Allen asked the portraits for directions along the way as he headed for Snape's Dungeons.
Far from the crowds and sunk beneath the ground, the place was damp and cold. Wall lamps cast an eerie green glow, making it look just like a villain's lair from a story.
The little snake ornament on the door handle flicked its tongue and stared coldly at Allen.
"Professor Snape told me to come." Allen glanced down at his watch and showed it to the snake. "Five fifty-seven."
The little snake rolled its eyes, swished its tail, and opened the door.
Allen murmured his thanks and entered the office buried deep underground.
Rows of jars greeted his eyes. The bodies of various unidentifiable animals floated in green solutions, looking particularly unnerving in the dim underground light.
The serpent king sat behind his desk, marking homework. "What are you standing there gawking for? Come here," he said impatiently.
Only then did Allen notice the cauldron and potion ingredients laid out on the floor.
"Cure for Boils-you should remember the steps," the black-robed professor said coldly.
Allen eyed the unprepared slugs, hoping to negotiate.
Before he could speak, another knock came at the dungeon door.
As though salvation had arrived, he eagerly turned toward the entrance, hoping a professor would walk in, preferably with something very important to discuss. Then he could leave this place with a perfectly legitimate excuse.
And get away from that damned bucket of slugs!
Unfortunately, things did not go as he hoped. A trembling little lion walked in.
Judging by his height, this poor lion was a third- or fourth-year.
Clearly, even a Gryffindor famed for courage dared not face the serpent king of the Dungeons alone. He had practically shrunk into a quail as he struggled to say, "Professor, I'm here for detention."
"Aha."
Snape gave a low, mocking chuckle. "Mr. Cook, your detention today is to skin those two buckets of toads," he said impatiently.
He pointed to the two large buckets beside him and said coldly, "Cornwall, what are you waiting for?"
Allen, who had been staring at the two enormous buckets in horror, immediately snapped back to his senses. "I'll start right away, sir!"
Comparison really could bring happiness.
Resigned to his fate, he sat on a little stool and carefully ground the snake fangs, glancing down at the four slugs beside him.
The soft-bodied creatures were tangled together, leaving behind foul-smelling slime.
Looking utterly miserable, Mr. Cook carried a little stool to the edge of the office and began preparing the toads. He barely reacted to Allen's presence, so he was probably a pure-blood or half-blood.
Allen looked up and met his eyes. Each saw sympathy in the other's gaze.
God! Those were two huge buckets of toads!
Merlin! He was actually sitting that close to the old bat in black!
Awful! Absolutely awful!
They both hastily looked away and buried themselves in their work, terrified that the black-robed professor might make them trade places.
An hour later, Snape stiffly gave the password, "Sherbet Lemon," and entered the Headmaster's Office.
"Ah, Severus, thank you for your efforts." Dumbledore smiled at him and nudged the dish of sweets closer. "Would you like a Sherbet Lemon?"
Under the serpent king's death glare, he regretfully withdrew his hand and continued, "Well, how did our little prince do?"
Snape was silent for a moment, then touched his wand to his temple.
The black mist of the memory strands spread through the Pensieve.
An hour earlier, Allen had been carefully grinding snake fangs, occasionally casting a pale-faced glance at the bucket of slugs.
Dumbledore watched the memory unfold with a rather peculiar expression.
The black-robed professor tossed the homework in his hand aside and flicked his wand. The bucket flew over to Allen. "Well, Mr. Cornwall, I hope you can prepare these slugs."
The low, silky voice paused. "Hogwarts has a very strict examination system. It will not change for one person."
Dumbledore silently glanced at the black-robed professor beside him. He had been planning to change it.
"...Even if your brain is not stuffed with flobberworms, a student who does not dare touch potion ingredients will certainly receive a Troll from me."
Allen automatically translated that in his head: even if his brewing technique was perfect, he would get a T on his final grade if he did not prepare the potion ingredients himself.
That was simply unacceptable!
So, pale-faced and with the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, he took a step forward. His expression worsened when he saw the so-called "potion ingredients" in the bucket.
Slowly, slowly, slowly, he reached into the bucket. The instant he felt that slick, sticky texture, he jerked his hand back. His other hand whipped out a handkerchief, and he wiped his fingers clean in a slight panic.
His face looked dreadful. Turning his head away, he took a deep breath and tried not to look at the bucket. Yet his slender fingers had barely touched its wooden rim before he could not help pulling them back.
Before the serpent king could begin spitting venom, Allen seemed to have already reached his limit.
He grabbed a nearby object, drew his wand with trembling but swift fingers, and tapped it. The object rapidly transformed into a bucket.
Before Dumbledore could praise that accomplished Transfiguration, the Crown Prince, who was always so gentle, elegant, and composed, clutched the bucket... and vomited.
Dumbledore, Snape, and the Snape in the memory: ...
The old man watched as Allen threw up even the acid in his stomach. Even in that state, the blond Crown Prince struggled to straighten his back, doing his best to preserve his princely dignity.
Afterward, with an extremely reluctant grimace, he picked up a slug, his face as white as crumbling plaster.
Dumbledore and the two black-robed professors watched in silence as Allen laboriously squeezed his way through an entire bucket of slugs...
By the end, Allen was as pale as paper, his hands trembling constantly as he finished the task. He rested for a few minutes, steadied his shaking right hand, and swiftly and precisely brewed a cauldron of Cure for Boils.
The black-robed professor in the memory was silent for a moment. "Well, you may leave."
Allen bowed slightly, his gaze sincere. "Thank you for your guidance."
The memory froze. Dumbledore stepped forward to inspect the finished Cure for Boils and could not help admiring it.
The Headmaster's Office reappeared before them. Astonished and impressed, the old man murmured, "Such incredible willpower... in an eleven-year-old boy. How many people in this world can overcome what frightens them and still achieve such perfection?"
Snape remained stiff-faced and silent, but approval was evident in his eyes.
He curled his lip awkwardly. "The poor Potions Professor had originally planned to teach two potions, but that delicate little prince disrupted everything!"
Dumbledore came back to himself and glanced at Snape. "Don't be too harsh, Severus. In fact, I think we could certainly adjust the examination system for Allen."
"Oh, Severus, don't deny it. I know you're very fond of Allen as a student too-
"He remembers everything in the textbook. His brewing technique is still a little unpolished, but he's improving very quickly. Although he's afraid of the potion ingredients, he can still prepare them meticulously... and he even understands the care behind your intentions."
Deeply moved, Dumbledore dabbed at the corners of his eyes.
"The younger generation is truly formidable! So, Severus, might I ask you to give him some more extra lessons? For a genius, following the usual curriculum would be rather dull."
Snape's face fell, and he roared, "Dumbledore!"
Before you continue