Professor Snape was not a man who enjoyed idle chatter. So when he returned and handed a trunk to Owen, the boy didn't even ask what was inside. He simply took it and—CRACK—vanished on the spot.
He was already quite proficient at Apparition.
Snape nodded slightly in approval. The key to judging a good Apparition was simply listening to the sound. The louder the crack of magic compressing the air, the less skilled the wizard. The quieter the sound, the greater the mastery.
Hearing the noise the young wizard made just now, it was a significant improvement compared to before the holidays.
"Professor Snape, which House is Mr. Corlett in?"
"He has no House. He can go to any House he pleases. You'll understand once you get to Hogwarts."
The young witch was confused. Her sister had only mentioned that someone named Owen assigned her homework, which left Astoria feeling a mix of resentment and curiosity. She might be young, but she wasn't oblivious. Whenever Daphne mentioned Owen, the look in her eyes changed completely.
Seeing him today... he seemed pretty ordinary.
The young witch followed the professor to buy her school supplies, completely forgetting to note one crucial detail: when Owen left, he used neither a wand nor an incantation.
Snape was used to it, but Astoria... well, she hadn't reached the level where she could recognize true skill when she saw it.
---
Beakers, cauldrons, burners, fuel, and countless ingredients—half processed, half raw.
Everything was there!
Owen leisurely set up his basement lab. He took out the necessary ingredients, sorted them, ran through the procedure in his mind, and then got to work.
First, process the ingredients. Then, preheat the cauldron. Finally, start adding the materials and liquids.
It's no wonder that in ancient times, ordinary people defined wizards as evil.
Take potion-making, for instance. Throw one ingredient in, and woosh, a burst of blue light. Throw another in, woosh, a burst of red light. Those in the know understood this was a magical reaction between the ingredients and the potion base. Those who didn't know? Their imaginations could conjure up anything!
Why were Potions classes held in the dungeons?
This was exactly why. Otherwise, every time a class was in session, the castle windows would flash like a disco.
Pink Restoration Draught.
This was one of his modified potions. But Owen suddenly realized a problem: he had made it, but he had no way to test it. He certainly didn't dare drink it himself. What if something unexpected happened?
Magic, after all, couldn't be verified by muggle science.
Finding a human test subject was out of the question. If he hurt someone, he'd practically be a Dark Wizard. So... better to seal it up for now. Once school started, he'd ask Professor Snape to take a look. The man had a venomous tongue, but he genuinely taught those with talent. As long as you had a thick skin, you could learn a lot from him.
However... he should probably brew some standard potions first. Two batches for every type: one standard, one modified according to his own ideas. That way, he wouldn't be wasting the ingredients.
Time ticked by. When all the ingredients in the expanded trunk had been transformed into rows of potions, it was almost time for school to start.
"Molly, Whitey, pack up. We're heading back to school a day early."
Underage wizards weren't allowed to use magic, couldn't fly broomsticks, and couldn't Apparate, so they had to take the train. But Owen was different. He could teleport long distances, so there was no need to waste time and money on a train ticket.
CRACK!
With a soft pop, Owen appeared at the school gates, carrying his trunk, wearing the big cat like a backpack, and balancing the phoenix on his head. The two animals immediately took off for the Forbidden Forest, while Owen went straight to find Filch.
"Mr. Filch, look. These are the gadgets I made for you. This one casts Scourgify, this one casts Wingardium Leviosa, this is a Leg-Locker Curse, and this is Lumos. With these, your work will be much easier. And if any disobedient students are out night-wandering, hit them with the Leg-Locker Curse and see if they can run then!"
Listening to the young wizard's explanation, the caretaker's eyes turned red. "Mr. Corlett, I..."
"None of that between us!"
Owen chuckled as he petted Mrs. Norris, who was winding around his legs. "My suggestion is to use them often. Let the magic flow through your body. Who knows? One day, you might be able to pick up a wand and become a wizard yourself."
Filch cried. He bawled his eyes out.
But the young wizard who walked out of his office was beaming brightly...
Back in his room on the eighth floor, Owen unpacked briefly, then carried his trunk down to the dungeons. Sure enough, Professor Snape was still brewing. Looking at the liquid already emitting a pale golden glow, Owen knew without smelling it that this was the legendary Liquid Luck.
"Sit over there. I'll be done soon."
Owen didn't sit. He chose a spot, took out his brewed potions along with their racks, and sorted them.
On the left were the standard potions, mostly in cool colors like blue. On the right were his modified potions, which came in every color of the rainbow. The most impressive one was a purplish-red concoction that bubbled on its own without heat—his take on Skele-Gro...
After finishing his stirring and adjusting the heat, Professor Snape walked over. He paused, staring at the potions on the two racks.
He only glanced at the standard potions on the left. All "Outstanding" quality, as he expected. But the rack on the right... now that was interesting!
Because for more than half of them, even he, a Potions Master, couldn't immediately identify what on earth they were.
"This is..."
"Invigoration Draught. But I reduced the heat by one-third and added the third through fifth ingredients in three separate batches simultaneously. Then it turned into this."
A sneer appeared on the professor's face. Looking at the potion that had turned from teal to red, he simply uncorked it, wafted the scent toward his nose, and recorked it. Then he checked them one by one. He didn't need the boy's explanation; just by comparing them to the standard potions on the other rack, he knew what they were supposed to be.
"Very good, Mr. Corlett. I must congratulate you. You have successfully invented entirely unprecedented poisons. And not just one, but..."
He counted the bottles on the rack. "A full thirty-four varieties. Twenty of which even I cannot immediately brew an antidote for."
Failure?
But Owen wasn't discouraged. On the contrary, his eyes lit up. "Thirty-four? Does that mean the other two were successful?"
"Those two..." Professor Snape's smile widened slightly. "Are more toxic than the other thirty-four combined. At my current level, I cannot create an antidote for them."
Okay, so the other two weren't successes; they were just super-poisons...
Owen pulled out a notebook. "Professor, these are my brewing notes. Even though they failed, they help rule out errors. So I'm applying to use the Potions classroom and various ingredients."
"Permission granted. But you may only use them when I am present."
"Understood. I'll head back for now."
The young wizard left, and Snape carefully put away the colorful bottles. Potions—if they weren't magical, why call them magic potions?
Besides, no one said potions had to heal people. Poisons were a type of potion too!
He didn't blame the boy for wasting ingredients. Instead, he was happy. Truly happy. Because following a recipe perfectly would never make you a Potions Master. Only through constant innovation—and creating true, qualified potions through that innovation—could one earn the title of Master.
And... they weren't all failures. There was one success.
It was a mutated Calming Draught. Although it had turned from milky white to purple-black, its potency was fully three times that of a standard Calming Draught.
---
The next day, school started. Owen went to the Chamber of Secrets. He fed the Basilisk some meat, intending to let it sleep while he practiced magic. But his hand froze in mid-air.
"Stripes, did anyone come here while I was gone?"
Stripes—the Basilisk—slithered out upon hearing the question. It hissed a few times, indicating it didn't know, as it had been in hibernation since the boy left.
"Well then. Someone broke in. I'm curious to see... Hmm? This floor tile was pushed open from the inside?"
There was only one thing buried there: the diary Lucius Malfoy had given him.
Interesting. Owen abandoned his practice. He resealed the tunnel leading to the castle.
A mere diary. Where could it possibly run off to?