"Ruler," a cold voice rang out from slightly behind Alistair, "come to the dungeon office after evening classes."
Alistair turned his head for a quick look, his heart skipping a beat—it was Professor Snape.
"Yes, Professor," Alistair replied with a calm exterior, though his heart was hammering inside.
As soon as Snape walked away, the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan crowded around Alistair. "What's that about, mate?"
"I have no idea. Probably about my Potions homework from the first week of term," Alistair casually tossed out an excuse, though he suspected it had to do with the soul stabilizer.
"Oh, no way. Just because you blew up a cauldron—"
"And failed to finish your homework—"
"Oh! That old bat is just too hateful!" Lee Jordan shouted.
"Alright, we'd better get to History of Magic," Alistair said with a helpless sigh as he strode toward the classroom.
The group continued chattering away in the corridor, badmouthing Snape. Alistair even found himself chiming in occasionally; this version of Snape was truly unbearable. If only he could speak without insulting people while taking roundabout jabs.
Hmph, such a Snape was even starting to ruin his perception of Mr. Alan Rickman.
Alistair was determined—firmly determined—to separate fiction from reality, for the sake of the respected Mr. Alan Rickman.
—
After History of Magic, Alistair walked somewhat reluctantly toward the dungeon office.
Because it was situated beneath the lake, every trip down to the Potions classroom or Snape's office always left one with a gloomy, damp, and thoroughly unpleasant feeling. On top of that, Alistair suddenly realized that the great image of Snape in his mind was beginning to crumble piece by piece.
"Knock, knock," Alistair rapped on the heavy door, having never been given the password to the Potions Office.
"Come in." A tall figure opened the door. Alistair couldn't quite make out his face; the light inside the office was no brighter than out in the corridor, with warm yellow lamps hanging on the walls flickering dimly.
Aside from a simple desk and a cabinet, the office held only a lonely sofa placed next to the fireplace.
The walls were lined with cabinets filled with various medicinal ingredients stored in glass jars, while another shelf on the opposite side was stocked with finished potions. In the corner sat some equipment that seemed in dire need of a cleanup.
It didn't look clean at all; gloom, dampness, and grime practically violated Alistair's every boundary.
Alistair followed reluctantly behind Snape with a miserable expression.
Snape walked over to the desk holding a cauldron, used a crystal-like stirrer to turn the potion inside three times to the left, and then summoned a beaker to pour the liquid out. "Drink it."
Alistair took the beaker, frowning as he looked at the thick, silvery-gray liquid inside, which looked rather unappealing.
"Drink up! And get out when you're done," Snape said, his face a mask of utter impatience.
Alistair downed the potion in one gulp, wiped his mouth with a grimace, and muttered, "Professor, could you try being a bit more pleasant?"
"A fool whose Potions grade doesn't even reach an A is begging his professor to be pleasant to him?" Snape's lips curled into a sneer.
"Not begging, suggesting," Alistair said, looking right at him. "Besides, I'm going to work hard on mastering potion-making! The last cauldron explosion was an accident. You should know my magic is unstable—"
"Oh, yes, it's your blasted unstable magic, and your professor has to pay the price for your antics!" By brewing magic stabilizers for him the entire semester!
"But you also got plenty of generous compensation, didn't you?" Alistair would bet anything that Ventel had given him plenty of rare ingredients; otherwise, he didn't think Snape would have complied so easily.
As if struck right where it hurt, Snape's expression suddenly turned foul. "Are you questioning your professor?! Get out!" With that, he grabbed Alistair by the collar and hurled him out of the Potions Office.
Alistair rubbed his neck, which was aching from being choked by his collar. "Damn it! Could you not be so rough? Keep this up and I won't even know what hit me before I'm choked to death."
Alistair turned and left the dungeons, heading toward Gryffindor Tower.
Tonight, the dormitory was once again occupied only by Alistair. The Weasley twins had been slapped with a whole week of detention, prompting Mrs. Weasley to send a howling letter at dinnertime fiercely chewing them out for their pranks and warning them to behave.
Yet the Weasley twins clearly didn't take it to heart at all; they were practically treating it as a badge of honor!
Alistair realized he had never really looked closely at this dormitory before. Today, he noticed for the first time that the beds belonging to the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were plastered with Quidditch photographs, while the walls above their headboards featured posters of the currently most popular Quidditch teams—though Alistair had never paid attention to them and didn't even know who the players were.
He figured if those three rabid Quidditch fanatics found out, they'd probably spit all over him.
Perhaps he should find time to read *Quidditch Through the Ages*, but not right now. There was still far too much he needed to learn.
He worried he wouldn't have the self-preservation skills needed in the coming war, and he worried that his secrets would be discovered by others. Beyond his normal coursework, he needed to study Occlumency and other magic capable of protecting himself and his family.
Even though the war was still a long way off, Alistair needed knowledge and power.
Alistair suddenly felt that Hermione had it rough, too; he couldn't fathom how an eleven-year-old child could be so aggressively studious, just as he couldn't understand how Ravenclaw students managed to read books every single day without fail.
Before long, the Weasley twins returned.
Alistair heard them stirring up a commotion in the common room, followed by a burst of raucous laughter—clearly, the people downstairs had been thoroughly amused by them.
Ah, it must be nice to be so carefree. Alistair sighed inwardly.
"Alistair?" The brown-haired little boy clearly hadn't expected Alistair to be in the dorm. "I thought you weren't coming back tonight."
Civet Bambling had always been someone with a very low presence, spending most of his time reading alone in a corner. Alistair was rather curious why he hadn't been sorted into Ravenclaw; frankly, he couldn't figure out what criteria the Sorting Hat used. He couldn't even remember what the Sorting Hat had said during the sorting ceremony.
"Civet? Finding it too noisy downstairs?" Alistair smiled and greeted him amicably.
"Yeah, the Weasleys are talking about their pranks." Civet hugged his book and walked back to his own bed.
Before Alistair could say anything more, a flurry of flapping wings came from outside the window. Alistair turned his head to see that Ruler had returned.
Alistair stroked Ruler's feathers. "Looks like you had a safe trip." The feathers were hardly ruffled at all.
Ruler dropped the envelope it had been carrying in its beak, nuzzled against Alistair, and then obediently flew over to the nearby desk to rest.
Alistair picked up the letter and set it aside, first feeding Ruler a handful of treats before urging the owl off to rest in the school's owlery.
Once the owl had flown off, Alistair finally turned his attention to the letter.
A reply from Number Four, Privet Drive.
Alistair glanced at the envelope, seeing no other information, and broke the seal.
Dear Senior,
Thank you for the things you sent. I'm so glad there is someone in this world who cares about me. I was completely shocked when I received your letter; I never imagined there really was magic in this world! Nor did I ever imagine that I could be a wizard who can do magic! I used to think I was a freak...
Also, may I ask if my parents are still alive? Why didn't they come looking for me? Or could it be... Oh, can you tell me more about magic? And might I know your name? It's fine if you'd rather not say.
As for the books, I will read them, but how am I supposed to return them to you when I'm finished?
Yours,
Harry
Alistair frowned as he looked at the crooked handwriting. He could read it, but the penmanship lacked neatness and polish.
Alistair wrote his reply in advance:
Dear Harry:
I am sorry, but I cannot speak about your parents. Furthermore, I will send you books periodically, so don't worry—just have the owl bring them back when you are done reading.
P.S. If you need anything else, just let me know. I am willing to help.
And you really need to practice your handwriting.
P.P.S.
Hogwarts is located deep in the remote mountains, and Ruler has already made a round trip. To avoid overworking it, Alistair decided to send this letter out tomorrow.