The chill of the dungeon deepened as Professor Snape began the practical portion of the double Potions lesson. His voice, usually a cold, dry whisper, cut through the clammy air, explaining the necessary procedures for brewing a relatively simple—but critically precise—remedy: the Scabies Potion. After the theoretical introduction, which focused heavily on the dire consequences of careless preparation, he instructed the students to pair up and commence the work.
Predictably, Albert found himself partnered with Lee Jordan. They shared a small, cluttered work station, forcing a necessary degree of cooperation and spatial awareness.
"We need to execute this flawlessly," Albert warned, his voice low and serious. He tapped the required steps on his open textbook. "The difference between a successful potion and a catastrophe, especially under Snape's eye, is absolute precision. Let's mentally walk through every step before we introduce any heat or ingredients."
The greatest danger in potion-making, Albert knew, lay in sloppy methodology—the careless measuring, the wrong stirring direction, the deviation from the prescribed heat levels. If the underlying theory was sound, the execution dictated the result.
Albert consulted 'Magical Potions and Solutions' one last time, locking the recipe for the Scabies Potion into his memory. He ignored the glacial figure of Snape, who had begun his slow, ominous patrol of the brewing stations, his black robes trailing silently on the stone floor.
As soon as Snape moved to the far end of the room, Albert began organizing their components: four shiny venomous snake fangs, a pungent pongo onion, a small bundle of dried nettles, a jar containing the revolting, slimy horned slugs, and a few sharp porcupine quills.
"You're in charge of the slugs," Albert instructed Lee Jordan, pushing a pair of silver tweezers toward him. "They need careful, sustained boiling—no less than thirty-three minutes, no more than forty-five. Too quick, they're raw; too long, they turn to mush. Get the water right, but keep an eye on the temperature."
"Got it. Slug duty," Lee agreed, clearly relieved to be assigned a task that was time-consuming rather than technically demanding. He carefully extracted the first of the repulsive, wiggling slugs from the jar—a container that cost the small sum of one Galleon at any decent apothecary.
"Rinse them thoroughly first, and don't overfill the crucible. We don't need a boil-over," Albert reiterated.
Albert turned to his own, more laborious task: grinding the snake fangs. The recipe demanded the fangs be reduced to a powder so fine it was almost dust. He began the rhythmic, forceful pounding in the stone mortar. His slight advantage—the internalized knowledge from his recently acquired Potions Making Skill Level 1—gave him an intuitive feel for the required texture and the weight of the pestle.
Snape continued his cold reconnaissance. He stopped at nearly every table, dispensing clipped, vicious criticism. Students flinched, dropped their components, and watched their cauldrons bubble with panicked uncertainty.
"The consistency of that powdered dittany is akin to gravel, Longbottom! Do you intend to pave the dungeon floor with it?"
"Miss Smith, those nettles are meant to be dried, not spontaneously combusting!"
Yet, as Snape passed Albert and Lee Jordan, he found no immediate fault. Albert's steady, focused movements—the precise rotation of the pestle, the careful weighing of the dried nettles that Lee was managing—left no opening for attack. They were proceeding slowly, yes, but with unassailable accuracy.
"Weigh the nettles," Albert whispered, as Snape's black cloak swept past, the scent of expensive silk and bitter chemicals wafting in its wake. "Double-check the scale. We need exactly three grams."
"Done," Lee confirmed, already feeling a small thrill of defiance against the Potions Master's scrutiny.
Albert then began the delicate work of slicing the pongo onion. The slices needed to be uniformly thin to ensure proper infusion—another point where the less dedicated students invariably failed.
Half an hour of concentrated work later, Lee Jordan announced, "Slugs are done! Thirty-five minutes on the dot."
Albert moved instantly, verifying the consistency of the boiled slugs with a glass rod—they were tender but intact. He quickly drained the boiling water. The first stage of preparation was complete.
Now came the infusion. Albert carefully added the fine snake fang powder to the crucible, which already contained a precise measure of water. He stirred slowly and deliberately until the liquid began its first major transformation, taking on a rich, inky dark blue.
"Dark blue confirmed," Lee whispered excitedly, leaning in to witness the critical color shift.
"Wait for the stabilization." Once the color held steady, Albert introduced the thinly sliced pongo onions. As the onions steeped and heated, the dark blue slowly, dramatically, flushed into a deep, vivid red.
The moment the red stabilized, Albert sprinkled in the measured, dried nettles. He stirred the brew precisely until it shifted again, becoming a clear, translucent pink.
"Now, the Flobberworm mucus," Albert muttered, referring to the thick, inert green slime often used as a stabilizer. "Small spoonful. Stir until it turns green."
He completed the step. Next: the stewed slugs. "Large spoonful. Stir until we hit the required blue-green."
Albert completed the final color change and, critically, removed the crucible entirely from the heat source. This was the moment Snape had warned against: adding the final ingredient while the potion was still actively heating would cause a highly volatile reaction.
Lee Jordan handed over the final, sharp components: the two porcupine quills. Albert lowered them gently into the steaming, blue-green liquid. He then began the final incantation and movement, stirring the mixture three times, clockwise. The potion instantly responded, deepening to the perfect, required shade of sapphire blue.
Albert waved his wand over the finished product to seal the brew's effects.
"Did we do it? Is that it?" Lee Jordan demanded, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Judge for yourself," Albert said, carefully using a ladle to transfer a portion into a small crystal vial. He handed it to Lee.
Lee stared at the liquid. "It worked! It's a perfect, consistent blue! It matches the description exactly!"
"Yes, it worked," Albert confirmed, a rare wave of satisfaction washing over him. "It requires discipline, but it works."
He began bottling the remainder and labeling their vial. That was when a horrifying, nauseating stench hit them—a combination of sulfur, burned cabbage, and something faintly resembling wet dog.
They turned to see Fred and George's crucible. Instead of a cooling, consistent blue, a mass of violent, bubbling brown sludge was spitting toxic fumes onto the desk. George, completely forgetting Snape's earlier warning, was about to drop the final quills into the actively boiling mess.
"Wait! Get it off the fire now!" Albert yelled, instinctively reacting to the impending chemical doom.
George yanked the crucible back just as the first quill touched the edge. It was too late. The potion was irrevocably ruined.
Snape appeared behind them, his face like thunder but his voice chillingly calm. "Weasley. Report on the contents of that cauldron."
"A Scabies Potion, sir," George whispered, defeated.
"And the designated finished color for the Scabies Potion is...?"
"Blue," Fred muttered, staring at the toxic sludge.
"I can assure you," Snape sneered, "that if a single drop of that filth were applied to a patient, they would require immediate emergency treatment, not a cure for a rash." With a dismissive flick of his wand, the noxious brown substance vanished, leaving a slightly stained but empty cauldron.
"Anderson," Snape drawled, turning his focus. "Where is your effort?"
Lee Jordan, swelling with proprietary pride, quickly presented their perfectly bottled, sapphire-blue potion. "Here, sir! A success!"
Snape took the vial, held it up to the dim light, and then set it down with exaggerated lack of enthusiasm. "Barely adequate, Jordan. Just barely passing. The consistency is thin, and the color saturation suggests a low potency."
Barely passing? Albert thought, suppressing his annoyance. It was textbook perfect.
As the class ended and students packed up their cauldrons, Lee Jordan was furious. "Barely passing? That was the finest Scabies Potion in this entire dungeon, outside of the Slytherins, who probably cheated!" he fumed. "And why do we have to write a two-foot essay after succeeding, while those two dunderheads get off scot-free?"
"Keep your voice down, you lunatic, unless you want to invite more trouble," Fred warned, nodding toward Snape, who was collecting finished assignments near the front.
Albert gave his most charming, but utterly patronizing, smile and leaned in, ensuring his words carried just enough projection to reach the professor's ears. "Perhaps, Lee, we shouldn't complain. I think Professor Snape views my success as a sign of exceptional, undeveloped talent."
He paused dramatically. "He is surely giving us what he considers special attention. No one else in this room has been singled out for such focused, personalized guidance, have they? He must simply want to cultivate us for a higher level of instruction."
Snape stopped and slowly turned, his eyes narrowing to slits as he stared directly past Albert's shoulder at Lee Jordan.
"Indeed, Mr. Anderson," Snape murmured, his voice laced with venom. "I look forward to an extraordinarily detailed, two-foot parchment on the theoretical divergence points between the Scabies Potion and a standard Fever Reducer, due next week. Do not disappoint me, Mr. Anderson."
Snape then shifted his attention entirely to Lee Jordan. "As for you, Jordan, no need to trouble yourself with the added assignment. You have already demonstrated your maximum intellectual capacity for this material."
Lee Jordan blinked, staring at the retreating back of the Potions Master. "Did... did he just tell me I'm too stupid to bother giving extra homework to?"
The Weasley twins immediately burst into renewed, roaring laughter.
"What he means," Fred gasped, wiping a tear from his eye and slapping Albert on the back, "is that he's been completely thwarted and is resorting to bureaucratic torture! He has to acknowledge your ability, Albert, but he absolutely refuses to reward it. This is his twisted way of giving you the attention he thinks you deserve."
"Perhaps he wants to invite you to his exclusive Potions Club!" George cackled, holding his hands up in mock deference.
"Then I must regretfully decline," Albert replied, perfectly deadpan. "I have already committed my allegiance to the higher calling of the Transfiguration Club. One simply can't split one's focus between two such demanding, exclusive pursuits."
The three boys laughed again, louder this time. They knew they had successfully frustrated the Potions Master—a minor victory that felt monumental after the cold oppression of the dungeons. It was a clear confirmation that Snape was trapped: bound by the rules of fairness, yet absolutely unwilling to give a point to a talented Gryffindor. The result was pure, spiteful, extra homework.