The brass scales swayed gently, the glassware reflecting the dim candlelight, as rows of bizarre specimens in glass jars quietly watched the busy first-years.
Draco’s fingers were long and steady as he used a silver spoon to precisely measure out the dried nettle powder.
Three measures, no more and no less, each falling perfectly onto the center of the scale.
His movements were fluid and confident, a clear sign that he had received excellent Potions training before starting school.
Alvin Vance, meanwhile, was preparing the horned slugs on the side.
The silver knife glided effortlessly in his hand.
Each slug was evenly sliced into four neat pieces, their cuts clean and mucus secretion moderate—a technique he had borrowed from his experience handling certain soft-bodied medicinal ingredients in the East.
Draco glanced over, his lips twitching slightly, but ultimately he said nothing.
Alvin noticed a flicker of approval in his expression, as if acknowledging that the technique was quite professional.
The two coordinated with surprising chemistry, showing no sign at all that they had met less than a week ago.
While other groups were still arguing over how to slice their ginger roots (Gryffindor’s Seamus and Neville were locked in a heated debate over exactly how finely they should be chopped) or spilling ingredients all over their tables, Draco and Alvin had already moved on to the next step:
Adding the prepared horned slugs to the boiling cauldron, stirring seven times clockwise, then three times counter-clockwise, and finally turning down the heat to a low simmer.
Draco handled the stirring while Alvin kept time.
There was almost no talking between them, but each step transitioned seamlessly into the next.
“Seven,” Draco muttered.
“Done,” Alvin said, checking the clock on the wall.
“Now counter-clockwise, three times.
Slow down.”
Draco adjusted his wrist slightly.
The silver liquid swirled slowly in the cauldron, giving off an even sheen.
Behind the podium, Professor Snape’s dark eyes scanned the classroom with apparent indifference, but as his gaze swept over the Slytherin section, it lingered half a second longer than usual.
In that half-second, his lips twitched almost imperceptibly.
It wasn’t a smile, but rather a silent acknowledgment of: *At least there are two who aren’t complete fools.*
Just as Draco was about to take the cauldron off the fire to proceed to the next step—
*Bang!!!*
An earth-shattering blast rang out from the right, shaking the stone walls of the entire dungeon.
Draco’s hand jerked violently, his fingers instantly losing control of the handle.
The silver cauldron, holding the potion they had spent twenty painstaking minutes brewing, began to tilt.
Alvin’s reaction was faster than conscious thought.
His hand shot out like lightning.
The potion sloshed violently inside, sending out ripples, but in the end, not a single drop spilled.
“Steady,” Alvin murmured, his tone as calm as if nothing had happened.
Draco froze for a second.
Then, taking a deep breath, a flash of lingering fear crossed his grey-blue eyes before being quickly masked by a layer of feigned composure.
Once the cauldron was securely settled on the table, the two finally turned to look at the source of the noise.
At the center of the Gryffindor section, a thick cloud of smoke was billowing from a cauldron.
The culprits behind all this—Neville and Seamus—were standing right in the middle of the smoke.
Their faces were soot-blackened from the explosion, leaving only their eyes in their original color.
Both pairs of eyes were wide with terror, helplessness, and a bewildered *what did I even do wrong?*
“Ah…” Neville let out a weak whimper, looking like a frost-bitten cabbage as he wilted on the spot.
Professor Snape swept forward like a black whirlwind, materializing in front of Neville and Seamus in an instant.
He stood there, looming over Neville and then Seamus, the hem of his black robes still billowing gently from his rapid movement.
His face was entirely devoid of expression, but this absolute blankness was far more terrifying than any furious roar.
“Mr.
Longbottom, Mr.
Finnigan,” his voice was as soft as a feather, yet as cold as ice.
Neville’s lips trembled, unable to squeeze out a word.
“Did I, or did I not, emphasize at the beginning of class,” Snape’s voice remained soft, “that Potions is a precise science?
Did I not say that those with simple minds and clumsy fingers would find only torment here?”
Already fragile, Neville’s eyes instantly welled with tears.
“Did I not tell you,” Snape slowed his pace, driving each word like a nail into Neville and Seamus’s hearts, “that the direction of stirring must be strictly observed, and that any deviation would result in catastrophic consequences?”
Neville’s tears finally spilled over, carving two pale tracks down his soot-blackened face.
Seamus lowered his head in shame.
Alvin watched the scene, frowning slightly.
He was certain that Neville was just one word away from a complete breakdown.
He had to admit that his Head of House, Professor Snape, was entirely unlike the other professors he had met who perfectly embodied “encouragement-based education.”
After that, Professor Snape said nothing more.
He simply stared at Neville and Seamus for a few seconds, let out a soft sneer, and swept away.
That quiet click of his tongue was more cutting than any scolding, as if the two of them were not even worth wasting his breath on.
Neville’s lips trembled violently, his entire body shaking like a leaf.
Seamus stood awkwardly beside him, unsure whether to comfort his friend or back away.
Now was not the time for sympathy.
Snape’s anger had not fully dissipated; if they made even the slightest mistake, the disaster they just witnessed could easily fall upon them.
“Porcupine quills,” Draco reminded him in a low voice, a hint of tension creeping into his tone that even he didn’t notice.
Alvin nodded, pulling two slender porcupine quills from his ingredient box.
He remembered Snape’s lecture: they had to take the cauldron off the fire before adding the quills.
If added prematurely, it would trigger a violent reaction, ranging from destroying the potion to…
He glanced in Neville’s direction and didn’t follow the thought any further.
The potion in the cauldron had turned a perfect pale purple, its surface boasting a silky sheen without a single bubble.
Alvin took a deep breath and dropped both porcupine quills in at the same time.
Ripples spread across the surface, and the color began to shift.
The pale purple deepened to a dark violet, then slowly settled, finally locking into an even, clear shade of lavender.
A faint, refreshing herbal scent wafted from the pot, replacing the pungent odors from before.
It was a success.
“Stir clockwise five times,” Alvin said, “and then we’re done.”
Draco immediately took the stirring rod, his wrist turning steadily.
One, two, three, four, five.
The moment he lifted the rod, a thin silver trace of magic shimmered on the surface of the potion before slowly fading away.
For the final step, Draco drew his wand and tapped the cauldron gently.
The surface rippled slightly, and the lavender liquid seemed to come alive, starting to flow slowly and evenly, emitting a soft, steady magical glow.
A perfect Cure for Boils was simmering quietly before them.
Draco stared at the potion, genuine, unshielded pride shining in his grey-blue eyes for the first time.
He looked up, scanning the other groups still struggling with their failures, his lips curling into a smug smirk.
Then he turned to Alvin and said in a commanding tone, “Let’s go.”
He picked up the vial of potion and marched toward the podium with his head held high.
Alvin followed behind, shaking his head in wry amusement at his roommate’s peacock-like strut.
The eyes of the other students turned to them—some envious, some jealous, some curious.
Hermione bit her lip, staring at her own slightly turbid potion, a fierce determination burning in her eyes.
Ron muttered something under his breath, only to be nudged by Harry’s elbow.
Draco stepped up to the desk and placed the potion vial gently before Snape.
His movements were elegant and restrained, but his “praise me” expression was so loud that even a blind man could have read it.
Snape’s gaze lingered on the vial for a second before he looked up, his eyes sweeping over Draco’s face, then Alvin’s.
There was no discernible emotion in those dark eyes as he simply observed them.