Rubeus Hagrid, the newly appointed Professor of Care of Magical Creatures, was practically vibrating with a mix of terror and triumph. He was wearing his best—or perhaps just his largest—moleskin coat, which smelled faintly of damp earth and woodsmoke.
In one hand, he was absent-mindedly swinging a dead ferret by its tail, the poor creature's limp body rhythmically thumping against his thigh.
"How's it going?" Hagrid stopped near the Gryffindor table, his voice booming with a nervous energy that made the nearby silverware rattle. "You lot coming to my first lesson? Right after lunch! I've been up since five getting the... well, the guests ready. I hope it's alright. A teacher... me. Can you believe it?"
He flashed a grin that was mostly beard, directed at Harry and Ron, before giving Allen a respectful, slightly frantic nod. He then lumbered toward the High Table, still swinging the ferret as if it were a bunch of keys.
"I have a very bad feeling about those 'guests,'" Ron muttered, his eyes tracking the swinging ferret with a look of pure apprehension.
"Allen gave him some pointers over the summer," Harry said, trying to sound more confident than he felt while choking down the last of his toast. "He wouldn't let Hagrid bring anything too... lethal into a first-year-level class. Hopefully."
The Great Hall began to empty as the bell rang, a sea of colored robes flowing toward the various exits. Allen stood up, adjusting his bag, only to find Penelope and Luna still flanking him.
"What's your first block, Allen?" Penelope asked, checking her own cramped schedule. Luna was simply staring at him, her wide eyes reflecting the flickering candles above.
"Potions," Allen replied simply.
The two girls shared a look. Penelope winced slightly. "Oh. Deep in the snake pit right off the bat, then. My first is Transfiguration with McGonagall—she's strict, but at least she's fair." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Just a heads-up, Snape looks like he's ready to skin someone alive this morning. Look at him."
Allen followed her gaze to the staff table. Severus Snape was indeed in a foul state. He was glaring at the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Remus Lupin, with a look of such concentrated loathing that it was a wonder Lupin's robes weren't catching fire. It was the look of a man who had just been forced to swallow a bucket of slugs.
Snape's internal radar must have tripped, because his eyes snapped away from Lupin and locked onto Allen's. The contact was instantaneous—dark, fathomless eyes meeting Allen's calm, clear ones.
Instead of looking away or showing the typical student flinch, Allen offered a small, perfectly composed nod of greeting. It was the kind of polite, professional acknowledgement one colleague might give another.
To the shock of the few students watching, Snape didn't sneer. His lip didn't even curl. He gave a microscopic nod back—a silent truce of sorts—and returned to his breakfast.
"He won't touch you," Luna said in her signature airy tone, her voice cutting through the silence. "The Wrackspurts around him are too thick anyway; he can't see clearly through the fog of his own grumpiness."
"I don't plan on giving him a reason to," Allen said with a faint smile.
"True," Penelope winked, gathering her things. "In this school, whoever tries to make your life difficult usually ends up tripping over their own feet. Good luck in the dungeons."
The Potions classroom was exactly as Allen remembered it: a subterranean cold that seeped into your marrow and an atmosphere that felt like a tomb. Jars of pickled horrors lined the walls—floating eyeballs, translucent organs, and things with far too many legs. In the corner, a stone gargoyle face spat a steady stream of icy water into a basin, the only sound in the room until the door slammed open.
Professor Snape swept in, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings of a giant bat. He didn't say a word until he reached the front, his presence alone forcing the class into a state of 'cicada-like' silence—frozen and breathless.
"Today," Snape began, his voice a low, dangerous silk, "we shall attempt the Shrinking Solution. A potion that requires precision, patience, and the ability to follow instructions without... creative detours. Who can tell me the components? And more importantly, what is the intended result of a successful brew?"
His eyes roamed the room, lingering on the Hufflepuffs who looked like they wanted to vanish into the floorboards. Only one hand rose, steady and certain.
"Mr. Harris," Snape said, his voice devoid of its usual mocking edge.
Allen stood up smoothly. "To achieve a Shrinking Solution, one must utilize finely chopped daisy roots, peeled Shrivelfigs, sliced caterpillars, a single drop of rat spleen, and a dash of leech juice. When brewed correctly, the potion causes living organisms or objects to drastically reduce in physical size."
The silence in the room deepened. The Ravenclaws looked at Allen with pride, while the Hufflepuffs looked at him like he was a sacrificial lamb.
Snape stared at Allen for a long beat, his expression unreadable. "A perfect recitation. Five points to Ravenclaw for... preparation."
A collective gasp nearly echoed through the dungeon. Snape? Giving points? To a house that wasn't Slytherin? Some students exchanged glances, half-convinced that Allen had used a Confundus Charm on the man before class.
"Well?" Snape snapped, his temper flaring back to life as he looked at the rest of the gawking class. "Are your quills broken? Record the ingredients!"
The sound of scratching quills filled the room. For the next hour, the dungeon became a workshop of misery for most. The daisy roots had to be exactly the same size, or the acidity would ruin the base. The Shrivelfigs were stubborn, their purple skins clinging to the fruit like leather.
Allen worked with a surgical rhythm. His knife moved in a blur of silver, producing daisy root cubes so uniform they looked machine-cut. Beside him, the other Ravenclaws were sweating, trying to mimic his efficiency but falling short.
Across the aisle, the Hufflepuffs were struggling. The caterpillars were the main issue—they were fat, green, and covered in a thin layer of slime that made them nearly impossible to slice cleanly. Every time a student tried to cut one, it would squish, venting a neon-green goo that smelled like rotting grass.
Hannah Abbott looked like she was on the verge of a breakdown, her hands coated in the sticky residue. Ernie Macmillan, seeing his partner's distress and noticing Snape was currently hovering over a Ravenclaw's cauldron, decided to get 'clever.'
He drew his wand and whispered a quick freezing charm. The caterpillars on their board instantly frosted over, turning into rigid, green popsicles.
"There," Ernie whispered triumphantly, "now they'll slice like carrots."
Hannah beamed at him, and they began to work with renewed speed, the frozen slices falling neatly into their pile. Ernie even allowed himself a small, self-satisfied wink.
"Incompetent," a voice hissed from directly behind them.
Ernie jumped so violently he nearly upended his cauldron. Snape was standing there, his face shadowed by the dim light, looking like a vengeful specter.
The entire class stopped. You could have heard a pin drop on the damp stone floor.
Snape reached down and picked up one of the frozen caterpillar discs with two fingers, holding it up as if it were a piece of contaminated evidence.
"Tell me, Macmillan," Snape said, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a razor blade. "Do you fancy yourself a pioneer? Do you believe that in centuries of potioneering, no master has ever considered the temperature of their ingredients?"
"I—I just thought—" Ernie stammered, his face turning the color of a ripe tomato.
"You thought," Snape interrupted, "that you could bypass the 'disgusting' parts of magic by altering the fundamental properties of the reagent. By freezing the caterpillar, you have locked the essential juices within the fiber, ensuring they will not react with the Shrivelfig acid. You haven't made a potion; you've made a poisonous soup."
He leaned in closer to Ernie, his eyes flashing. "If you are too delicate to handle the reality of ingredients, Macmillan, the Hogwarts Express leaves daily. I will not have my time wasted by those who prefer convenience over chemistry."
"I'm sorry, Professor!" Hannah squeaked, tears welling in her eyes. "It was my fault, I—"
"If this cauldron does not contain a viable solution by the end of the hour," Snape said coldly, ignoring her, "Hufflepuff will lose twenty points. And since you have ruined your supply of caterpillars, I suggest you find a way to fix it without stealing from your neighbors."
He turned on his heel and swept away, leaving Ernie and Hannah staring in despair at their empty supply bowl and their ruined, frozen mess.
"We're finished," Ernie whispered, looking around. But the other students were all hunched over their work, terrified of catching Snape's eye if they tried to help.
"Professor," a calm voice called out from the back.
Allen Harris had his hand raised. His cauldron was emitting a gentle, rhythmic bubbling, and a steam that smelled faintly of mint and old books was rising from it.
Snape glided over to Allen's station. He looked down into the cauldron. The liquid inside wasn't the muddy brown or sickly yellow of the other students' attempts. It was a bright, translucent, shimmering green—exactly the shade of a premium-grade Shrinking Solution.
Snape took a silver ladle, dipped it into the brew, and let the liquid pour back slowly. A genuine, if faint, look of satisfaction crossed his face.