Magic Potion Smoke and Undercurrents of Warmth

The starlight and night breeze of the Astronomy Tower seemed to linger on the skin, but Hogwarts' rhythm never paused for the night. The pre-Halloween atmosphere fermented like pumpkin juice, seeping into every corner of the castle. Corridors wafted with the sweet scent of baked pumpkin pie and caramel apples. Giant jack-o'-lanterns floated mid-air via the Levitation Charm, their hollowed eyes and mouths flickering with orange-yellow flames, casting swaying, eerie shadows. Bat flocks—magical decorations—glided silently under the vaulted ceilings.

Yet the last day of class before the holiday was like a bitter pill coated in sugar. For Gryffindor first-years, that pill had a name: Potions Class.

The Potions classroom lay deep beneath the castle, even colder and damper than Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration room. Dim light came only from greenish torches on the walls, casting rows of stone tables and the dried animal specimens hanging above into a scene straight out of a horror story. The air reeked of a pungent mix of sulfur, decayed plant roots, and some aged potion, making noses itch.

Professor Snape slid into the classroom like a silent black shadow. His greasy black hair hung beside his sallow cheeks, thin lips tight under a hooked nose, black robes billowing behind him like bat wings. When his cold, deep-pool-like black eyes swept the room, the pressure they brought made even the dripping condensation on the walls sound harsh.

"In my classroom," Snape's voice was low, silky, carrying a bone-chilling coldness that cut through the silent dungeon, "I don't need you foolishly waving wands or flaunting your... trivial theories." His gaze, like poisoned needles, precisely stabbed at Hermione, who sat in the front row and instinctively straightened her back. "What's needed here is precise ratios, absolute obedience, and..." His eyes slowly swept over Lynn with a deep scrutiny, "...a clear mind, unclouded by stupid impulses."

He launched into a lengthy opening speech on Potions, dripping with contempt for "reckless lions" and sarcasm toward "certain inflated self-perceptions." By the time he leisurely drew his wand and wrote today's potion on the blackboard—"BlemishBane Potion"—the classroom was thick with tension.

The recipe was complex, demanding extreme precision: porcupine quills had to be added after stirring counterclockwise exactly three and a half times when the potion turned smoke-blue—too early caused an explosion, too late rendered it useless; slug slime needed triple filtration to remove all impurities; dried nettle powder had to be ground as fine as dust...

"Work in pairs." Snape's icy voice fell. "Begin. Any foolish mistake will result in... unpleasant consequences for you and your poor partner." His gaze swept Lynn and Hermione again.

Hermione immediately pulled out her notebook—ordinary parchment, the Starry Notebook was too precious—and frantically copied the recipe, her small face tense, eyes focused as if defusing a bomb. Lynn calmly stood and fetched ingredients from the storage cabinet at the back. When he returned with a glass jar of slug slime and a jar of dried nettle powder, he saw Hermione frowning at the flame dancing under the cauldron, as if dissatisfied with the heat.

"The flame needs to be five percent hotter." Lynn set the materials on the table, his voice so soft only Hermione could hear.

Hermione froze, then immediately looked at Lynn. How did he know? But she didn't question it, quickly using her wand tip to adjust the flame's base ever so slightly. The fire beneath the cauldron instantly grew steadier and fiercer, shifting from orange-yellow to a bright blue.

"Thanks," Hermione whispered, the taut string in her heart loosening a little from Lynn's reminder.

The brewing began. Hermione took the lead, strictly following the notes, muttering key points under her breath: "Counterclockwise three and a half turns... filter three times... powder..." Her movements were a bit clumsy, but each step aimed for precision. Lynn acted as the perfect assistant, handing her precisely processed ingredients at the right moments: nettle powder ground fine as dust, slime filtered clear and pure, viper fangs—a substitute ingredient—sliced paper-thin with a Silver Dagger.

Snape ghosted silently through the narrow aisles. He stopped by Neville and Seamus's cauldron, watching the rolling yellow-green smoke and pungent smell, his thin lips curling into a cold smirk. "Mr. Longbottom, I assume your clumsy hands are trying to turn the cauldron into a biochemical weapon? Five points from Gryffindor for your breathtaking destructive power." Neville's face turned greener than the potion.

He stopped at Ron and Harry's table. Ron was frantically stirring, while Harry filtered slug slime, the sieve still full of thick clumps. "Mr. Weasley, is your stirring rod mining for gold? Mr. Potter, your filtration result is more disgusting than a troll's booger. Five points each." Ron's face flushed crimson, and Harry awkwardly lowered his head.

When Snape paced to Lynn and Hermione's table, their cauldron held a textbook-perfect smoke-blue potion, surface smooth and bubble-free, emitting a faint, minty cool scent. Hermione held her breath, utterly focused on the color, a porcupine quill pinched in her fingers, waiting for the optimal moment to add it.

Snape's icy gaze swept the cauldron like a physical force, then over Hermione's tense face and Lynn's calm profile. He seemed to be waiting for them to make a mistake. Just as the potion's color teetered on the edge between smoke-blue and pale purple, Snape suddenly spoke coldly: "Miss Granger, tell me, what would happen if you added the porcupine quill now?"

Hermione's attention shattered! She instinctively looked at Snape, her mind racing for the answer: "Professor, the potion's color hasn't fully stabilized. Adding the quill now would cause its unstable magical elements to violently clash with the transitional liquid, potentially triggering a small explosion or producing corrosive fumes..."

In that instant, the potion's color, due to a microsecond shift in heat, had already missed the optimal smoke-blue!

Lynn's pupils contracted sharply. Without a second's hesitation, as Hermione realized the color change, his left hand shot out like lightning, precisely grabbing her wrist—the one holding the quill—stopping her instinctive motion to add it! At the same time, his right wand made an almost imperceptible flick, precisely tapping the flame beneath the cauldron.

A faint, deep-blue starlight flashed and vanished!

The flame under the cauldron seemed instantly suppressed and adjusted by an invisible force. The blazing blue light dimmed for a moment, then steadied again. That precise, momentary cooling miraculously stabilized the about-to-change potion back to smoke-blue!

"Now." Lynn's low voice sounded in Hermione's ear as he guided her hand by the wrist, directing the porcupine quill precisely into the cauldron's center. "Counterclockwise, three and a half turns."

Hermione, almost mechanically, relying on the steady force transmitted from Lynn's wrist, completed the stirring. The potion let out a faint sizzle, a small wisp of harmless white steam rising, and its color instantly shifted to a clear, pale purple, like fine amethyst solution, releasing a stronger, cool minty scent. Success!

Professor Snape's cold gaze lingered for a moment on Lynn's hand gripping Hermione's wrist, then shifted to the perfect potion in the cauldron. His sallow face showed no expression, but in those deep-pool-like black eyes, a complex glimmer flickered—scrutiny, inquiry, and a hint of... indescribable gloom. He didn't deduct points, nor did he praise. He simply slid silently to the next target, as he had come.

The crisis passed. Lynn let go. The warmth of his fingertips and that steady strength still lingered on Hermione's wrist. She looked down at the perfect potion in the cauldron, then at her own wrist he had just held. Her heart pounded in her chest—not from the close call, but from Lynn's decisive intervention and that... reassuring control. Her cheeks began to burn uncontrollably.

"Th... thank you, Lynn." Her voice trembled faintly, her gaze darting away, unable to meet his eyes.

"Focus." Lynn's voice remained calm, as if he had merely brushed off some dust, his eyes signaling her to continue with the final cooling step.

Hermione took a deep breath, suppressing the flutter in her heart, and moved the cauldron off the flame. She added the final Moonstone Powder according to the steps. The potion instantly cooled and solidified into a clear, faintly glowing purple paste—flawless.

At the end of class, Professor Snape collected everyone's products. Lynn and Hermione's potion unsurprisingly earned the highest evaluation—though no verbal praise came. But as they left the cold dungeon classroom and stepped into the relatively bright corridor light and the warm glow of Halloween decorations, Hermione's mood sank. Snape's harsh words in class and his jab at her "inflated self-perception" stung like tiny needles, wounding her proud self-esteem.

"How could he say that!" On the way to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, Hermione finally couldn't help whispering to Lynn, her eyes slightly red. "I just wanted to do well! I just wanted to prove—"

"His judgment is irrelevant." Lynn's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a strange soothing power, cutting off her self-doubt. "Your worth doesn't need his approval to be proven." He stopped, turning to look at Hermione. The flickering jack-o'-lantern light danced in her bright eyes and also lit up a speck of dried nettle powder on the tip of her nose.

Lynn raised his hand again. This time, he didn't touch her wrist. Instead, with natural ease, he gently brushed his thumb pad across the tip of her nose.

The touch of his fingertip was clearer than before. Hermione's body stiffened again, but this time, she didn't flinch in panic. Her long lashes fluttered rapidly, and her cheeks flushed crimson, like two ripe cherry tomatoes. She could clearly feel the slight tingle from the calluses on his fingertips grazing her skin, and the warmth from the Star Stone, clear as basking in sunlight. The Moon White Stone at her chest responded with a warm current.

"Powder." Lynn withdrew his hand, rubbing the speck of dust between his fingers, his tone still flat.

"...Mm." Hermione's voice was barely a whisper. She lowered her head, but this time, she didn't immediately flee. The frustration from Snape's blow seemed oddly dispelled by the warmth of Lynn's fingertips and those words, "irrelevant." A subtle, sweet warmth quietly welled up in her heart, washing away the dungeon's chill.

The Great Hall had become a sea of celebration. Thousands of jack-o'-lanterns floated mid-air, bats darted under the dome, and the four long tables were piled with an astonishingly lavish Halloween feast: whole roast turkeys sizzling with golden, crispy skin; huge steak-and-kidney pies oozing gravy; mountains of roast potatoes and creamed corn; and countless bizarre desserts—screaming jellies, chocolate cakes shaped like skulls, pumpkin pies constantly oozing "blood-red" syrup.

The Gryffindor table buzzed with excitement. The twins, Fred and George, were performing a "cancan dance" with pepper shakers, drawing roars of laughter. Percy was sternly scolding them. Harry and Ron were wolfing down a giant meat pie.

Lynn and Hermione found seats. Hermione's mood had clearly lifted. She curiously poked a chocolate eyeball that split open on its own, revealing "worms"—actually strawberry jam—then jumped in surprise before laughing, her eyes crinkling into crescents. Lynn took a relatively normal-looking pumpkin pie.

Halfway through the feast, the atmosphere was at its peak. Suddenly, the Great Hall's doors burst open! Professor Quirrell stumbled in, his trademark, garlic-heavy violet turban askew, his face pale and filled with utter terror. His lips trembled as if he might faint at any moment.

"Troll! In the dungeons!" he shrieked, his voice twisted with fear. "Thought... thought you ought to know..." With that, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed beside the high-backed chair, unconscious.

Silence! Absolute silence fell over the Great Hall! The next second, terrified screams erupted like a tidal wave! Students panicked!

Headmaster Dumbledore shot to his feet, his resonant voice like an anchor, instantly quelling the chaos: "Silence!" His sharp gaze swept the room. "Prefects! Lead your houses back to the Common Rooms immediately! Teachers, follow me!"

The hall plunged into greater chaos. Percy immediately stood, waving his arms and shouting: "Gryffindors! Follow me! This way! Quick!"

The crowd surged toward the doors like a startled school of fish. In the chaos, Lynn grabbed Hermione's wrist first, shielding her beside him to avoid collisions. His hand was firm and strong, the warmth from his palm and that unmistakable protective stance instantly calming Hermione, who had been a bit panicked herself. She even forgot to pull away, instinctively gripping back tightly, as if he were her only lifeline.

"Don't be afraid. Follow me." Lynn's low voice sounded in her ear, steady enough to win hearts.

They squeezed through the crowd toward the door. As they passed the collapsed Professor Quirrell, Lynn's step paused almost imperceptibly. The Star Stone at his chest suddenly sent a sharp, icy, malevolent, chaotic sting—like being pricked by an invisible poisoned needle! It came and went in a flash, so fast it felt like an illusion.

Lynn whipped his head around, his gaze like lightning, shooting at the unconscious Quirrell on the ground. Beneath that violet turban, something seemed to... twist?

"Lynn! Hurry!" Hermione tugged him anxiously, breaking his stare.

Lynn withdrew his gaze, suppressing the suspicion rising in his heart, and shielded Hermione as they quickly merged into the evacuating crowd. The chaotic footsteps, terrified shouts, and flickering jack-o'-lantern light wove into a scene of disorder. But the feel of Hermione's grip on his wrist, and the lingering cold sting from the Star Stone—swiftly dispelled by the Moon White Stone's warm current—reminded him: beneath the Halloween revelry lurked shadows far deeper and more unsettling than any troll. And the one he needed to protect was right by his side.