Hogwarts: Proficiency Panel Chapter 61: The Lost One

Statues are often broken, like the one of Gregory the Smarmy at Hogwarts. Because a secret passage lies behind it, generations of careless students have subjected it to countless poorly perford nding Charms.

Just like Professor Snape now, jolted from a long mont of stillness, his attention fixed on the young wizard who had disturbed his solitude.

But silence is relative. While Snape's dark eyes simred with cold fury, Sean remained oblivious, focused only on his task with a quiet excitent. He expertly lit the cauldron and carefully retrieved ingredients from the glass-fronted cabinet filled with bizarre specins. The white slip of parchnt containing Borage's secrets lay tucked within Advanced Potion-Making, veiled by the rising steam.

Ingredient preparation… heat control… stirring… ritual… Sean ntally reviewed every annotation in his notes, the culmination of repeated trials and refinents. It was this scientific, quantifiable approach that allowed him to consistently produce potions of 'Adept' quality. Today, he hoped to push the Boil-Cure Potion even further.

"If you possessed even a shred of intelligence, Sean Green," Snape's voice suddenly hissed from the shadows, "you would exercise caution with those dried nettles, adding them only after the bubbles have fully ford…"

Before Snape could finish, Sean added the nettles to the bubbling cauldron, the Quick-Quotes Quill beside him diligently recording the action. He seed completely unaffected by the sarcastic interruption.

Snape's glare intensified, but his voice was montarily drowned out by a clap of thunder from outside. "Imbecile! Are you unaware that stirring counter-clockwise more than two and a half rotations will render this potion less valuable than the gri coating this cauldron?!"

Sean imdiately stopped stirring, counted the seconds precisely, then added the slugs.

It seed that when sarcasm t with utter indifference, only the filtered sound of rain and the gentle clinking of Sean's ladle remained. Snape's derisive comnts gradually subsided, punctuated only by occasional, icy shards of "guidance."

Until—

"It is ti—" Sean's eyes glead. Libatius Borage's modified ritual was a holistic process. Subtle adjustnts were made throughout the brewing, but only the final step brought all the hidden threads together. The potion itself was at its most volatile stage; the slightest misstep in the ritual could drastically alter its quality.

The mont Sean began the incantation and the modified hand gestures, Snape's pupils contracted. He surged forward, his black robes flowing around him like storm clouds, arriving at the cauldron in an instant. Two small slips of parchnt were clutched tightly in his hand, yet remained uncrumpled, protected by multiple preservation charms.

Sean, lost in the process, was completely unaware. He beca the potioneer, striving to create the perfect redy. A powerful emotion surged through him, sharpening his focus, allowing him to perceive the subtle flows of magic within the simring liquid. Yes— He felt the shift in the cauldron's energy, sensed how to guide it, rge it more completely, achieve a truly refined result.

But the storm inside the dungeon now raged as fiercely as the one outside.

Snape stared at the boy's intent green eyes, stared at the achingly familiar hand movents.

"Where did you learn that?!"

[You have successfully brewed a Boil-Cure Potion to the Expert standard. Proficiency 50]

The Panel's notification chid simultaneously with Snape's raw, strangled roar. The sound was so violent it jolted Sean back to reality.

"Have Yourself a Fiesta in a Flask!, Professor," Sean answered, utterly bewildered by the sudden rage.

"Give it to . The note." Snape's voice was barely a choked whisper.

Sean silently retrieved the flat slip of parchnt from Advanced Potion-Making – the one detailing Borage's heat control techniques. In the very corner, almost invisible, was a faint number '3'. As Sean's sharp eyes caught it, he quickly glanced at the note he'd found in Have Yourself a Fiesta in a Flask! – the one detailing the modified ritual. It bore a faint number '2'.

Snape's expression was unreadable in the dim, flickering light. Rain lashed against the high dungeon windows, nearly drowning out the Professor's barely audible words – if they were words at all.

"Sean Green," Snape finally snarled, his voice thick with decades of repressed fury. "Get out of my dungeon—Now! Imdiately!"

Sean sensed the dangerous shift in the atmosphere. He started to pack, but just then, another slip of parchnt fluttered out from between the pages of Advanced Potion-Making.

He froze, holding the newly discovered note, and t Snape's murderous gaze.

"Fool! GET OUT!!!"

Sean snatched the note and fled, though he instinctively closed the heavy dungeon door more gently than he had opened it.

What just happened? What do the numbers an? The number of people who know the secret? If Snape knew about the heat control, who was the second person? And why didn't they know about the ritual modification?

The questions swirled in his mind like the raindrops gathering on the stained-glass windows, coalescing into an unsolvable mystery.

In the dungeon, the cold stone walls wept perpetual dampness, mingling with the bitter, sharp scent of aged potion ingredients to create an atmosphere uniquely Snape's. He retreated behind his massive black oak desk, folding into the shadows like a bat taking refuge in a deep crevice. Staring at the slips of parchnt was all he could do.

From Advanced Potion-Making, two notes lay superimposed: '1' and '3'. The missing note, number '2', represented the brighter days of his youth, a secret shared… a bond broken…

From Have Yourself a Fiesta in a Flask!, the notes read '1' and '2'.

The disappearance of the third… that was solely his own fault…

His fingers loosened slightly, the chard parchnt unyielding, but the movent itself was slow, heavy with exhaustion. His gaze fixed on the space where the missing note should be, as if he could stare through the stone walls, back through ti to a rainy night long ago, to a final, irreparable schism.

Hatred warred with an unspeakable, tearing grief within his chest. He could almost hear the word again, the unforgivable slur that had defined his damnation. The past, a relentless phantom, tightened its grip around his throat.

He had believed he would carry these secrets, these burdens, alone, until that interfering brat had stumbled into his dungeon.

His expression was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. He knew the notes would eventually be found by another… Truth, like love and hate, could never be entirely suppressed.

In the corridor above, torches cast flickering light on suits of armour. A short, stout knight bounced between portraits, occasionally knocking over a goblet held by a painted witch, earning a sharp whack with a bouquet of flowers.

Sir Cadogan muttered obliviously as he went, "Aha—thought the old story wouldn't change. Thought he'd cling to his hate, forget his love for the art. But now… a new, faint story begins. Hope, is it? That's what they're all saying…"

Just as Sean passed beneath his fra, a figure shrouded in shadow suddenly materialized before him. Sean tensed, recognizing Professor Snape instantly. The Potions Master's dark, sunken eyes reflected the green of Sean's own.

"Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evening," Snape's voice was low and devoid of its usual malice. "I expect to find you in the dungeon. Do not make regret this decision…"