Friday arrived, a meteorological and logistical disaster. It was notorious as the day the Hogwarts castle—or rather, the moving staircases and trick passageways—changed their routes and destinations with malicious glee. To avoid the indignity of being late or, worse, losing themselves in some forgotten turret, the first-years gathered their belongings early and resolved to navigate the ever-shifting maze by staying close to the seasoned upper-years.
"What tortures await us in the morning?" Lee Jordan asked, carefully positioning two sugar cubes in his bowl of milky cereal.
"Two hours of Potions," Albert announced, wiping the grease from his fingers after dispatching a particularly juicy sausage. "And, as always, it's a joint session with the Slytherin students."
A collective, low groan of dread spread around the Gryffindor table.
"Ah, the delightful Severus Snape," George recalled with theatrical bitterness. "The one Albert famously decided to capture for a portrait."
"Did you remember that he promised to torment you for that stunt, Albert?" Fred asked, his voice filled with concerned amusement.
"He promised to test my knowledge, yes," Albert corrected, entirely unperturbed. "And there shouldn't be any issue." He had spent a productive hour before dawn the previous night meticulously reviewing his 'Magical Potions and Medications' text. He might not have the practical experience of brewing, but he had the theory locked down. So long as Snape didn't ask him to invent a new potion on the spot, he felt confident.
"Don't forget, he's the Head of Slytherin House," George whispered, leaning across the table conspiratorially. "The word is that he only grants points to his snakes and is actively hostile to everyone else, especially Gryffindor."
"Watch out, George, I think he's staring right at you," Albert murmured, his eyes fixed on a point just behind George's shoulder.
George flinched, snapping his head back and searching frantically around the Great Hall. Finding no sign of the intimidating Professor, he wheeled back to Albert. "You are utterly impossible!" he complained, but a nervous edge remained. The reputation of the Potions Master was enough to wilt even the Weasley spirit.
A weary-looking Angelina Johnson arrived at the table and slumped onto the bench beside them. "It's been a terrible morning. I got hopelessly lost trying to find the kitchens. Those staircases seem to be deliberately trying to derail us."
"And here I thought your day was starting well," Albert said, turning to her. "I heard you had a magnificent time at the Quidditch pitch yesterday. Congratulations on becoming a reserve player."
Angelina's exhaustion lifted slightly, replaced by a spark of competitive energy. She studied Albert—the boy whom Charlie had intended to recruit as their youngest Seeker—with a critical, suspicious eye. He was congratulating her on securing a place he could have easily demanded himself, yet he seemed genuinely detached from the entire sport. She couldn't read him at all.
"We need to grab our bags and move," Albert urged, finishing the last of his toast. "Double Potions in the dungeons means we absolutely cannot be late. Don't give Snape an opportunity to make an example of us."
The journey to the Potions classroom was long, cold, and forbidding. They had to follow the bustling column of older Gryffindor students, plunging deeper and deeper into the castle's foundations. The air grew progressively chillier and damper, carrying the faint, unsettling scent of raw earth and something medicinal—something acrid and slightly rotten.
They eventually arrived at a subterranean hallway, dimly lit by flickering torches, and proceeded through a heavy wooden door.
The Potions classroom was a stark contrast to the comfortable, brightly lit common room. It was situated in a sprawling, cold dungeon. The light was poor, and the atmosphere was heavy with an oppressive stillness.
The stone walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of glass jars, each filled with slimy, unidentifiable animal specimens suspended in clear, chilling liquid—preserved organs, shrunken heads, and things that looked disturbingly like baby mammals. The sight was enough to turn the stomach of anyone with a faint heart.
"It's like the worst bits of a Muggle biology class, only... more terrifying," Albert muttered to Lee Jordan, settling onto a wooden bench. He scanned the macabre decorations.
His eyes immediately fixed on a dark, imposing storage cabinet tucked into a recess in the corner. That cabinet, he knew, contained not only the raw ingredients needed for common brewing but almost certainly housed the infamous, annotated copy of 'Advanced Potion Making'—the textbook that would later belong to the Half-Blood Prince.
The Slytherin students, easily identifiable by their austere green-and-silver robes and their air of arrogant entitlement, were already seated, a compact, silent unit of focused hostility.
Snape sat at the front, motionless at his high desk. Behind him, written on the blackboard in tight, elegant script, were the instructions for the day's task: a simple, foul-smelling Pimple-Curing Potion.
Albert looked up as their eyes met. Snape's were cold, empty, and piercingly dark. Albert offered a small, polite smile—a gesture Snape seemed to register as outright insolence—before looking away. The dark wizard's gaze made him feel instinctively wary.
The dungeon bell tolled precisely, signaling the start of class. Snape rose slowly, a tall, gaunt shadow, and consulted his roll. His eyes paused noticeably on Albert's name, then swept the Gryffindor section with undisguised contempt.
"The art of brewing potions," Snape began, his voice a low, cold, silky drawl that carried effortlessly through the damp room, "is a science of precision and rigor. Many of you will foolishly scoff, failing to comprehend that this is, in fact, the most potent form of magic."
He swept his gaze across the room, focusing briefly on a nervous-looking Ron Weasley. "Every year, I have the displeasure of dealing with dunderheads who manage to incinerate cauldrons, substitute reagents, or otherwise poison their unsuspecting classmates. I hold no expectation that any of you will truly grasp the elegance of this discipline. I merely hope the utter fools are not numerous."
The classroom became so silent that the faint bubbling of a forgotten concoction in one of the far corners was audible.
Then, Snape's head snapped toward the Gryffindor side.
"Anderson!"
The summons was abrupt and ice-cold. Albert, already expecting the confrontation, stood up without hesitation. Every eye in the room—Gryffindor and Slytherin alike—was fixed on him.
"Tell me," Snape continued, his hooked nose twitching faintly, "what precise, lethal result would I achieve if I added powdered root of Asphodel to an infusion of Wormwood?"
Albert didn't blink. He felt the nervous anticipation from Lee Jordan beside him, but his mind was already recalling the required textbook definition.
"Professor," Albert stated clearly, "you would brew the Draught of Living Death, a remarkably potent sleeping potion that can induce a temporary, coma-like state. It is considered one of the most dangerous and difficult brews in common use."
Snape's face remained utterly devoid of expression. He strode forward, gliding past the tables until he was standing directly beside Albert, towering over the small first-year. The invisible, cold pressure was palpable.
"Correct, if entirely pedestrian," Snape sneered. "Now, if I requested that you locate a Bezoar for me, Anderson, where exactly would you begin your search for that particular antidote?"
"A Bezoar is a smooth stone-like mass," Albert answered instantly, his voice unwavering, "extracted from the stomach of a goat. It possesses powerful, known properties as an antidote against most common poisons."
Snape's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He hadn't expected the answer to be instantaneous. He pressed harder, attempting to find a nuance the boy might have missed.
"Very well. Now, inform the class: what is the fundamental difference, if any, between Aconitum davidianum and Aconitum carmichaelii?"
"There is no difference in their common identification, sir," Albert replied, delivering the answer with a slight academic flair. "They are both botanical names for the deadly plant commonly known as Monkshood or Wolfsbane. The distinction is one of regional taxonomy, but the magical properties and toxicity are considered identical."
Snape paused, a muscle ticking beneath his pallid cheek. He had cycled through the three most common "trick" questions for this lesson, and the first-year had answered them perfectly. He needed something more obscure, something he wouldn't have bothered memorizing.
"Final question, Anderson," Snape challenged, his voice dropping to a dangerous hush. "Identify the single most difficult ingredient to procure for the Polyjuice Potion, and tell me why its substitution is strictly forbidden."
Albert took a breath, recalling the obscure note he'd seen. "The most difficult ingredient, sir, is a single hair from the person one intends to impersonate. The substitution is forbidden because that Transfiguring element requires the genetic essence of the target. Any other hair—animal, or simply a different person—will either result in the potion failing outright or, far worse, an irreversible, non-human, or grotesque mutation."
The tension broke. Albert sat down, his heart beating a steady, victorious rhythm.
"Copied verbatim from a secondary-source textbook," Snape concluded, his voice dripping with icy contempt, despite the fact that Albert's answers were flawless and delivered with scholarly precision. "But the facts, regrettably, are correct. Five points will not be awarded to Gryffindor."
Lee Jordan immediately gave Albert a silent, furious thumbs-up under the table. Fred and George, sitting behind them, had to bite the insides of their cheeks to prevent a burst of triumphant laughter. Snape had been thoroughly, publicly defeated in his attempt to humiliate the first-year.
Snape returned to the podium. "What are the rest of you waiting for? Why is your parchment bare? You will copy the instructions for the Pimple-Curing Potion from the board immediately!"
The cold room filled with the immediate, frantic scraping of quills.
"You read the entire book, didn't you?" Alicia Spinnet, sitting nearby, whispered in genuine awe, shaking her head slightly. She was astonished that Albert had navigated the minefield so flawlessly.
Albert didn't reply verbally. He raised an index finger to his lips—a gesture of silence—then pointed pointedly at Snape, cautioning her to be quiet.
It was too late. Snape's predatory instincts were instantly honed in.
Snape stared directly at Alicia. "Talking in class, Miss Spinnet? Gryffindor, one point deducted."
Alicia went scarlet, shrinking down in her seat. The rest of the Gryffindors exchanged grim, knowing looks. The entire episode was a perfect demonstration of Snape's bias: Albert gives four perfect, advanced answers, and the House receives zero recognition; Alicia whispers a single, harmless sentence, and they lose a point immediately.
Albert ignored the lost point. He had achieved his primary goal: he had demonstrated to the Potions Master that he was not a "dunderhead" to be trifled with and that any attempt to catch him unprepared would fail. This small victory would likely afford him peace—or at least, less direct confrontation—in future classes.
He settled into the rote task of transcribing the potion recipe, but his mind lingered on the man at the front of the room. He mentally sized up the Potions Professor: the thin, hooked nose; the permanently sullen, greasy face; the strangely flat, dark eyes that lacked any visible warmth.
Gloomy, calculating, and undeniably talented, Albert assessed. Tom Riddle was right in his assessment: Snape really doesn't look like a good man. But Albert also recognized the intensity and focus required to master potions at that level. Snape was a formidable presence—a brilliant wizard whose only flaw in this moment was his inability to hide his deep-seated prejudice against Gryffindor House.
The rest of the two-hour class passed in a strained silence, punctuated only by the occasional sharp, sarcastic comment from Snape directed at a student's brewing ineptitude—always a Gryffindor, naturally. Albert, meanwhile, focused on the complex instructions on the board, preparing himself for the next inevitable, life-or-death moment in a cauldron.
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Albert successfully navigated Snape's interrogation, but the experience solidified his understanding of the House politics. With Potions now managed, should he dive into the advanced Animagus theory, or focus on mastering the power requirements for the Summoning Charm?