Chapter 64: The Mysterious Potion
"Oh, are you all right, Shawn?"
Justin's voice sounded beside him.
In truth, Shawn was not all right. It felt like he could already see what was about to happen.
He quietly switched seats. A moment later, whispers rippled around them.
"What's Seamus doing, Ron?"
"He's trying to turn the water in his goblet into wine. A couple of days ago, he managed weak tea, but then..."
"And then?"
Suddenly, a great cloud of boiling black smoke roared upward and swallowed Seamus whole.
Shards of shattered glass and droplets of water flew everywhere. The nearby first-years cried out and scrambled back.
Hermione jerked back ,too, eyes wide.
The smoke thinned at last, revealing Seamus.
His face was pitch black, as if he had just crawled out of a chimney. His hair stood up in stiff spikes, still smoking faintly.
He coughed and spluttered, stunned into blankness by the sudden failure.
For a heartbeat, the table fell silent, then laughter crashed over it.
Ron laughed so hard he thumped the table and spilled pumpkin juice.
Harry struggled to suppress his grin and ducked his head.
Only Justin hurried forward and offered a handkerchief.
"Are you all right, Seamus?"
Just then, the owls swept into the Great Hall in a flurry, as usual, showering the tables with post and neatly sweeping everyone's attention along with them.
Only Hermione gave Shawn a suspicious look as he finished moving at exactly the right time.
"You felt that surge of magic?"
...
Ever since Professor Snape had given Shawn that peculiar potion, he had left the dungeon to find a bottle, sometimes two, on him again and again.
Sometimes the label read: Drink.
Sometimes it said nothing.
However, if Shawn came to the dungeon carrying crystal vials full of potion, Professor Snape's mockery would rattle out like a machine gun.
Progress on the Swelling Solution was quick; in under two days, he had unlocked it.
At the same time, Professor Snape taught him the Deflating Draught as well.
The reason:
"With those troll hands of yours, you are going to need it."
Even so, Shawn had learned another potion.
His panel now read:
[Title: Potions Novice]
[Scourgebusting Potion: Apprentice standard (220/300)]
[Swelling Solution: Apprentice standard (1/300)]
[Deflating Draught: Locked (1/30)]
[Advancement: Brew three Entry-level potions to unlock an Entry-level title in the Potions domain]
Compared to the slow and steady march of Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Charms were moving much faster.
Tuesday.
Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
"N-now, who c-can tell me the three types of t-trolls?" Professor Quirrell asked, stammering, his timid gaze skittering across a room of Slytherins and Ravenclaws.
Anthony rose to answer.
"Mountain troll, river troll, and sea-dwelling troll."
He continued, "The mountain troll is the largest, pale gray, bald. Its skin is rougher than a rhinoceros', and it is stronger than ten men. However, its brain is only the size of a pea, so it is easily confused."
"V-very g-good, th-thank you."
While Professor Quirrell drew names for questions out of thin air, Michael was flipping through Shawn's Defense Against the Dark Arts notes.
"Classification of Dark creatures—indexed by region, indexed alphabetically... corresponding defensive spells and counter-curses..."
He held the notebook like a secret manual.
"Shawn, how did you think of this?"
Comparing the notes against The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, he found Shawn's light-blue notebook even more detailed in the spell sections.
"I'm guessing you used more than just the DADA textbook... Merlin's beard, this is as impressive as your History of Magic notes."
Shawn ignored him. His desk was scattered with The Basics of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Defense Against the Dark Arts: An Introduction, and other titles.
Because Professor Quirrell had next to no teaching ability, Shawn had to work it out himself. It did not take long for him to piece together a framework for the Dark Arts.
In fact, he had carried one question from his previous life.
Dark magic, spells—they were both spoken with incantations and cast with wands.
So why were they so clearly distinct?
Later, after summarizing dozens of books, he had his answer.
Spells and the Dark Arts were completely different. The Dark Arts were divided into three categories:
Jinxes, Hexes, and Curses.
Jinxes: The least harmful branch of offensive magic—irritating, inconvenient, and often used for amusement. Examples include the Knockback Jinx, Trip Jinx, Jelly-Legs Jinx, and the Impediment Jinx.
Hexes: Moderately harmful, causing pain or a lingering nuisance. Examples include the Bat-Bogey Hex, Knee-Reversal Hex, Toenail-Growing Hex, and the Stinging Hex.
Curses: The most harmful, intended to inflict severe or even irreversible harm. Examples include the Cruciatus Curse, the Imperius Curse, and the Killing Curse.
What Professor Flitwick taught, by contrast, was another branch altogether: Charms.
Suddenly, everything made sense. It also meant a talent for the Dark Arts did not translate into a talent for Charms, and vice versa.
After class, Michael clutched Shawn's DADA notes, while Terry and the others stared at him like hungry Kneazles.
"Ahem. You can read them—"
Before he could finish, even Anthony raised a brow.
"No way."
Michael bolted, leaving a trail of furious, chasing first-years.
He muttered as he ran, "These notes are Shawn's Galleons. He doesn't care, but I won't ruin them. I need to spread the word for him. Heh. Looks like it's working..."
Then he spun and rapped Terry on the head.
"Terry, honestly. Didn't I tell you Shawn agreed I could share with you and Anthony? And you just forgot?"
...
Noon.
Quidditch pitch.
Fresh from Charms practice, Shawn mounted his broom with easy confidence.
Once his feet left the ground, he was no longer the boy whose body could not bear to run or jump.
The old Comet 260 leapt like a silver fish into the air. Color returned to Shawn's pale cheeks in the wind. He lay close to the handle, clinging like a vine that had found its trellis.
Dive, turn, pull up...
He carried out Madam Hooch's instructions precisely.
His proficiency climbed in steady chimes.
[You practiced Flying once at Expert standard, Proficiency +50]
[You practiced Flying once at Expert standard, Proficiency +50]
...
His frail body traced clean, elegant arcs across the sky. At the edge of the pitch, Madam Hooch's lips tilted upward.
She spoke to the tall witch who had just appeared at her side.
"Mr. Green is a born Quidditch star. Anyone can see it. Those brooms—the outmoded, retired ones—are more than enough for fumbling flyers to practice on. As pleased as this lad is with them, you can see they do not match him."
The tall witch watched the little wizard revel in his hard-won freedom. A softer light gathered in her eyes.