"I don't know, sir," Harry replied.
Snape curled his lip with disdain.
"Tsk, tsk—so fame clearly doesn't mean everything."
Hermione had been about to raise her hand to rescue Harry, but Loren stopped her. With a flick of his wand, he bound his voice to her ear and whispered, "Snape is targeting Harry on purpose. There's history there. I'll explain after class."
So Hermione lowered her hand, instead watching intently, trying to piece together the story between the two.
"Let's try again, Potter. If I asked you to fetch me a bezoar, where would you find one?"
"In a goat's stomach, Professor," Harry answered.
While he knew little about potions beyond what Loren had shown him the night before—brewing the boil-curing potion—Harry had memorized some ingredients.
"And tell me, Potter," Snape pressed, his voice rising slightly in surprise at the correct reply, "what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"They're the same plant, Professor—also called aconite."
Harry answered without hesitation.
"Well, well. It seems our celebrity Mr. Potter at least had the sense to crack a book before term," Snape sneered.
"Sorry, Professor, it's my fault. I only studied the first potion and a few ingredients. I grew up in a Muggle household—I didn't know wizard children learn so much more. Oh! Maybe Malfoy was right—we're just filthy mudbloods, born a step lower than pure-bloods."
Harry dropped his head as he spoke, his voice edged with bitter irony.
Loren nearly shouted out loud: "Now that's a performance worthy of applause!"
He was stunned—straight-laced, earnest Harry Potter had just weaponized sarcasm, dragging Draco Malfoy into it and stabbing right at Snape's sorest wound. "Never judge a book by its cover," Loren thought, conveniently forgetting his own sarcastic jabs at Harry and Ron the previous night when they wasted two sets of ingredients.
The classroom air dropped several degrees. Draco, who had been smirking at Harry's discomfort, suddenly found himself caught in the crossfire. Snape's cold, empty gaze pinned him in place, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Draco feared his godfather more than anyone else.
After a long, tense moment, Snape waved Harry back to his seat. The pressure eased, though his mood clearly soured.
Class resumed. Students paired up to brew the boil-cure potion.
Snape stalked the aisles, robes billowing, snapping at students as they weighed nettles and crushed fangs. Everyone earned his scorn.
When he reached Loren and Hermione, however, he lingered.
Loren, fully focused, followed the book's instructions step by step. Hermione, having brewed once under his guidance the night before, wasn't ready to brew alone, but as his assistant she was more than capable. Snape hovered, watching closely, searching for flaws to pounce on. But as the potion neared completion, he had found nothing.
Lucius Malfoy had asked Snape to "put Angus in his place." Loren's antics before school had left the Malfoy family reeling. Though minor Hufflepuff-born officials and figures seemed insignificant, together they had embarrassed the Malfoys thoroughly. And since Draco had been in the wrong, the family couldn't retaliate openly. Their only outlet was through Snape, to make life harder for Loren.
Proud as he was, Snape hadn't wanted to comply. But in the end, he yielded to Lucius's request.
Yet here was Loren, producing a potion nearly identical to the textbook result—flawless, clinical, untouchable.
Snape picked up the potion, inspecting it. Though grudgingly impressed, he sneered: "Perfectly by-the-book. Not a trace of originality. This is the work of a machine, not a brewer. Lifeless."
Loren nodded. He agreed. He could reproduce exactly what was in the text, but lacked deeper understanding. The potency of an ingredient varied with its age, environment, even method of harvest. Recipes provided ranges, but true mastery required insight.
Snape, unable to fault his technique, had only criticized his inexperience. Loren accepted it gladly—it gave him the chance to probe deeper.
"Professor," Loren said with all due respect, "I'm a Muggle-born wizard. No one taught me potions before Hogwarts. I only know how to follow the book. But you—you're a master. Could you demonstrate for us? Let us witness the true beauty of 'a softly simmering cauldron, its vapors curling with fragrance'?"
Quoting Snape's own words back to him, Loren baited the hook. The other students, hearing, smirked silently. Yes, let the master show us—anyone can talk.
Snape examined more of the class's efforts—mostly disasters. When he caught the glint of "you talk big, prove it" in their eyes, he decided to make an example.
He swept to the front, conjured a fresh cauldron and ingredients, and began to brew.
Every student crowded forward, eyes wide. His movements were fluid, deliberate, yet almost casual—mesmerizing.
"Professor, why didn't you use all six fangs, like the book says?" Hermione asked, noticing he cut them into pieces and only ground part.
"Because only fools follow recipes blindly," Snape replied smoothly, never breaking stride. "Every ingredient's potency varies. You must adjust accordingly."
The final product gleamed, vibrant and alive. Side by side, Loren's potion looked stiff, mechanical.
"Potions are judged by their result," Snape lectured. "Your methods exist only to serve that. Most of what you've brewed is worthless—ten doses wouldn't matter. Loren's at least works, but mine? Half a dose will suffice. That is the gulf between a novice and a master."
His words stung, his insults harsh, but the truth was undeniable.
Loren, however, had been watching with magical sight. He saw the currents of magic within the cauldron, the interplay of power and ingredient. He understood now: potion-making was a dance between magic and matter. The book recorded common steps, but a master improvised, shaping the flow. And Loren realized—he could do more. He could *direct* the magic itself, not just observe.
Snape noticed his thoughtful look and, with uncharacteristic softness, extended a challenge.
"Mr. Angus, you've seen the demonstration. Will you try? If you can brew to this standard, I'll give you freedom in my lessons—complete your potion, then do as you please. But if you won't even try, then remember to show some respect. Your Potions professor has devoted his life to teaching trolls how to brew. That deserves acknowledgment."
Loren felt no anger in Snape's barbs—only a veiled invitation. He bowed respectfully, stepped forward, and began.
Snape flicked his wand—clean cauldron, fresh ingredients.
Loren thanked him and set to work. He didn't copy Snape's motions. Instead, he followed the text exactly—but wrapped each ingredient in his own magic, guiding reactions as he remembered them from Snape's demonstration.
It took longer. He worked carefully. But when he finished, the potion in the cauldron shone almost identical to Snape's.
Snape inspected it closely, then, face dark but eyes betraying acknowledgment, said only:
"It's a beginner's brew. You've a long way to go."
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