Friday morning brought an invisible pressure through the halls of Hogwarts Castle, seeping along the cold stone walls into every corner.
Today was the first Potions class for the first-year Gryffindor and Slytherin students.
In the damp, chilly underground classroom, the air carried a mixture of bitter herbs and a faint sour, rancid scent. Rows of black cauldrons reflected the dim light of torches, while animal specimens in glass jars twisted slowly in their liquids.
Severus Snape's black robes dragged silently across the stone floor. He moved like a living shadow, gliding soundlessly between cauldrons, his eyes glinting with malice in the dim light.
Every word of his opening statement dripped venom, belittling Gryffindor as a group of wand-waving fools while elevating Potions to a mysterious, unattainable art.
When he read Harry Potter's name from the roster, his voice faltered slightly, eyes lingering for a moment on the scarred black-haired boy before moving on. That was just a decoy.
His cold, black eyes soon locked on the real target:
Alan Scott.
Snape's greasy voice echoed through the dungeon, dropping the temperature by a few degrees. The surname came out deliberately, dragged out with contempt.
"I recall you once claimed, in some setting, that potions are a 'science.'"
His voice was soft, but it pierced every ear clearly.
"Now, to test just how precise your so-called 'science' really is, I have a simple question that I 'invite' you to answer."
Snape didn't ask any basic textbook question—that would have been too dull. Instead, he drew from his arsenal the most fiendish, oldest, and most intricate of blades: a classical, nearly unsolvable question that went straight to the core of potion-making principles.
Leaning forward, hands resting on the table before Alan, his shadow enveloped the space.
"Explain to me," Snape's lips curved into a cruel smile, "why, when brewing a standard Calming Draught, we must—and can only—use a silver cauldron?"
He paused, letting the question linger in the dead silence.
"And why must we stir counterclockwise three times before stirring clockwise seven times?"
His voice dropped lower, radiating the pleasure of anticipated victory.
"Tell me, Alan does your so-called 'science' overturn the traditions honed over centuries by masters of potioncraft?"
The question landed.
The dungeon went utterly silent. All were prisoners to the tense atmosphere, eyes fixed on the figure scrutinized by the black-robed wizard.
This was Snape's carefully prepared trap for Alan.
Yet, Alan's face betrayed none of the expected panic. He calmly stood, the chair sliding back with a subtle, steady sound. It was as if he had long anticipated this confrontation would begin this way.
His response was calm and precise, each word loaded with irrefutable logic.
"Certainly, Professor.
"First, regarding the cauldron material. We must use a silver cauldron because one of the key ingredients in the Calming Draught is powdered moonstone."
Alan's voice echoed steadily through the silent dungeon.
"Silver, in Muggle chemistry, is an extremely stable inert metal. Using a silver cauldron minimizes any unnecessary, uncontrollable magical catalytic reactions between the cauldron and the moonstone powder at high temperatures, ensuring the potion's final purity."
He paused, giving everyone a moment to digest the point, his gaze calmly sweeping across the room.
For the first time, Snape's expression faltered. The cruel smile stiffened at the corners of his mouth.
Alan continued with the second part of his explanation:
"Second, regarding the stirring sequence and number of times. This isn't some 'artistic tradition.' Behind it lies the basic principles of fluid dynamics and microscopic structure of matter."
These words, like unfamiliar bullets, pierced the minds of every student present.
"The other two core ingredients in the Calming Draught are valerian root and angelica juice. We stir counterclockwise three times first because the magical active fibers in the valerian root are spiraled. Counterclockwise stirring, aided by centrifugal force, most efficiently and thoroughly tears apart these fibers, releasing their active components into the potion in the shortest time possible.
"Once these fibers are fully released, we then stir clockwise seven times so that the later-added angelica juice, with a looser molecular structure, can optimally and stably integrate with the broken fibers.
"The number of stirs is precisely calculated. Too many, and the stable structure is destroyed; too few, and the mixture is incomplete. Any deviation can reduce efficacy or produce unpredictable toxicity."
Alan's explanation flowed like mercury, flawless and continuous.
He didn't quote any ancient potion adages. Instead, the entire explanation was filled with terms like "inert metals," "catalytic reactions," "centrifugal force," "fluid dynamics," and "molecular structure"—words Snape had never heard but could not deny, dissecting his beloved "art" with surgical precision.
The dungeon was deathly silent.
It was a suffocating silence, one that shattered preconceived notions.
All the students, including Draco Malfoy at the neighboring table, stared at Alan as if he were some kind of monster. Malfoy's usual sneering face was now utterly blank.
Snape's greasy, pale face twisted unnaturally.
It wasn't anger.
It was a pure, physiological response to being intellectually crushed.
The tower he had built on "tradition" and "mystery" was being dismantled brick by brick by a first-year using what he despised: Muggle science.
His face turned a grotesque shade of liver-colored red.
The dungeon air was cold and damp, droplets seeping from the stone walls, casting icy reflections on the cauldrons.
Snape's anger, far from extinguished by the previous logical rebuttal, now fermented in the silence, becoming increasingly dangerous. His black robes swirled as he paced silently, shadows twisting along the walls, lowering the room's temperature to freezing. His black eyes were locked on Alan, the malice almost tangible, thick enough to choke.
He no longer chose verbal confrontation.
It was inefficient.
He would let Potions—the ancient and precise art—smash the boy's "science" into pieces.
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