One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
Draco even held his breath.
Snape finally reached out, picked up the vial, and slowly rotated it against the candlelight.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he scrutinized the potion’s color, clarity, and the way the light played across its surface.
His intense focus made it seem as if he were appreciating a priceless work of art.
After a moment, he placed the vial back on the table, his lips twitching slightly.
“Barely acceptable,” he said.
Draco’s expression froze for a moment—*barely acceptable*?
This was a perfect violet!
A perfect luster!
A perfect—
“For a first-year,” Snape continued, his tone remaining perfectly flat, “brewing to this standard is not entirely an embarrassment to Slytherin.”
The corners of Draco’s mouth began to twitch upward.
“Even color, acceptable clarity, and a stable magical reaction.” Snape’s gaze shifted to Alvin, pausing for a second.
“The ingredients were processed properly, the heat was controlled precisely, and the timing of adding the porcupine quills at the very end was flawless.”
He paused, seemingly calculating something.
“Ten points to Slytherin.”
He said, then turned back to the rest of the classroom, his voice resuming its customary chilling tone.
“I expect the rest of you to look at the cooperation between Mr.
Malfoy and Mr.
Selwyn.
This is what potion-making is supposed to look like.”
Draco’s chin was now raised so high it was almost parallel to the floor.
His eyes gleamed with the light of victory, and the smug grin on his face practically overflowed.
Alvin stood beside him, expressionless as he watched his roommate’s “ultimate peacock mode,” though he couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly.
This little platinum prince was really quite easy to read sometimes.
Draco was just about to say something to bask a little longer in the glory of their victory, when suddenly—
*Hiss—Bang!!!*
Another explosion rang out, louder and even more deafening than the last.
The dungeon was instantly filled with acidic green smoke.
The pungent fumes burned their eyes, making it impossible to keep them open.
A sharp, loud hissing sound echoed from the heart of the smoke, like something undergoing severe corrosion.
Within seconds, the entire class was standing on their stools.
A few slower students had holes burned through their shoes by the spreading potion, crying out in pain.
Alvin squinted, looking through the thick smoke toward the Gryffindor area.
Neville and Seamus’s replacement cauldron was now a completely mangled, shapeless lump of metal, slumped on the stone table like a piece of paper crushed by a giant hand.
The potion inside had splashed everywhere. Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping.com.
Green bubbles hissed on the stone floor, and everything it touched sizzled.
And Neville himself…
Alvin’s brow furrowed.
Neville was drenched in the disastrous potion.
Red, swollen boils were rapidly spreading across his arms, legs, and even his face.
They were as large as silver coins and as red as fire, some already weeping transparent fluid.
Neville was jumping around in pain, whimpering and screaming like a scalded rabbit.
Seamus wasn’t much better off, though at least he wasn’t soaked in the potion.
He was trying to wipe the soot off his face with his sleeve, only to smudge it further.
Snape’s figure appeared before Neville like a streak of black lightning.
He drew his wand and waved it rapidly.
The potion spreading across the floor vanished instantly, and the green smoke was swept away by an invisible force.
But when he finished and turned to look at Neville, the expression on his face caused the room’s temperature to plummet another five degrees.
It wasn’t anger.
It was something far worse: pure, cold, unadulterated disgust.
“Mr.
Longbottom,” he said the name again, his voice even softer than before, yet far more bone-chilling.
Neville was too in pain to speak, merely looking at him with piteous eyes, tears welling up in them.
Snape stared at him for two seconds before turning to Alvin and Draco.
“Mr.
Malfoy, Mr.
Selwyn.” His voice returned to its cold, commanding tone.
“Your potion is complete.
Now, take this…
boy, to the hospital wing.”
He pointed at Neville, the gesture as though he were indicating a piece of rubbish that needed clearing.
“At once.”
Draco opened his mouth as if to protest, but the moment he met Snape’s gaze, he swallowed his words.
He quickly picked up their potion vial and nodded to Alvin.
Alvin walked over to Neville.
Neville was shaking violently from the pain and could barely stand, but seeing Alvin approach, he tried to offer a grateful look, though it was barely visible on his soot-blackened face.
“Come on,” Alvin said softly, reaching out to support Neville’s arm.
Neville let out a painful gasp.
His arms were covered in boils, and any contact burned like fire.
Alvin paused, then adjusted his posture to support Neville under the armpits from behind, trying his best not to touch the boils.
Draco hesitated for a second before reluctantly stepping forward to support Neville from the other side.
The two of them hauled Neville up, guiding him through the mess toward the classroom door.
Behind them, Snape’s voice rang out again, cold as a wind blowing out of an ice cellar:
“The rest of you, continue.
If anyone else causes such a foolish accident, I will not mind sending them to keep him company in the hospital wing for a week.”
The corridor was quiet, with only Neville’s occasional whimpers of pain and the echoes of their footsteps against the stone walls.
Draco frowned, trying his best to keep his distance from Neville—a difficult task given that he was supporting Neville’s other side.
Some residue from the potion had already rubbed onto his robes, emitting a faint wisp of green smoke.
“By Merlin,” he muttered under his breath, “why am I doing this?
I just brewed a perfect potion, and now I have to…”
He caught Alvin’s gaze and quickly had the sense to swallow the rest of his complaint.
Alvin gave Draco a nod, withdrew his gaze, and focused on guiding Neville.
His pace was neither fast nor slow, every step steady.
Neville shook like a leaf in the wind beside him, but the hand supporting him remained rock-solid.
Draco stared at him for a few seconds, then let out a soft huff and stopped complaining.
They traversed corridor after corridor, climbing the stairs toward the second floor as they slowly made their way to the hospital wing.
Neville’s whimpering gradually subsided into occasional sobs.
His tears were still flowing, washing two increasingly faint tracks through the soot on his face.
“I’m…
I’m sorry…” he suddenly spoke up, his voice so raspy it was barely audible, “I…
I ruined it…”
Draco rolled his eyes and was about to speak, but Alvin beat him to it.
“Potion-making takes practice.” Alvin’s voice was calm, offering neither comfort nor blame, merely stating a fact.
“Professor Snape has high standards, but they are the same for everyone.
Just pay attention to your stirring direction next time, and this won’t happen.”
Neville sniffled and said nothing.
Draco looked at Alvin, a complex mix of emotions flashing through his grey-blue eyes: surprise, bewilderment, and a tiny, unrecognized sliver of respect.
“You certainly have a mild temper,” he muttered quietly.
Alvin didn’t reply.
The footsteps of the three continued to echo through the corridor, step by step, heading toward the hospital wing.
Far behind them, back in the Potions dungeon, Snape’s voice carried on, his icy reprimands cracking like whips over the unfortunate students.
But none of that had anything to do with them anymore.
Alvin’s gaze drifted out the window.
The afternoon sun filtered through the high windows, casting warm pools of light on the floor.
He thought of his father, far away at Mount Qingcheng.
If his father knew that at a Western school of magic, he was helping a boil-covered schoolmate to the hospital wing, he would probably nod and say:
“Help those in distress, and stay true to your heart.”
The corner of Alvin’s mouth quirked into an almost imperceptible smile.
Helping those in distress might be a bit of an exaggeration.
But at least it was better than leaving a poor wretch to weep in pain alone in the corridor.
And— he glanced at Draco, who was still scowling beside him and trying his best not to touch Neville, and thought:
At least this proud roommate of his hadn’t actually walked away.