In Potions class, Allen's attention was divided between two very different things.
The first, of course, was the subject itself. Despite Professor Snape's highly questionable personal ethics — his blatant favoritism, deep-seated biases, and relentless cruelty toward students from other Houses, especially Gryffindor (and especially Harry Potter) — there was no denying his mastery of potions. The man was a genius in his field. His lectures, when stripped of their biting sarcasm and cutting remarks, were rich, thorough, and incredibly educational. Allen respected that. If one could ignore the sneers and snide comments, there was a lot to learn.
The second thing occupying Allen's thoughts, however, had nothing to do with potion-making at all.
He was fixated on Snape's cauldron.
Now, crucibles might all share the same name, but they're not created equal. The ones used by Allen and his classmates were the standard issue: plain, practical, and made of tin. They were serviceable enough, but small and unimpressive. Snape's, however, was another matter entirely. It was magnificent — crafted of a gold alloy designed to withstand high temperatures, with a diameter twice the size of a normal cauldron.
To Allen, that wasn't just a piece of equipment. It was a culinary opportunity.
"This," he thought with a hungry gleam in his eyes, "isn't just a cauldron. This is the perfect hot pot vessel."
It would be a terrible waste not to use such a masterpiece for something truly worthy — and nothing was more worthy in Allen's opinion than a bubbling, fiery hot pot feast.
So, with that decision made, and taking advantage of the fact that he still had Malfoy's wand for one more day, Allen decided the weekend would be devoted to one noble mission: hot pot night.
"But if you're going to have hot pot," Allen declared solemnly, "then there's no question — it has to be spicy."
That pronouncement was made in the Gryffindor common room, where, for once, Allen was spending time with others. Ronald, Harry, Hermione, and the Weasley twins were all there, gathered around as Allen shared his plan. Usually, he disappeared after class to pursue his own projects, but tonight was different. Hot pot, after all, was a social affair — the more people, the livelier the atmosphere. And, Allen admitted privately, it was also safer to have more people around… just in case anything went wrong.
His words, however, were met with blank stares.
Most of them had no idea what "spicy hot pot" even was.
Only Harry did — and the look on his face suggested he wasn't thrilled. Memories of the last time he'd witnessed Sichuan-level spice were still vivid: red oil bubbling ominously, the air thick with chili, and a room full of wizards too scared to sit down.
And Harry? He remembered very clearly that he'd been one of those wizards.
"Uh, maybe we could try something a little milder?" he suggested quickly, trying to save everyone's stomachs — and their dignity.
"What even is hot pot?" George asked, raising his hand.
Hermione jumped in before Allen could reply. "It's an oriental cooking method. You prepare a pot of soup, keep it simmering, and cook ingredients in it at the table. I've had it before — Huxia cuisine."
"Why does she always act like she knows everything?" Ron muttered under his breath, lips curling into a pout.
Unfortunately for him, the room was too quiet for that comment to go unnoticed. Everyone heard it — including Hermione. The air grew tense for a few seconds before Harry, ever the peacemaker, broke the silence.
"So, Alan," he said, forcing cheerfulness, "what flavor are we going with?"
"I think," Allen said with a mischievous smile, "we should put it to a vote. But just so you all know — spicy hot pot is far superior in taste."
Harry's heart sank. This was a rigged vote, and they all knew it. Allen's cooking skills were legendary, his palate refined, and his confidence in his own recipes absolute. If he declared something delicious, it was as good as law.
Sure enough, hands shot up around the room. Everyone voted for spicy — everyone except Harry.
"You're all going to regret this," he said sincerely.
"Alright," Allen clapped his hands together. "Since we've decided, let's get to work. We've got a lot to prepare."
The Preparations Begin
"George, Fred — head to the kitchen and give this to the house-elves."
Allen lifted a piece of frozen beef, cold mist swirling off it. He had gone all-out for this meal, sourcing the finest ingredients he could manage. There was beef and lamb, of course — staples of any proper hot pot — along with an assortment of fresh vegetables, tofu, and frozen balls of assorted fillings. He'd even managed to get a few specialty items through Hodge, who'd taken on the role of Allen's unofficial supplier, buying ingredients from Chinatown.
Unfortunately, magical ingredients were more complicated. Most magical beasts were unsafe for casual consumption — too unstable or prone to magical backlash. The only remotely suitable option was the soft-clawed land shrimp, but even those posed risks. Allen could neutralize their magical interference, but the resulting magical surge was unpredictable. And no one wanted a hot pot night interrupted by sudden explosions of wild magic.
"Tell the elves to slice the meat as thin as possible," Allen instructed. "Paper-thin, if they can."
"With magic?" Fred grinned. "Easy."
The twins ran off enthusiastically, clearly excited about the evening's plans.
"Hermione," Allen continued, "I'll need a few buckets of water — Clear Spring Water spell, please. It tastes better."
"Got it." Hermione nodded and started conjuring the pure, sweet water often used for plants.
"What about me?" Ron asked eagerly, clearly hoping for a grander task.
Allen paused, looking at him thoughtfully. After a long moment, he handed Ron a basket of vegetables. "Why don't you wash these? Thoroughly. Just… rinse them with water."
"Right. Got it!" Ron said, almost too cheerfully, and ran off to complete his task.
That left only one person standing — and he was looking distinctly uneasy.
"Alright," Harry sighed. "What's my job?"
Allen's expression grew serious. "Yours is… a bit more complicated. I need you to go to the Potions classroom and borrow Snape's cauldron."
Harry stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. "You're trying to kill me."
"Snape hates me. If I go near that room, he'll hex me before I even touch the door. I'd rather try taking off Quirrell's turban."
Allen paused, mentally noting that removing Quirrell's turban might actually be more dangerous than Harry realized. If the events of the original timeline were still unfolding, Quirrell was likely already possessed by Voldemort. If that was true, even a touch from Harry could destroy him completely — and possibly trigger Voldemort's downfall right then and there.
But that was a problem for another day.
"Listen," Allen said, putting an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Snape dislikes you already. He can't dislike you more. And he's not going to poison you with a potion. Worst-case scenario, you'll get detention — but if any of us try to take it, we'll be in trouble. You're already in that situation."
Harry frowned. Something about Allen's logic felt deeply flawed, but before he could argue, Allen was already ushering him toward the door.
"Go on, Harry. Do it for the hot pot. And remember — ask for the big golden one!"
Harry was unceremoniously shoved out of the common room, grumbling under his breath.
"Why a Crucible?"
When Allen returned, Hermione was waiting with a puzzled expression.
"You know," she began, "you could just use the Transfiguration spell to conjure a large pot. Why go through all the trouble of borrowing Snape's cauldron?"
Allen looked at her as if the answer were obvious. "Because it's not just about cooking. It's about style. This is a wizard's hot pot party — if we're not cooking it in a crucible, are we even doing it right?"
"..." Hermione had no words.
She shook her head, resigning herself to Allen's strange logic. Harry's "sacrifice," she decided, was probably not worth it.
The Great Hot Pot Heist
Meanwhile, poor Harry crept toward the Potions classroom with the sinking feeling that he was signing his own death warrant. The corridors were empty — most students were enjoying their weekend elsewhere — but every shadow felt menacing, every corner a potential ambush.
He took a deep breath. "For the sake of my friends," he muttered, "and my poor, soon-to-be-destroyed digestive system."
He pushed the classroom door open carefully, praying Snape wasn't inside.
And there it was — gleaming faintly in the dim light, the golden crucible. The ultimate hot pot cauldron.
Harry gulped. "Alright. Let's get this over with."
Back in the common room, preparations were nearly complete. The table was set, the water ready, and plates of beautifully sliced meat were stacked neatly beside trays of fresh vegetables and tofu. Allen inspected everything with the satisfied air of a master chef.
"All we need now," he said, "is our centerpiece."
Fred grinned. "And Harry's still alive, hopefully."
"Hopefully," Allen echoed, though a mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes.
Hermione sighed, shaking her head again. "Boys."
A Feast to Remember
When Harry finally stumbled back — slightly disheveled but victorious — carrying Snape's prized cauldron, the room erupted in cheers. They filled it with rich, spicy broth, the scent of chilies and Sichuan pepper filling the air as it began to bubble.
One by one, they dipped thin slices of beef and lamb into the roiling soup, fishing them out seconds later perfectly cooked and dripping with fiery red oil. Laughter filled the room as they tried different sauces, tested their spice tolerance, and shared stories between bites.
Harry, despite his earlier resistance, found himself reaching for more — sweat beading on his forehead, lips tingling from the heat, but grinning all the same.
"This," Allen declared proudly, holding up his chopsticks, "is the proper way to eat hot pot."
And despite the chaos, the questionable legality of borrowing school property, and the risk of being hexed by Snape the next day, everyone had to admit — it was absolutely worth it.
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