snape’s aura was like a blade that remained forever drawn, cold, dangerous, and ready to deliver a fatal strike at any moment.
*Not an easy man to approach,* Alvin silently assessed.
The Slytherin students naturally gravitated toward the left side of the room.
Alvin took a seat in the third row by the aisle, with Draco Malfoy sitting next to him.
Draco’s expression was far more serious and upright than usual—a posture of trying his best to behave well in front of a powerful authority.
The students from the other Houses filed in.
The Gryffindors were immediately startled by the creepy specimens on the walls.
Ron Weasley’s face was nearly as red as his hair, while Neville Longbottom stared transfixed at a jar containing a giant pickled spider, looking as though he might faint at any second.
Hermione Granger hurried to the front row, pulling out her quill and parchment, fully prepared.
Harry Potter sat next to her, his green eyes darting warily toward Snape behind the desk before quickly looking away.
As the last student took their seat, the classroom door swung shut without a sound.
The moment it closed, Alvin felt an invisible pressure settle over them, as if they had been severed from the outside world and locked inside this cold, specimen-filled underground vault.
Professor Severus Snape finally moved.
He stepped forward slowly, gliding around his desk toward the center of the classroom.
His footsteps were light, almost silent, his black robes billowing behind him like a dark shadow.
Finally, he stopped in front of the Gryffindor section.
His dark eyes swept over the tense faces before him, and he picked up the register from his desk.
“Roll call.”
His voice was low and cold, devoid of any inflection, like the soft hiss of a snake.
He read out the names one by one, his tone flat.
But when he reached “Draco Malfoy,” his chilly voice seemed to lift slightly, carrying a nearly imperceptible hint of warmth.
Alvin glanced at Draco from the corner of his eye and saw his roommate instantly straighten up, tilting his chin up slightly like a peacock preening in the sunlight.
The roll call continued.
Most students received only a cold nod or an indifferent look.
But when Severus Snape reached a particular name—
“Harry Potter.”
He paused.
A strange silence fell over the classroom.
Snape raised his eyes from the register, slowly shifting his gaze toward the Gryffindor side until it locked onto the boy wearing glasses, who had a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.
His lips curled slightly.
It wasn’t a smile.
It was a far more complex, dangerous expression—like a cat that had finally cornered a mouse it had been tracking for a long time.
“Ah, yes,” he said, his voice softer now but sharper, like a blade of ice scraping across glass.
“Harry Potter.
Our new…
celebrity.”
He walked slowly toward Harry, each step seemingly weighing heavily on everyone’s hearts. You are reading on novelping.com, the official source.
Finally, he stopped right in front of Harry’s desk, looking down at him from his height.
“Tell me, Mr.
Potter,” Snape said, his voice as smooth as silk yet as cold as ice.
“What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
Harry froze.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
His green eyes were filled with confusion and helplessness.
Low snickers broke out across the classroom.
Draco covered his mouth, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Alvin frowned.
Seeing his roommate gloat like this made him somewhat uncomfortable.
He knew Draco was proud, arrogant, and occasionally mean-spirited, but to mock someone so openly for failing to answer a question…
it made Alvin uncomfortable.
Clearly, there was some history between Draco and Harry that he didn’t know about.
“You don’t know?” Snape’s voice remained soft, yet it carried a pressure that sent a shiver down one’s spine.
“Shall we try again?”
Harry hung his head.
The snickers from the Slytherin side grew louder.
Under her desk, Hermione’s hands clutched her robes tightly.
She wanted to speak up, but the moment she met Snape’s freezing glare, she was forced to keep her mouth shut by the sheer pressure he radiated.
“Tut, tut.” Snape shook his head slightly, took two steps back, and then whipped back around.
“Let’s try another.
Mr.
Potter, if I asked you to find me a bezoar, where would you look?”
Harry’s head hung even lower.
His ears turned as red as fire.
Ron whispered something beside him, but a sharp glare from Snape silenced him instantly.
“Still don’t know?” There was a hint of almost cruel amusement in Snape’s voice now.
“What about a third question, then?
Tell me, Mr.
Potter, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”
This time, even Hermione frowned.
This was a trick question.
She had prepared beforehand and knew they were actually the same plant, just with different names, but she wasn’t entirely sure of her own understanding, and Snape didn’t give her a chance to speak anyway.
Harry’s chin was practically pressed against his chest.
He looked as though he wanted to crawl under his desk and vanish.
Draco finally couldn’t hold back his snickering, letting out a low, distinct scoff.
Alvin watched this unfold, his brow furrowing deeper.
He did not like this.
He disliked Professor Snape’s deliberate targeting.
Even if he could understand it as a way of asserting dominance—and indeed, many elders in Eastern sects were strict to the point of harshness—their severity was meant to temper a disciple’s character, not to simply humiliate them.
Nor did he like Draco’s smug gloating.
No matter what grudge Draco held against Harry, kicking someone while they were down was distasteful.
Most importantly, Harry was one of the first friends he had made upon arriving in the wizarding world.
The conversation in the corridor after lunch that day, the mutual understanding reached in just a few words, and the friendship restored between them were all real.
Alvin tapped his fingers lightly on the desk as an idea took shape in his mind.
Just as Professor Snape was about to open his mouth to continue the humiliation, a voice rang out from the left side of the room:
“Professor, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death.
In large doses, it can plunge the drinker into a state of suspended animation, where respiration and heartbeat are weakened to the point of being nearly imperceptible.”
The classroom fell dead silent.
Every eye turned toward the source of the voice—the Slytherin section, third row, where the boy with a streak of silver in his black hair sat.
Alvin’s voice was steady, free of any nervousness or desire to please, simply stating the facts:
“A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat.
It possesses powerful antidotal properties and can save one from most common poisons.”
He paused, meeting Snape’s bottomless black eyes with a calm gaze.
“As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are different names for the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite.
The difference lies only in the term; they are essentially the same.”
Professor Snape’s expression froze for a fraction of a second.
For the first time, a brief pause registered in those dark eyes that had been so effortlessly controlling the room.
He stared at Alvin, as if re-evaluating him.
Then, his lips parted.
“Ah,” he said, his voice softer than before, yet far more dangerous. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“Mr.
Selwyn.
Slytherin’s rising star.”
He slowly walked toward Alvin, each step slower and heavier than the last.
Finally, he stopped before Alvin’s desk, looking down at him just as he had done to Harry.
“A bit of a show-off, are we, Mr.
Selwyn?”
The voice was like a snake hissing directly into his ear.
The entire room was dead silent.
The smugness on Draco’s face had long since vanished, replaced by a complex tension—partly worrying for his roommate who had stuck his neck out, and partly anticipating the outcome of this clash.
Alvin did not back down.
He looked up, meeting those icy eyes, and said calmly, “I was merely answering your questions, Professor.”
Snape stared at him for a few seconds, then let out a soft huff.
“Very well.
Since you are so keen on answering questions, let me ask a few more.”
He turned and picked up a glass jar from his desk containing a grayish-white powder.
“What is the function of powdered moonstone in potion-making?”
Alvin answered with barely a pause:
“It is primarily used to enhance the stability of certain potions, particularly those related to time perception or memory.
However, it cannot be used in conjunction with wolfsbane, as it will trigger a toxic reaction.”
Snape’s eyebrows rose slightly.
He set down the jar and picked up another, which contained a dark, writhing mass of something suspended in liquid.
“And what is this?”
Alvin looked closely, and a diagram from *One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi* flashed in his mind:
“The spinal cord of a Swooping Evil.
It is primarily used as a raw material for potent paralyzing agents, but the extraction process is highly dangerous.
Any slip-up will cause the toxins to vaporize, poisoning the brewer.”
Snape was silent for two seconds.
This time, he did not pick up anything else.
He merely stared at Alvin.
For the first time, a subtle shift appeared in those bottomless black eyes—a recalibrated look of genuine scrutiny.
Then, he turned and walked back behind his desk.
“Mr.
Selwyn is correct,” his voice returned to its previous icy tone, though there was a barely perceptible tightness in his delivery.
“Correct on both counts.
Ten points to Slytherin.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the Gryffindor section before landing on the dark-haired boy who still had his head lowered.
“Mr.
Potter,” Snape said, his voice returning to its icy sarcasm, “I suggest you take note of what actual preparation looks like.
Some are born celebrities, but at the very least, they ought to know how to open a book.”
Draco covered his mouth, intending to laugh, but this time, his gaze drifted over Alvin’s face.
Detecting something complex there, he ultimately reined in his expression.
Alvin ignored him.
He sat quietly, his eyes fixed on the desk before him.
He knew that his little display hadn’t actually made Snape’s attitude toward him “better.” It had merely shifted from “indifference” to “intrigued scrutiny.” The professor was not the type to become warm and friendly just because a student got some answers right.
But at least he had bailed Harry out.
That was enough.
Once Snape was back behind his desk, the actual lesson finally began.
“Potion-making,” Snape’s voice echoed through the cold dungeon classroom, “is a precise science and an elegant art.
Unlike those flashy spells that take effect with a simple wave of a wand, it requires your focus, care, and meticulous attention.
For those with simple minds and thick heads, this place will be their personal hell.”
He waved his hand, and lines of neat chalk handwriting appeared on the blackboard:
[Cure for Boils — Week One Lesson]
“Pair up and follow the instructions on the board.
The ingredients are in the supply cupboard, and your scales are on your desks.
Begin.”
A rustling sound filled the classroom.
Draco immediately turned to Alvin, his expression taking it for granted that they would be partners.
“I’ll weigh the ingredients,” Draco said.
“You do the cutting.
Your hands are steady.”
Alvin did not object.
He watched as Draco walked confidently toward the supply cupboard and returned with an assortment of jars and vials.
Potions class had officially begun.