The morning of November 1st broke with a crisp, cleansing light. The heavy, gothic atmosphere of Halloween had lifted, leaving behind a sky of pale, washed-out blue.
Alister entered the Great Hall feeling a rare lightness in his step. The heavy weight of Secrets of the Darkest Art and the priceless Alchemy notes in his expanded pocket wasn't a burden; it was assurance.
Alister veered right. He walked straight to the Ravenclaw table. By now, the sight of the green-robed first-year sitting amidst the sea of blue and bronze still drew a few looks, but the shock had worn off. He was becoming a fixture, an oddity of the castle ecosystem.
He slid into the empty seat next to Cho Chang.
Cho looked up from her toast, her eyes widening in pleasant surprise. "Alister! You actually came for breakfast. I was starting to think you were photosynthesizing like a plant to save time."
Alister allowed a genuine, faint smile to touch his lips. "Photosynthesis is inefficient in a Scottish winter. Porridge is a better fuel source."
He reached for a pitcher of pumpkin juice, pouring himself a glass. The table was laden with comfort food: warm oatmeal with honey, stacks of buttered toast, and plates of sizzling sausages. The air smelled of coffee and baked bread, a warm contrast to the nip in the air outside.
"Where have you been?" Cho asked, passing him the butter dish. "I haven't seen you since... well, since you disappeared into the library three days ago. Even the Grey Lady was asking about you."
"Working," Alister said simply, spreading marmalade on his toast. "I have a project."
"The thing everyone is whispering about?" Cho's eyes sparkled. "I saw the cloud rings over the pitch. They're beautiful, Alister. They look like... like they're breathing."
"They are," Alister admitted, taking a bite of toast. The food tasted exceptionally good today. "It's an oscillating charm woven into the condensation matrix."
For the next twenty minutes, Cho told him about her struggles with a particularly nasty essay on the Goblin Rebellions for History of Magic ("Professor Binns puts me to sleep in five minutes, I swear"). Alister found himself offering a few concise tips on how to structure the timeline to make it bearable.
"We should go," Cho said eventually, checking her watch. "Snape will take points if we're even breathing too loudly near the door when the bell rings."
Alister nodded, finishing his juice. "He appreciates punctuality. It's efficient."
"It's terrifying," Cho corrected with a laugh, gathering her bag.
They left the Great Hall together, walking side-by-side.
As they turned the final corner, the heavy wooden door of the Potions classroom loomed ahead, the brass handle gleaming in the torchlight.
Alister walked into the Potions classroom, but this time, he didn't slide into the seat next to Cho. He gave her a brief, apologetic nod and moved to a solitary table in the darkest corner of the dungeon, right beneath a jar containing a suspended, preserved pufferfish.
He had analyzed the standard first-year syllabus. It was rudimentary, focused on safety and basic chemical reactions. To gain Snape's respect—and access to the restricted ingredients he needed for the Blood-Forging Ritual—he needed to demonstrate capability far beyond his years. He needed to brew something that screamed competence.
He had selected the Wit-Sharpening Potion.
It was a curriculum staple for N.E.W.T. level students, typically introduced in the fifth or sixth year. The brewing process was a logistical nightmare.
It required scarab beetles to be crushed to a precise micron-level paste, ginger roots sliced against the grain to preserve the juices, and a volatile infusion of armadillo bile that had to be timed to the exact second of the boil. If brewed incorrectly, the drinker wouldn't get smarter; they would suffer permanent confusion or debilitating migraines.
It was high risk, high reward. Exactly Alister's style.
The door banged open.
Professor Snape swept into the room, his black robes billowing like smoke around him. The chatter in the room died instantly, replaced by a fearful silence. Snape moved to the front of the room, his presence sucking the warmth out of the air.
He turned slowly, his black eyes scanning the students before him. As always, his gaze landed on Alister. It didn't sweep past; it stuck. Snape stared at him with penetrating, intense scrutiny that felt like he was trying to peel back Alister's skull.
In the beginning, Alister had found it genuinely unnerving—a grown man staring down an eleven-year-old with such intensity. But now, he was used to it. He met Snape's gaze with a calm, bored expression, refusing to look away or show fear. After a long, uncomfortable moment, Snape's lip curled slightly, and he turned to the blackboard.
"Instructions are on the board," Snape whispered, his voice carrying effortlessly to the back of the room. "You have one hour. Do not disappoint me."
The class erupted into a flurry of movement as students grabbed their scales and rushed toward the supply cupboard to fight over the best roots and beetles.
Alister didn't move. He sat perfectly still at his desk, his hands folded, watching the chaotic scramble with detached amusement. He waited until the crowd thinned, until the desperate grabbing for ingredients had ceased.
Only when the cupboard was clear did he stand up. He was the last one to move, his steps deliberate and silent as he approached the shelves to select his materials.
Alister returned to his desk, his arms laden with ingredients that had no business being in a first-year classroom. While the other students were mashing standard herbs for a simple Cure for Boils, Alister laid out Armadillo bile, Wolfsbane extract, and dried Scarab beetles.
He checked the time. The class was two hours long, but Snape would be checking in one hour. The Wit-Sharpening Potion, according to the text, required a minimum of one hour and forty minutes to reach stability.
He didn't panic. He simply accelerated.
With the Ascension System guiding his movements and his Tier 1 Physique providing the dexterity, Alister turned the preparation phase into a blur of motion. He ground the scarab beetles into a microscopic dust in five minutes, a task that usually took twenty.
He crushed the ginger roots with a single, precise blow to release the juices without bruising the fibers. He brought the cauldron to a medium flame, pouring in the purified water base with a steady hand.
The air around him began to smell different—not the earthy pungency of the other students' brews, but a sharp, clinical scent of mint and metal.
One hour passed.
"Time," Snape's voice echoed through the dungeon. "Flask your samples and bring them to the front."
The students scrambled to bottle their murky concoctions. Snape began his prowl, moving down the rows, sneering at a lumpy potion here, vanishing a solidified mess there. He moved with the predatory grace of a large bat.
He reached the back corner.
Alister was not flasking his potion. He was still stirring.
Snape stopped. He loomed over the desk, his shadow swallowing Alister's workspace. A cruel, satisfied smirk twisted his lips. The boy, the "genius," had finally failed to keep up.
"It seems," Snape drawled, his voice dripping with venom, "that the celebrity cannot even tell time. Everyone else has finished, Potter. Yet you are still..."
Snape's voice died in his throat.
He looked into the cauldron. He expected to see a ruined Cure for Boils. Instead, he saw a liquid that was turning a distinctive, vibrant pale turquoise.
Snape's black eyes snapped to the ingredients on the table. He saw the empty vial of Armadillo bile. He saw the Wolfsbane extract—a highly dangerous stabilizer that could kill if mishandled.
His sneer returned, sharper this time. "Wit-Sharpening Potion?" he whispered, dangerous and low. "Arrogance. Sheer, unadulterated arrogance. You think you can waltz into my dungeon and attempt a N.E.W.T. level brew? You are a fool, Potter. You will only succeed in poisoning yourself and—"
Snape stopped again.
He watched Alister's hand.
Alister was adding the armadillo bile. It required a drop-by-drop infusion, timed perfectly with the counter-clockwise stir. It was a rhythm that stumped seventh-years.
Drop. Stir. Drop. Stir.
Alister's hand was steady as rock. His rhythm was machine-like. The turquoise liquid didn't hiss or bubble aggressively; it shimmered, accepting the volatile ingredients with perfect, smooth integration.
Snape stood frozen. The insult died on his tongue. He watched the boy's face—the intense, unwavering focus, the way he bit his lip slightly in concentration, the messy black hair falling over those piercing green eyes.
For a moment, the dungeon melted away for Severus Snape. He didn't see James Potter's arrogance. He saw Lily Evans. He saw her talent, her innate understanding of the subtle science, her way of tuning out the world when the cauldron was bubbling.
Snape stared, dazed by the memory, caught in a ghost of the past. He couldn't mock him. He couldn't deduct points. He could only watch, stunned into silence, as Alister Potter continued to brew a masterpiece in the dark corner of the dungeon.
Alister extinguished the flame beneath his cauldron with a sharp flick of his wand. The liquid inside settled, its surface a calm, pale turquoise.
He decanted a sample into a crystal phial and held it up to the torchlight. His analytical mind, aided by the System, assessed the quality instantly. The color was correct, but the viscosity was a fraction too thin. A perfect Wit-Sharpening Potion granted three hours of absolute mental clarity. This batch, brewed in a rush with classroom-grade water, would offer perhaps an hour and a half.
It was imperfect. But for a first-year student attempting a N.E.W.T. level brew in under sixty minutes, it was a miracle.
Snape snatched the phial from Alister's hand. He swirled it, his black eyes boring into the liquid as if looking for a flaw he could exploit. He found none that justified a zero, but his face hardened, the mask of the cruel Potions Master slamming back into place.
With a sneer, Snape unstoppered the phial and vanished the contents with a wave of his wand. The turquoise liquid disappeared into non-existence.
"Adequate," Snape spat, the word sounding like an insult. "But unauthorized."
He loomed over Alister, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that silenced the entire dungeon. "You have wasted valuable school ingredients—Wolfsbane and Armadillo bile are not for first-year experimentation. You display a reckless disregard for the rules and a staggering amount of vanity."
Snape straightened up, his eyes flashing with a strange, intense light.
"Detention, Potter," Snape declared coldly. "Every evening for the next month. In my office. You will spend your time preparing ingredients to repay the debt of what you have wasted today."
A ripple of laughter broke out across the dungeon. Slytherins snickered openly into his hand, and even some of the Ravenclaws looked gleeful. To them, it was the ultimate humiliation: the "genius" Slytherin had finally flown too close to the sun and gotten burned by the strictest teacher in the school. A month of detention with Snape was a death sentence to a social life.
"Class dismissed," Snape barked, turning his back on them with a swirl of his black cloak.
The students gathered their bags, whispering excitedly about Alister's downfall as they filed out. Cho looked at him with sympathy, mouthing a silent 'sorry' before heading to the door.
But Alister didn't look downtrodden. As he packed his cauldron away, a small, genuine smile touched his lips as he got succeeded on his first try and.
The other students saw a punishment. Alister saw an opportunity.
"Preparing ingredients" in Snape's office meant access. It meant being in the private workspace of a Tier 3 Potions Master every night for a month. It meant he could observe Snape's techniques, ask subtle questions under the guise of work, and perhaps, eventually, gain access to the restricted stores he needed for the Blood-Forging.
"I look forward to it, Professor," Alister murmured to the empty air, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He walked out of the dungeon, the sound of his classmates' laughter fading into background noise.
The heavy oak door to his private laboratory clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the departing students and the chatter of the castle. The silence that rushed in was heavy and familiar, smelling of dried herbs and regret.
Severus Snape moved slowly to his desk, the menacing energy he projected in the classroom evaporating the moment he was alone. He sank into his high-backed chair, his body slumping slightly under the weight of a decade of bitterness.
He stared at the empty space on the desk where, just moments ago, he had vanished the pale turquoise potion.
His greasy black hair fell forward, forming a curtain that obscured his face, hiding his expression from the portraits on the walls. His breathing was slow, ragged.
He closed his eyes, and the image burned behind his lids. It wasn't the boy's defiance he saw. It was the smile.
It hadn't been a smirk of arrogance. It hadn't been the preening grin of a bully who had gotten away with a prank. It was a small, private curve of the lips—the quiet, profound satisfaction of a craftsman who had created something beautiful.
"That smile..." Snape muttered to the empty room, his voice cracking slightly.
It was the same smile that used to light up the heavy atmosphere of the Slughorn's potion club. It was the smile of a girl with dark red hair and bright green eyes who found joy in the bubbling of a cauldron.
He gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. today, in the steam of a Wit-Sharpening Potion, he saw the talent, same as his friend.
"Lily," he whispered, the name a ghost on his tongue.
He looked up at the shelves of ingredients, his black eyes glistening in the dim light.
"It seems," he said softly, a reluctant, painful admission, "that your son has inherited your talent."
(END OF CHAPTER)
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