In the Gryffindor common room, the firelight flickered, illuminating the excited, youthful faces gathered around.
Because of the unexpected success in solving Professor Flitwick's magical riddle and winning twenty precious points for their house, the name Alan Scott—along with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan—spread quickly among the first-years.
They had, in a sense, become heroes.
Naturally, word of this reached Percy Weasley, the prefect.
He found the four of them, standing tall with his chest puffed out, the silver prefect badge on his robes gleaming in the firelight.
"Well done, Scott, Weasley brothers, Jordan."
His opening sounded stiff, as if he were reading straight from a handbook of conduct.
"Winning honor for Gryffindor is every student's duty. You have set… a positive example for the new first-years."
Once his formulaic praise ended, Percy's face hardened instantly, his gaze behind his glasses sharpening.
"But!"
He stressed the word like a judge delivering a verdict.
"I must issue a stern warning regarding two matters. First, night wandering—a grave violation of Rule 39 of the school regulations. Second, triggering an unknown and dangerous mechanism—an act of extreme irresponsibility toward your own safety!"
His lecture rolled on endlessly, from the history of the school rules to the sacred duties of a prefect, lasting a full ten minutes.
Fred and George were long immune.
Behind Percy's back, the twins silently mouthed his words in mocking imitation, pulling faces only they understood.
Left ear in, right ear out.
Finally, the sermon ended.
On their way back to the common room, they had to pass through the corridor near the dungeons where Potions classes were held.
The deeper they went, the dimmer the light became. The chill of the stone walls seemed to seep through their robes and into their bones. The air grew cold and damp, laced with a bitter, earthy stench of rotting roots and herbs that clung to their throats.
Their footsteps echoed loudly in the emptiness.
Then, just as they hurried past a patch of shadow, a voice slithered out from the darkness without warning.
It was cold, greasy, every syllable hissing like a serpent's tongue.
"Well, well… Gryffindor's new heroes, celebrating your great triumphs, are you?"
The four froze in their tracks.
A black figure detached itself from the shadows, as though the darkness itself had taken shape.
Professor Severus Snape appeared soundlessly before them. Not a single footstep betrayed him—he might as well have been a ghost.
His pitch-black, emotionless eyes swept past the others and locked firmly onto Alan, who stood at the front.
That gaze carried no warmth, only pure examination, as cold and invasive as a dissection.
"Mr. Scott."
Snape's voice dripped with deliberate, drawn-out mockery.
"I hear we have ourselves a new know-it-all. A Muggle-born prodigy, hmm?"
The word prodigy, spoken by him, twisted into an insult.
The easy confidence vanished from Fred and George's faces, replaced by tense rigidity. They exchanged a wary glance—Hogwarts' most notorious fault-finder had arrived, and he always had it in for Gryffindors.
Snape stepped closer, his black robes gliding silently across the floor.
"But I must remind you…"
His lips curled into a contemptuous smirk, sharp as a blade.
"No matter how clever a Muggle's mind may be, no matter how skilled at cheap little tricks, the true essence of magic—such as the intricate art of Potions—is something you will never grasp."
His voice was low, yet laced with piercing venom, every word a poisoned needle aimed directly at Alan's heritage.
"That requires talent. Bloodline. Instinct flowing in the veins."
This was no mere harassment.
It was naked disdain for Muggle-born wizards, and a glorification of Potions as a mystical art, erecting a barrier of blood and birthright that excluded people like Alan entirely.
The very air in the corridor seemed to thicken under the weight of those words.
Fred and George found their breathing halted.
Lee Jordan instinctively took half a step back.
But at the center of the assault, Alan showed no reaction at all.
No anger. No fear. Not the faintest ripple of emotion.
Within his mind palace, every physiological metric remained steady, not a single red alert triggered.
He simply met Snape's jet-black eyes with calm.
Then, he spoke.
His voice carried no emotion—objective, clear, and composed, as though he were discussing an academic definition.
"With all due respect, Professor."
"According to my preview reading of Magical Drafts and Potions, first edition, page 12, paragraph three: 'The essence of potion-making lies in precise heating, stirring, and proportional blending of materials, in order to awaken and fuse the latent magical energies of various ingredients, thereby producing a stable chemical reaction.'"
He spoke at neither a hurried nor sluggish pace, his enunciation so clear that even the far end of the corridor could hear him.
Snape's eyebrows lifted slightly, as if he hadn't expected such a response.
Alan paused, giving everyone time to digest the words. Then, he delivered his conclusion, each syllable dropping like a precise weight onto the opposite side of the scale.
"From its very definition, this more closely resembles a quantifiable, repeatable, exact chemical science—rather than the so-called elusive 'art' that you claim depends on bloodline and intuition."
The corridor plunged into dead silence.
Drip.
A drop of water fell from the damp ceiling and hit the floor with a sound that rang far too loudly.
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were petrified.
Their mouths hung open, their eyes bulging like bronze bells as they stared in disbelief at Alan's profile.
This was no longer backtalk.
It was no longer a student questioning a professor.
It was the purest, most thorough "offense"—delivered through logic and academic definition.
It had not attacked Snape himself, but it had directly, brutally denied the entire theoretical framework Snape prided himself on and wielded as a weapon. It dragged the lofty, mysterious "art" he spoke of down to the level of a Muggle science that anyone could learn.
Snape's complexion shifted visibly.
The pale skin first flushed red, then turned ashen, before finally settling into a blacker shade than a cauldron's bottom.
In his jet-black eyes, for the first time, burst forth a raw, unmasked fury. No longer was it the condescending mockery from before—this was rage born of seeing his theoretical foundation shaken, his authority fundamentally challenged.
He realized that no venomous insult, no bloodline-based humiliation, could stand against such pure, frigid rationality.
The opponent wasn't even fighting on the same channel.
The opponent had simply dismantled the very stage beneath his feet.
"…Very well."
The words ground through Snape's clenched teeth, hoarse, like ice grinding against ice.
"…Very well."
Cold fury thickened into tangible pressure, as though the air in the corridor itself might freeze solid. Fred could even feel his teeth chattering.
"Then, in the very first Potions class, I will be most… most eager to personally test—just how precise your so-called 'science' really is."
He bit down heavily on the final word.
With that, he snapped his black robes, stirring a gust of icy wind.
He turned, like a massive bat roused to anger, disappearing into the darkness at the end of the corridor without another word.
The suffocating atmosphere slowly dissolved with his departure.
And at that very moment, within Alan's mind palace, a new line of text surfaced, gleaming with a dangerous aura.
[Long-Term Quest Activated: Victory of Logic.]
[Quest Requirement: Surpass Severus Snape completely—in both the theory and practice of Potions.]
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