"Oh," Vivian whispered. Accustomed to following his lead, she added the ingredients to the cauldron. The slightly boiling liquid calmed instantly, its color shifting from a muddy dark blue to a clear, pale green.
"Hmph!" Professor Snape, seeing Alan's resolve, said no more. He turned on his heel toward a neighboring workstation. "You two fools, don't stir endlessly. Do you intend to turn yourselves into prize-winning pigs?"
Vivian patted her chest and stuck out her tongue. She had nearly been bluffed by Snape's intervention, convinced for a moment that they had ruined the batch.
Once Alan entered his work mode, he became an emotionless machine, oblivious to the distractions around him. He was the first to finish the Swelling Solution, though his efforts earned him nothing more than a clipped "Acceptable" from Snape.
Finally, the agonizing Potions class ended. The students bolted from the room as if escaping a fire, Slytherins included. Alan, however, remained in his seat. He felt it was better to clear the air now; being constantly targeted by a man who lived in the dungeons would be unbearable.
Snape watched the boy linger and sneered. "What is it, Mr. Wilson? Do you intend to launch another assault, or are you simply lost?"
Alan ignored the sarcasm, composed himself, and spoke calmly. "I stayed to apologize again for yesterday, Professor. My emotions were high, and I didn't know your identity. I had no intention of being disrespectful to a member of the faculty."
"Hmph. Spare me the high-minded platitudes. I remember you well enough; you were the one who saved Black's life, were you not? As his friend, your reaction is hardly surprising. Those contaminated by such a fool are rarely burdened with intelligence," Snape mocked.
Alan's eyes narrowed. Was the man incapable of a conversation without vitriol? He didn't understand why the topic had veered toward Sirius, but the mention of his former friend sparked a surge of irritation in his chest.
"I was also good friends with Lily. Perhaps I was 'infected' by her as well," Alan retorted, his tone losing its edge of apology. "Are you going to blame her for my lack of sense? I wasn't aware you even knew her."
The reaction was instantaneous. Snape lunged forward, looming over Alan. "Mr. Wilson," he said, each word a cold shard of glass, "choose your words very carefully when speaking to a professor."
Alan found the sudden agitation baffling, but he maintained a neutral expression. "I don't understand why you harbor such hostility toward me, Professor. If it is because of my mistake yesterday, I have apologized. If it is for some other reason, I can only express my regret."
"Arrogant boy," Snape muttered, though his posture relaxed slightly. "But I see you are not entirely beyond saving. A word of warning: I patrolled the Slytherin common room last night and noticed your absence. Perhaps you have never considered yourself a true member of this house."
So that was it. Another mark against his character. Alan sighed. "I don't live in the dormitory for my own safety. You are well aware that I am a Muggle-born."
"Do not hide behind excuses. The Dark Lord has fallen, and your skills are... adequate," Snape teased with a cruel glint in his eye. "As Head of Slytherin, I am ordering you to move back to the dormitory. I will be patrolling again tonight. Do not disappoint me."
"I understand," Alan replied, frowning.
As he left the classroom, Alan pondered how to handle his ill-tempered Head of House. Regarding the move, he was largely indifferent. He had accumulated enough magic and tactical experience that he no longer feared the more aggressive pure-bloods.
He decided to comply immediately. Upon arriving at the Slytherin common room, he found it had changed since his last visit. A hand-carved Mahjong table sat openly in the center of the lounge. Several girls were playing enthusiastically while a crowd of onlookers watched the tiles click.
It seemed the game had truly taken root.
Many of the younger students stared at him as if he were a ghost. He was wearing the green and silver robes, but his face was unfamiliar to most, leading to a wave of hushed whispers about the "stranger."
Sampel Travers and his circle of pure-blood cronies didn't need to ask who he was. Their expressions soured instantly. Since the ambush in the clock tower, even a fool could deduce who had stripped them of their dignity. Travers was particularly incensed; having his wallet stolen two years in a row was a humiliation he couldn't scrub away.
They didn't dare start a fight in the common room, but Travers couldn't resist a verbal jab. "Well, if it isn't the Slytherin specter. Decided to haunt the dungeons again? Perhaps the Sorting Hat was senile that day; it should never have put a disgusting creature like you in our house."
"I actually agree with you on one point," Alan sneered, not stopping. "Slytherins are supposed to be shrewd and honorable. Yet there are always fools like you who insist on dragging our reputation through the mud. You have the nerve to talk about house pride while you stand there spewing filth?"
"You—!" Travers's face turned a violent shade of red. He lunged forward but was caught by Rozier and the others. "Let me go! I'll show this Mudblood what happens when he underestimates his betters!"
The commotion drew everyone's attention. Even the Mahjong players paused to watch the confrontation. Before it could escalate, a fourth-year student with short, light brown hair stepped in, pulling Travers back with a firm hand.
Alan recognized him: Quake Wilkes. He remembered a Wilkes had died during the skirmish at the Potter home—likely this boy's uncle. Quake was a known pure-blood supremacist, but instead of attacking, he offered Alan a thin, practiced smile.
"That's enough, Travers. Stop making a spectacle of yourself," Wilkes said. He turned to Alan, his expression smooth and seemingly friendly. "We are all Slytherins here. There's no need for such hostility, is there, Alan?"