While the idea of extracting flesh and blood from an enemy during a duel seemed a bit far-fetched for now, Alan quickly pivoted to a more practical application. Even if he couldn't cast the spell directly onto a human body in the heat of combat, the charm was far from useless.
If he cast it on the ground where an opponent stood, extracting the soil from beneath their feet, he could destroy their balance and create an instantaneous pit or trap. Alan stared at Vanessa's paper, lost in thought. He was a scholar at heart, but his research almost always veered toward the tactical. His years of military service and his identity as a warrior meant that whenever he encountered a new tool, his first instinct was to ask: *How can this be a weapon? What is its strategic significance?*
Professor Flitwick watched him with a look of quiet pride. Diligent students always earned a professor's favor, and Alan's intensity was unmatched.
The club gathering eventually came to an end, and the students filed out. Alan followed Vanessa back toward the dungeons. While older students were permitted to stay out until nine, first-years like Alan had an eight o'clock curfew. Vanessa walked him all the way back, her presence ensuring he didn't run afoul of Filch or his cat.
The meeting had been a goldmine. Back in his dormitory, Alan immediately returned to studying the Extraction Charm. It was typically a fourth-year spell, and the satisfaction of mastering its advanced nuances ahead of schedule was immense.
---
The following day, the air in the dungeons was thick with steam and the sharp scent of herbs.
"Perfect! Absolutely outstanding! I didn't expect anyone to produce a viable Calming Draft on their first attempt, let alone one of this quality."
Professor Horace Slughorn was beaming, praising the potion brewed by Alan and Vivian without reservation. His booming voice carried across the room, where other students were staring hopelessly at cauldrons emitting acrid black smoke or bubbling with scorched sludge.
Vivian stood by the table, offering a sheepish smile. She knew the praise was mostly directed at Alan; her role had been reduced to that of a specialized assistant. She had spent the lesson handing him ingredients on command, though she had nearly ruined the batch once by reaching for the wrong vial. If Alan hadn't double-checked every leaf and powder she handed him, the cauldron would have likely melted.
Alan accepted the praise with a polite nod, his expression calm. To him, brewing was a matter of standardized procedure. The recipe provided the parameters; his job was simply to execute them with total fidelity.
He found that brewing was remarkably similar to high-end cooking. The key lay in the preparation: the precise cut of a root, the exact fineness of a grind, the duration of a soak. Alan's hands were as steady as a surgeon's. He worked like a machine, adding ingredients at the exact second required and maintaining a perfectly consistent heat.
*It's just like making a complex soup,* Alan thought. *The real variable isn't the stirring; it's the quality of the raw materials. Two raisins aren't the same—one might be bone-dry while another is plump with moisture. That's what actually dictates the final grade.*
While Potions didn't spark the same raw excitement in him as Charms did, the meditative focus required for brewing was deeply satisfying. He decided he liked the subject enough to expand his library. *There must be plenty of discarded Potions texts in the upper-year storage lockers,* he mused. *I'll have to make a sweep of those classrooms soon.*
Across the room, the atmosphere was much darker.
"Damn it. It's just a stupid potion. What's he got to be so smug about?" Sampel Travers hissed, aggressively stirring a foul, black sludge that looked more like tar than medicine. He glared at Alan before turning to Randall Rozier.
"Forget him for now, Travers," Rozier muttered, staring despondently at their ruined cauldron. "He won't be acting superior for long, but we can't move against him while Vanessa is hovering over him like a bodyguard."
"Hmph. Vanessa has forgotten what it means to be a Slytherin," Travers spat. "Alan better stay out of our way, or I'll make sure he regrets it."
Travers shifted his gaze away from Alan and looked toward the Gryffindor side of the room. There, Charles McKinnon was frantically trying to mop up a spilled potion with his partner.
"My father always said the McKinnons were a nuisance," Travers whispered sinisterly. "I heard Charles's aunt even joined Dumbledore's little club, the Order of the Phoenix. Fancying themselves protectors of Muggles... they didn't learn their lesson when their relative was crippled. Their luck is going to run out."
Rozier's eyes widened, and he looked around nervously. "Are you crazy? Don't say that here."
"Why not? Dumbledore is an old man. He can't stop what's coming. Once the Dark Lord breaks the Ministry, the future belongs to families like ours. We should find a way to deal with that McKinnon brat ourselves."
Rozier leaned in, his voice a tense whisper. "What are you planning? I heard Yaxley was organizing something..."
"Quiet!" Travers snapped, glaring at him. "Not here. We'll discuss the details back in the common room."
"You're the one who brought it up," Rozier muttered under his breath, looking away.