The dungeon classroom smelled faintly of vinegar, smoke, and something that might have once been cabbage.
Hadrian wrinkled his nose as he followed the rest of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws into the dim room. Stone walls, flickering torchlight, and rows of cauldrons gave the entire place a medieval air — equal parts mysterious and mildly threatening.
At the front of the room stood Professor Horace Slughorn, large and genial with a walrus mustache and a twinkle in his eye.
"Welcome, welcome! First years, eh? Always a delight," he said, patting his own belly as if it were part of the welcome package. "Now, Potions may not dazzle like Charms or roar like Transfiguration, but it is an art, a science — and for some of you, possibly a calling."
Hadrian leaned over to Iris, whispering, "Or possibly a controlled explosion waiting to happen."
They both glanced across the table, where Dora was watching Nevilla Longbottom — renamed by Dora herself after Neville had mistaken an animated suit of armor for a ghost and fainted backward into a tapestry — try to uncork a bottle of flobberworm mucus without gagging.
"Right then!" Slughorn clapped his hands. "We'll begin with a simple potion — the Cure for Boils. Open your books to page ten, and remember: no explosions, no cries for help, and no accidentally dissolving your classmates. That means you, Weasley."
A few snickers rippled through the Ravenclaw side. Hadrian squinted at the cauldron, already feeling his brow furrow as he read the instructions.
'A dash of crushed snake fangs'?
'A pinch' of dried nettles?
'Allow to simmer until the potion turns greenish-blue'?
"What kind of scientific process is this?" Hadrian muttered.
Dora, stirring carefully with one hand while yanking a hair out of Nevilla's potion with the other, raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"This is worse than baking. It's chemistry without any standardized measurements. 'Pinch,' 'dash,' 'simmer' — that's not helpful! Where are the calibrated scales? The volumetric flasks?"
"Hadrian," Iris said, her eyes never leaving the potion she was brewing, "breathe."
He sighed, rubbing his temples. Across the table, Iris's cauldron emitted a gentle swirl of pink smoke, exactly the right color for a mid-brew.
"...You're doing it perfectly," he noted.
She shrugged, cheeks flushed with concentration. "It just… makes sense. The smells, the sounds. It's like it's talking to me."
Hadrian blinked. "Is it weird that I actually believe you?"
"Yes," she said, smiling faintly, "but I like that you do."
Meanwhile, chaos loomed nearby.
Nevilla's potion had turned an ominous shade of brown and was emitting bubbles far too large for comfort. Dora was doing her best — using one hand to stir her own and the other to slap Nevilla's hand away from the powdered horn of bicorn.
"Not yet, Nevilla! Do you want to dye your eyebrows green again?"
"I thought that was dragon scale!"
"It wasn't!"
Hadrian chuckled despite himself.
Professor Slughorn waddled past and paused at Iris's station. "My word, Miss Potter — look at that consistency! You've a gift, my dear. Your mother was quite good with potions, too."
Iris beamed, straightening under the praise, not bothered he used her real name.
Slughorn moved to Hadrian's work, frowning at the precise rows of ingredients and his scrawled measuring notes.
"Ah, Mr. Doyle—"
"Potter, sir," Hadrian said politely. "Adopted name." It's easier if their true names slowly seep into people's awareness.
"Oh! My apologies, my boy. Very neat… methodical. Though, perhaps don't treat it quite so much like a chemistry exam. Potions requires a little instinct as well as precision."
"I prefer to not blow myself up accidentally."
"A noble ambition," Slughorn said with a hearty chuckle.
Ten minutes later, when Nevilla's cauldron did explode in a puff of purple foam, Hadrian calmly conjured a floating shield of parchment to protect his notes.
"See?" he said, deadpan. "Instinct."