Sean's potion-brewing plan went even smoother than he'd hoped.
Because of an accident in Friday morning's Potions class—Neville had doused himself in potion by mistake, breaking out in swollen boils all over his arms and legs—Professor Snape had gone to the hospital wing.
According to Justin's breathless report, Snape would be there for a while; Sean had at least three hours to brew.
The dungeon was as cold as ever, but Sean's enthusiasm hadn't dimmed a bit. He briskly laid out ingredients and books and lit the cauldron. Justin was still at the hospital wing, keeping an eye out for Snape for him. He had to make the most of it—grind as much proficiency as possible.
Sean thought: once he reached Novice level at brewing and showed his progress in the next Potions class, maybe Snape would treat him like an upper-year and allow him to brew in the dungeon. He was a Ravenclaw, not a Gryffindor, after all. As long as it was reasonable and didn't break school rules, Snape shouldn't go out of his way to make things hard for a first-year.
Of course—that's assuming your name isn't Potter.
"Light the cauldron, prep the ingredients…"
By now these steps were second nature. The only things worth special attention—heat and stirring.
Just last night, he'd combed through all of Advanced Potion-Making until he'd frozen over a page of implication-heavy prose from Master Libatius Borage:
[Different potions have different methods of preparation. In truth, from antiquity to today, a physical phenomenon lacking metaphysical insight and a metaphysic lacking physical demonstration are equally unsatisfying.]
On the back of that abstruse passage, on a page like a pasted-in note where words suddenly appeared, he'd found a paragraph that was practically heresy in the experience-based lore of potion-making:
[Every Potions Master should know that heat is crucial to brewing. If you use the Fire-Making Charm, anyone can brew a perfect potion, but as I said in Throw Yourself a Fiesta in a Bottle, if you lose the peculiar intuition supplied by charms, a cauldron is just scrap iron—unbearable.]
Sean flipped the page—there it was, the key point leaping out:
[Though the following has been mocked as the stuff only "fool wizards" need learn—and is not accepted by tradition—my answer is: "fuck them!" If you are reading this, I'll tell you: an auto-lit cauldron can also achieve perfect heat.]
Seeing that line felt, to Sean, like Harry finding the Half-Blood Prince's notes, Hermione finding the Time-Turner, Tom finding Secrets of the Darkest Art…
"I—have everything I need!"
Sean focused on simmering the slugs and prepping ingredients. His stirring was no longer haphazard but adjusted by the technique Snape had let slip; his heat control no longer followed a fuzzy standard but Borage's guidance.
The dungeon's light was scant, just enough to sketch the first-year's form. Silky white steam trailed from the cauldron like fine cloth. With the soft gurgle of bubbles and Sean's quiet breathing, the brew turned pale blue again.
He knew the crucial moment was next. Using the same method as last time, he returned the slugs and began the final stir.
In the chill underground, shelves of glass jars ringed the room—twisted roots, animal eyes, scales that glimmered faintly. A cold drop seeped from a mossy crack in the ceiling and landed squarely on the back of Sean's neck. He didn't feel a thing. Body and mind sank into the mist, one with the words he mouthed and the magic flowing through him.
[You brewed one cauldron of Cure for Boils at Novice standard. Proficiency +3]
The panel's chime pulled him from his immersion. Eyes blazing, he looked at the inky-green, gelatinous potion.
He understood—the hardest step was done.
What remained was simple: maintain this level, stabilize his brewing technique, and finally change that "white-tier trash" talent for good.
His heart was hot, elated—but his cleanup speed was even faster. In an instant, everything was packed away; the Cure for Boils decanted carefully into a crystal vial. Sean flicked his wand:
"S—cour—g—ify!"
The cauldron returned to pristine. He tucked Advanced Potion-Making and Magical Drafts and Potions into his bag. Now he knew the difference between the eight-Galleon Advanced Potion-Making and the two-Galleon Magical Drafts and Potions.
He checked the dungeon once more—no trace left.
As the air warmed a touch, Justin's anxious face appeared with the sunlight. Seeing Sean, he visibly relaxed.
"Thank Merlin—Sean, did it go well?" he panted.
"Mm." Sean nodded.
At the same time, around the bend in the corridor, a sallow-haired, hook-nosed man strode along. First-years who saw him melted back against the walls.
Sean and Justin watched Snape walk straight into the dungeon.
They felt like thieves.
"Mother says, bonds forged in mischief are stronger than bonds forged in good deeds," Justin said with a laugh. Then, after a beat: "Though this wasn't mischief—the result's the same."
…?
Sean shot him a baffled look. What doesn't Mrs. Finch-Fletchley teach?
…
In the wizarding world, words like science never get much love. Even in Potions—a subject of deep science and precise craft—over-metaphysical dialectic is always frowned upon.
Mm. That wasn't Sean talking, but Master Libatius Borage—the author of Advanced Potion-Making, Asian Antivenoms: A Comprehensive Guide, and Throw Yourself a Fiesta in a Bottle! His handling of heat had helped Sean immensely, so, before lunch, Sean planned to visit the library for Borage's other two works. If he found more "heretical" slips tucked into them, all the better.
On Fridays, Hogwarts Library carries a peculiar mood—the mix of urgency and laziness unique to pre-weekend hours.
Perhaps first-years had finally realized you can't finish assignments without living there: the oak tables were nearly full. Everywhere, students hunched and scribbled, quills hissing the library's main melody across parchment.
Fifth- and seventh-years wore obvious anxiety, book-mountains piled in front of them—while first-years weren't far behind. Now and then a kid groaned, "A one-foot History of Magic paper?!" and Madam Pince "invited" them to leave—flying.