[You've brewed a Swelling Solution at an expert level. Proficiency +50.]
The Swelling Solution was finally mastered. Though utterly exhausted, Sean's heart was racing with excitement.
He was climbing the ladder built by Master Libatius Borage, taking another step forward in the magical domain of potions' will.
But when he turned around, he met Professor Snape's furious glare.
…
The consequence of his unauthorized experimentation? Besides a tongue-lashing from Snape, starting Thursday, Sean had to spend three days a week helping organize and process materials in the dungeon. Sometimes, he even had to report to Snape's office.
Like today:
"Lacewing flies, leeches, bicorn horn, knotgrass, fluxweed, and African tree snake skin go on the far left shelf," Snape sneered. "If that reckless, foolish brain of yours can still think, you'd know what potion those ingredients make."
With another cold smirk, Snape ordered Sean to group together daisy roots, shrivelfigs, caterpillars, rat spleen, and a dash of leech juice in another area.
It was obvious: the first set was for Polyjuice Potion, the second for Shrinking Solution.
While sorting, Sean grew more familiar with potion recipes and the specific states of their ingredients—chopped, peeled, or sliced thin.
"Sean Green," Snape hissed, his voice like a venomous snake as Sean finished organizing and prepared to leave with his detailed notes. "If I catch you brewing potions anywhere outside this dungeon… you'd better pray Merlin himself comes to save you."
Sean nodded silently.
Brew potions outside the dungeon? Forget the danger—he'd need a cauldron first.
The simmering cauldron had long since cooled, and the crystal vial of potion made Snape's gaze harden.
His earlier storm of criticism—things like, "Do you think you're better than Zygmunt Budge's 16th-century recipe?" or "Do you fancy yourself above every great potion master in history?" or "Utter ignorance!"—had faded into the wind.
Those words left no mark on Sean's memory, nor did Snape seem to care about them.
As always. It was always like this.
Seizing the calm moment, Sean tidied the dungeon, casting a final cleaning charm.
"Goodbye, Professor," he said softly, ready to leave.
But Snape, usually silent, spoke up, his voice heavy with a rare, almost imperceptible tremor:
"Very well, Sean Green. Let me teach you something—never settle for mediocrity. Don't be like ninety percent of the wizards in this world. If you accept mediocrity, you're doing a grave disservice to both the world and yourself."
Sean froze.
Those words overturned everything Snape had raged about before.
The professor's icy stare seemed to whisper, If I catch you settling for less, standing still, I'll make you regret it.
"I understand, Professor," Sean said, nodding quietly before leaving the dungeon under Snape's lingering gaze.
In the corridor, Sean felt his copy of Advanced Potion-Making trembling faintly in his bag. He pulled it out, half-expecting a note from Master Libatius Borage to pop out.
But this time, nothing came.
Only the book, still quivering slightly, revealed words glowing faintly under the cold moonlight:
[When Zygmunt Budge toiled on the distant island of Hermetray, accompanied only by rats, when Libatius Borage poured his heart and soul into carving the path of potions—compared to truth, life is insignificant. I know you must wonder: Why must we unravel the mysteries of potion-making? Because… it's there.]
As Sean read, the words grew warm, and a portrait shimmered into view.
In it, a pair of cloudy, weary eyes held a deep, subtle joy:
[I… see your eyes, child. Like a shadowed dawn, carrying echoes of ancient yesterdays. I see all I could not comprehend, and I feel truth flowing between your eyes and mine. Libatius Borage's greatest achievement was not discovering the rituals of potions or the methods of will-guidance, but in passing the trace of truth, whole and unbroken, to his successor—Sean Green. We are pilgrims in the dark, and only the eternal light of truth can banish the numbness of ignorance. Remember: Follow this arduous path to reach the stars.]
Sean's heart pounded like a drum against his chest.
Borage's portrait faded, but a slip of paper tucked in his notes began to glow. A golden name was etched upon it—Sean Green, Third Pilgrim of the Greatest Realm of Potions.
Inside Advanced Potion-Making, the text was shifting in ways Sean never expected. Unfinished potion rituals, untested brewing techniques—all of it unfolded before him.
He wasn't holding just a purple-bound book anymore. It was Master Libatius Borage's lifetime of insights and exploration.
Like Harry with the Half-Blood Prince's notes, the wisdom of a master potion-maker lay clear and vivid before him.
Sean carefully tucked the book away.
Moonlight filtered through Hogwarts' windows, casting faint patches on the stone floor. In the distance, the faint creak of moving staircases echoed as they shifted on their own.
Sean pored over the transformed text, instantly realizing how much room there was to improve his brewing.
The thrill carried him all the way to Friday.
…
"Mr. Green, you want to learn Finite Incantatem?"
Professor Flitwick was used to Sean showing up at his side.
If he weren't so swamped with work, spending a day discussing charms with Ravenclaw's most diligent, humble, and gifted student—oh, he couldn't imagine how delightful that would be.
Like that stunning silent spell last time, or the dark magic—
Well, that didn't count.
Sadly, Hogwarts' demanding schedule meant his diligent little eagle could only catch him in the staff room.
The staff room was a large, wood-paneled space with two chatty stone gargoyles at the entrance. It was filled with dark wooden chairs and an ugly wardrobe stuffed with teaching robes.
Rumor had it old Professor Binns once rested here, got up to teach, and accidentally left his body behind in an armchair by the fire—making him Hogwarts' only ghost professor.