In the dungeon, a biting wind rattled the glass jars on the shelves. Sean exhaled, his breath fogging in the frigid air. He glanced at his notebook in surprise. During his focused brewing, Professor Snape had impatiently scribbled annotations in the margins.
While the comnts were uniformly scathing—"Idiotic processing," "A dented choice," "Only rlin's pity allowed this timing to succeed"—they also revealed the profound, instinctive understanding of a true Potions Master.
Since Borage's notes had appeared, Sean had faced a frustrating reality: the three potions he knew how to brew (Boil-Cure, Swelling, Deflating) weren't the ones Borage had provided modified rituals for. It felt like being given a key to a vault, only to be standing in front of a rotting wooden chest. They didn't match.
Snape's corrections, therefore, were invaluable.
Aided by Borage's general principles and Snape's specific critiques, Sean managed to brew an 'Expert' level Swelling Solution.
[You have successfully brewed a Swelling Solution to the Expert standard. Proficiency 50]
[A new Title in the field of Potions has been unlocked. Please view.]
Sean felt a jolt of excitent. A sudden gust of wind made him shiver, his hand spasming, splashing a drop of the potent solution onto a pile of dried nettles. They instantly swelled to the size of cabbages. Sean calmly applied a drop of the Deflating Draught he'd brewed earlier, and they shrank back to normal.
"Hmph," Snape observed, noting the boy's lack of panic.
With the crisis averted, Sean checked his Panel.
[Title: Potions Novice]
[Effect: Significantly increases perception of Potions. Slightly improves Potions talent.]
Significantly, he noted. He read on.
[Wizard: Sean Green]
[Potions Talent: Green (Average)]
Boosted by Title: Potions Novice. Original Talent Grade was White.
It seems the next title unlock will finally boost the talent itself, he mused. In nearly two months, he had made tangible progress in every field, a far cry from the 'one-Epic, three-Common' talent profile he'd started with.
He quickly recorded his insights. The Guidance thod was still incomplete. It worked for the Swelling and Deflating Draughts, but even then, there was room for refinent. It was, as Borage had implied, a lifelong pursuit. Sean simply didn't have the ti to perfect rituals for every potion; he would have to choose wisely.
In the corner, Snape's anger had cooled. He noticed the faint, uncontrollable shiver racking the boy's thin fra. He remained silent, his dark eyes watching as Sean ticulously cleaned his station and prepared to leave.
"Stay, Sean Green," Snape's voice was a low rasp, forced from his throat.
Sean paused, turning.
A roll of parchnt, held tightly in Snape's hand, was slapped... no, placed... gently on the workbench. Snape seed to catch himself mid-gesture, his frustration returning. "If you ever again trust those deviations from established fact," he roared, "and develop a flawed understanding of the noble art of Potions! I assure you, Green, I will have you and your belongings thrown from this dungeon!"
At least he'd let take my belongings, Sean thought oddly. He picked up the parchnt, his eyes widening as he saw the back was covered in Snape's own spidery, precise annotations.
As Sean studied the notes, Snape's sharp gaze fell on the thin, ill-fitting collar of the boy's shirt. He froze.
The sarcastic words, the boy's slight shiver, the worn, pilled fabric… The mories rose like bile. A dark-haired boy walking under cobweb-laden eaves, swimming in his mother's old maternity blouse, the fabric reeking of a pure-blood family's decay. The jeers of "Snivellus"... the lank, greasy hair, less a choice than a consequence of dirty sinks and cracked tile.
The Hogwarts robe had been the first truly clean garnt he had ever worn. He rembered the unfamiliar thrill, the silver-threaded crest beating against his heart.
"Get out…" he heard his own voice, raw and unfamiliar.
Sean didn't notice, still absorbing the notes. He simply bowed his head. "Thank you, Professor." He walked briskly from the dungeon, leaving Snape alone in the shadows.
In the corridor, Sir Cadogan was back, this ti alone, his armour battered – doubtless from another duel. He was struggling to pull his sword from the ground. However he'd managed to get it stuck, it was in deep. After several fruitless yanks, he collapsed onto the painted grass, flipping up his visor to wipe his sweaty face.
"One must have a tenacious heart!" he bellowed at the empty hallway. "The hardest part is yet to co!"
Sean, watching the knight's struggle, silently levitated a nearby portrait of a stool and a campfire next to him.
The knight's eyes lit up. "Aha! Another quest, dear Green! We shall find our goal, and die gloriously in the charge!"
He never seed to get on his horse, or even draw his sword, yet he was always roaring, always full of fight. Sean nodded. He had no doubt the knight ant every word.
"Or perhaps not…" Sir Cadogan added, his voice dropping as Sean turned to leave. "Listen, young Green. It is no easy thing to sing while marching through hardship and adversity. But there is equal weight in silent endurance. You will find… not all life roars. So courage… is quiet."
The wind howled around the castle, a sound that echoed in both the drafty corridor and the cold, silent dungeon, where two pairs of unnervingly calm eyes stared into the darkness.
(End of Chapter)
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