"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 308: Professionalism
As Douglas's mind raced through all the possible punishments Professor Snape might unleash—would he erase this awkward episode with a Memory Charm, or perhaps cast a Confundus Charm so the entire factory believed he'd donned the uniform?—a sharp, icy silence suddenly fell over the classroom. Professor Snape's gaze, cold and hawk-like, swept over the trembling young witches and wizards. Without a word, he raised the white work uniform and strode directly into the changing room.
Watching this, Douglas felt a flicker of complicated sympathy for the students. His eyes lingered on Snape's solitary, unyielding figure, and for a moment he wondered: Had this notoriously uncompromising professor truly changed?
Most had expected that, faced with a Muggle supervisor bold enough to call out his "greasy hair," Snape would at the very least storm off in a huff—if not hex the man outright. And yet, his reaction was nothing anyone could have predicted.
The students drew a collective, sharp breath—the sound slicing through the room as they exchanged bewildered looks. Some even began to suspect that this was a stand-in conjured by Professor Holmes; the abrupt, simmering silence was so unlike Snape's usual explosive temper.
Harry's face darkened, his eyes clouded with tangled thoughts. He'd caught the subtle twist of contempt, annoyance, and anger on Snape's face as he left. The scene yanked him back to first year, when Snape had mercilessly docked points from Gryffindor—just because Harry had glimpsed his limp. Even the smallest hint of emotion never escaped Snape's notice, and he'd always used it as ammunition.
Now, seeing Snape endure a "greasy hair" rebuke from a Muggle, then turn that piercing gaze on them, sent a chill through Harry's heart. He couldn't help but worry: would Snape seize on this trivial incident to mete out some grand punishment once they returned to Hogwarts? And worst of all, this time Harry was officially the student leader of the trip.
He instinctively glanced at Douglas, hoping for reassurance. Instead, he was met with a helpless, almost mischievous smile—a look that did nothing to ease his nerves. If anything, it made his heart sink further, as if a stone had dropped into a deep, dark chasm. The coming storm, he sensed, would be fiercer than he'd ever imagined.
Meanwhile, the Muggle supervisor—utterly unaware how close he'd come to disaster—watched the students' subtle, shifting reactions with a keen eye. Noticing the tension, he glanced back at Snape, piecing together the teacher's behavior and the students' wariness. He couldn't help but wonder: Did this teacher have any friends at all? Every cold glance in the corridor, every silent classroom, every awkwardly empty afternoon tea… The students' distance painted a vivid portrait of isolation.
He shook his head, marveling that a teacher so clearly unpopular could remain in his post. Perhaps he had powerful connections, or perhaps his results were so outstanding that the school simply couldn't let him go. Either way, the supervisor found himself more and more puzzled about this so-called "Hogwarts Secondary School"—and why the government would go out of its way to arrange a visit here.
Amid all these tangled emotions, Professor Snape emerged from the changing room.
His sallow, gaunt face looked even more drawn against the stark white of the protective suit. His black hair—still long, still oily—hung straight to his shoulders, only partially tamed by the cap. Yet his hooked nose, now even more prominent, lent him an air of sharp resilience, as if to declare: No matter the challenge, he would never back down.
Altogether, the sight of Snape in a sterile white uniform was at once mysterious and unyielding.
Douglas couldn't help but think, with a touch of admiration: Now that's professionalism.
Under the supervisor's guidance, the group plunged into the world of Muggle pharmaceutical manufacturing.
Stepping through the workshop doors, they were enveloped by a strange, dazzling brightness.
"Incredible. It's so bright in here, and we're always stuck in those gloomy castle dungeons… I mean, I love the Potions classroom," someone muttered.
Snape (｀д′)
The air was heavy with the crisp scent of disinfectant.
"It's nothing like the wonderful aroma of the Potions dungeon!" another whispered.
Snape ￣△￣
Inside, towering rows of stainless-steel machinery stood like silent giants, gleaming in the fluorescent light. Workers in spotless white uniforms, masked and gloved, moved among the equipment with practiced precision—conducting a silent symphony of industry.
The students were transfixed, crowding around the machines and peppering the staff with questions—albeit in hushed tones. The workers answered patiently, explaining how raw ingredients were transformed into medicines. The wizards listened with rapt curiosity—though more than one wondered if, with the right magical materials, these machines could brew potions too.
Of course, the magical world had its own array of enchanted tools, indispensable in potion-making. But in Snape's Potions classroom, such conveniences were strictly forbidden.
To Snape, a true Potions Master, every step had to be performed by hand. Only by personally sensing the properties of each ingredient, and feeling the subtle interplay of magic, could one truly master the discipline.
Yet compared to the Muggle world's modern machines, magical devices—though imbued with unique powers—were mostly auxiliary. Take the self-stirring cauldron, for example: it could keep a potion swirling endlessly, but lacked the precision to adjust speed or direction on the fly, as required by the most complex brews.
Muggle pharmaceutical equipment, on the other hand, could be programmed for exact speeds and timings, but could never replicate a wizard's intuitive control over magical energy.
Snape, unsurprisingly, regarded such Muggle machinery with open disdain. To him, the old ways were the mark of a true wizard.
Douglas, for his part, showed little interest in the massive machines either. In the magical world, the real bottleneck in potion-making was never efficiency. Rare magical ingredients were difficult to obtain, and with the wizarding population so small, large-scale production was almost unheard of.
Heavy industrial equipment simply had no place in wizarding society. Smaller, more precise tools were usually reserved for those with less skill—wizards who could barely manage standard potions.
For the most precious brews, wizards always preferred to work by hand. The rarer the potion, the rarer the ingredients—and no one would entrust such treasures to a mere machine.
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