Sean had originally assumed that brewing a potion wouldn't be too hard—after all, the steps are strict.
It turned out to be anything but simple.
He knew you were supposed to simmer dried nettles with crushed snake fangs in the cauldron, then add porcupine quills after taking it off the fire. But that's only a sketch. In practice, the problems multiply: How finely do you crush the fangs? How long after dousing the flame do you add the quills? How hard do you stir? How wide an arc? At which moments?
None of this is in the book, and Snape didn't explain a whit.
Sean figured these were things wizards just don't need explained—an instinct, maybe, like the odd "feel" that guided him when he learned the Levitation Charm. Because it's something "everyone" knows—or can quickly sense—no one bothers to teach it. And Snape probably never even thought about these questions; otherwise, as a Potions Master, it's unlikely he wouldn't have noticed.
"But I seem to be the slow one, so these all become my problems," Sean sighed inwardly.
His hunch was proved a second later. He followed the book to the letter and whatever "instinct" he could muster… and under his own "figures" and Justin's puzzled stare, the cauldron potion turned blue.
"I'm pretty sure the Cure for Boils isn't that color," Justin said, scratching his head, unwilling to believe it.
The cauldron bubbled; the blue potion thickened—and Snape's expression curdled with it.
"Idiots!"
He strode over, robes cutting a sharp arc. "I'd say besides heat and stirring, you also bungled your ingredient prep…"
With a flick of his wand, a stool appeared. He sat with chilly poise, eyes locked on the blue brew. After a few seconds he gave a cold sneer.
"Foolish choice of quills, trollish choice of nettles, and a catastrophic choice of fangs—non-venomous fangs? Two dimwits fit to be hung in a frame!"
He blasted the contents out of the cauldron without mercy.
"Be grateful your sequencing wasn't wrong, or you'd have learned what lesson fools earn in Potions!"
His voice cut like the dungeon draught.
"Minus one point—each."
Justin had felt doom the moment Snape approached, but the barrage still brought a flush to his cheeks. The light faded from Sean's big eyes; just like with charms at the start, he had zero instinctive feel for brewing. He could more or less guess his Potions talent now.
…
Even after class, no one dared speak loudly. The shadow of Potions still hung over the first-years.
"Don't worry, Sean—we'll earn those points back," Justin said beside him, pepping himself up as much as Sean.
"Mm." Sean looked a bit out of it, but inside he was steady.
If he stopped because of difficulty, obstacles, or mockery, he wouldn't even have learned Levitation.
He'd zoned out because he was chewing on Snape's words: botched heat, poor stirring, bad ingredient choices… The fundamentals of brewing—and his problems.
Two paths lay ahead. One was to brute-force it like charms: keep brewing and rely on luck to distill experience. He rejected that instantly. Potions isn't like charms—it isn't a safe branch. Handling and brewing can be dangerous and nasty; get sloppy and you're breathing poison. Gambling on luck is gambling with your life.
So that left the other path: understand the Potions discipline as fast as possible, solve every likely problem, then practice brewing to build proficiency, earn a title, and raise his talent. Harder and messier than the first path—but clearly viable. And once he nailed a single correct attempt, the rest would speed up.
"One problem at a time—but fast. Hogwarts has more than this one class," he murmured so only he could hear.
The long tables in the Hall were piled with food: roast turkey, little sausages, buttered peas, gravy, cranberry sauce, Christmas pudding, turkey sandwiches, baked flatbreads… a dazzling spread.
Lousy talent and Snape's acid tongue didn't dent Sean's appetite in the least. Merlin's beard—delicious. He ate quickly and neatly.
It had been half a year since he'd eaten his fill; even last night's feast had left him only seventy percent full. With no money coming in, the orphanage cut expenses. Matron Anna once proposed that a child only needs one meal a day. Nighttime acid reflux was no joke. At his hungriest, Sean would eye the strays at the orphanage gate as emergency rations.
"Hermione! Over here!"
Justin called to Hermione, who'd been looking for a quiet corner; she blushed and trotted over.
"You're too loud!" she scolded.
"Sorry—thought you might not hear." His dimples deepened.
"Our first class this afternoon is Herbology. It's the most frequent one on the timetable… I figure it won't be easy, so I re-memorized the book—hope it helps. By the way, I heard you had Potions…"
Head tipped up, Hermione rattled off like a machine gun.
"Herbology sounds brilliant—do you get to learn the magical plants? As for Potions, I have to say…" Justin listened carefully, and the two were soon deep in discussion.
Their voices faded into the background. Sean pulled out his timetable:
Wednesday morning: Herbology. Wednesday afternoon: Herbology. Friday afternoon: Herbology.
It really was the most frequent.
Hogwarts timetabling must have a reason; if Herbology showed up this often, it had to be needed. Why?
"…catastrophic ingredient choices… your ingredient handling likely went wrong…" He lined up Snape's comments. A few seconds later, it clicked.
Herbology teaches how to handle ingredients—and handling ingredients is the first step of potion-making.
Which means: to learn Potions, learn Herbology first.