Wyzett had always believed that if you processed your potion ingredients properly and followed the standard techniques, you could brew a high-quality potion. But for Snape, a potion wasn't so much a puzzle with fixed pieces as it was a set of building blocks—add a little more here, take a little less there, and you could still achieve the result you wanted.
For most wizards, potion-making was like assembling a jigsaw puzzle: every piece had to fit perfectly to reveal the whole picture. For Snape, however, the ingredients were more like bricks—so long as the final shape matched his vision, it didn't matter which bricks he used or how he stacked them.
It was an almost unbridgeable gap—the difference between an ordinary potioneer and a true master.
Snape's teaching style in these private lessons was as sharp and efficient as his instructions during ingredient preparation: every word was precise, every point distilled to its essence. The upside was clarity; the downside, a relentless pace that forced Wyzett to scramble, making connections and jotting down notes as quickly as he could just to keep up.
It didn't help that they were discussing the Draught of Peace—a notoriously complex, advanced potion. Wyzett had to work twice as hard just to grasp the basics.
The lesson lasted until the sun dipped below the horizon.
Rubbing his forehead, Wyzett felt his head spinning, crammed with more knowledge than he could possibly digest at once. He'd need time to process it all before he could even hope to unlock its secrets.
And even then, he knew theory alone was never enough. Only by marrying theory with practice could he truly make the knowledge his own.
"Next week, same time," Snape said curtly, rising from his chair—only to sway forward, a faint tang of blood drifting into the air.
"Professor Snape, thank you for your guidance—" Wyzett had just stood up himself, but hurried over to steady him.
He caught Snape by the arm, asking gently, "Professor, I've actually been meaning to ask…"
"It's an injury," Snape replied, his brow furrowed, sweat beading on his forehead. "You may go."
"Not even potions can help?" Wyzett was still half-immersed in the lesson. "I mean, when healing spells fail, potions are usually the best option."
Snape gave a wry twist of his mouth—those were, after all, his own words from earlier.
"I was bitten by a dangerous magical creature. Its malice and venom are entangled, making the wound nearly impossible to heal. The beast is rare—there's no record of how to break its curse."
"It's like curse-breaking: when you're faced with some obscure, malicious magic and there's no counter-curse, you have to keep using potions to chip away at it."
He pulled aside his robes, revealing a calf still slick with fresh blood. "I haven't found the right antidote yet. That's all there is to it."
"Professor, may I try?" Wyzett couldn't help but gasp at the sight of the wound.
"These days… I've been helping Hagrid quite a bit, treating magical injuries—removing traces of dark magic."
"If you want to try, then get on with it. You've got three minutes." Snape's tone turned brusque, clearly irritated by some memory.
A few days ago, he'd changed his antidote recipe and gone to Filch for help with the bandages, only to run into Harry in the office—and completely forgot to dock points in front of him. The thought made his mood even darker. He muttered, "Gryffindor, minus ten points."
"Er?" Wyzett blinked, baffled. Why was Snape suddenly docking points from Gryffindor? Was it just the pain talking?
He decided not to dwell on it, and with a flick of his wand, traced an "S" in the air—casting the Soul-Cleansing Charm.
A swirling vortex of magic rose up, sweeping around Snape's leg. The whirlwind darkened, drawing out a dense, shadowy mass of malice.
When the magic faded, the extracted malice hung in the air, bobbing like a sinister balloon.
Snape's brow finally eased. With a snap of his wand, potion ingredients burst from the surrounding cabinets, swirling through the air.
He moved like a maestro conducting an orchestra—his wand alone directed the ingredients, which processed themselves midair in a cascade of magical sparks and shimmering lights.
Wyzett was dazzled. Every step seemed vital, and he could hardly decide where to focus.
A medley of potion scents mingled in the air. The cauldron bubbled with uniform, silvery fish-eye bubbles. Another wave of Snape's wand, and the potion soared into the air, condensing quickly into a fist-sized ball of ointment.
He hadn't taken a single step—every part of the brewing process was handled by magic alone.
His expression was calm and almost nonchalant, as if he were simply leafing through a book.
The ointment floated gently down onto the wound. A plume of green smoke rose, and the bloody gash sealed itself in moments.
At last, Snape turned to the floating malice. With a casual flick, he traced a circle in the air—a transparent glass dome materialized, trapping the malignant force inside.
Only then did he look at Wyzett, his tone cold as ever. "Don't show off the special effects of that magic. There's always someone out there with an agenda…"
"The wizarding world isn't as rosy as you think. Especially outside these walls, you need to stay alert—never trust anyone too easily if you want to survive."
It felt like a hammer blow to Wyzett's chest. He answered instinctively, "I understand. Thank you, Professor Snape."
The warning sent a chill through him.
Life at Hogwarts was wonderful—so wonderful, in fact, that he'd let his guard down. But as Snape said, malice still lingered in the world. That Runespoor from before school was proof enough.
The news in The Daily Prophet made it clear: beyond the ivory tower of Hogwarts, there were all kinds of wizards. Not just Voldemort, who could rise again at any time, but countless dark wizards as well.
Dark wizards who committed crimes with impunity—magic made their evil all the more dangerous.
If anyone coveted the Soul-Cleansing Charm, they might capture him for research—or threaten Luna and Xenophilius…
He couldn't let that happen.
Wyzett made a silent vow.
Inside school, he could study as he pleased. But beyond its walls…
He'd have to stay vigilant—always ready to protect himself, and those he cared about.
Snape spoke again, his voice dry: "I'd rather you didn't die and come back to haunt Hogwarts as a ghost."
Wyzett replied smoothly, "Understood, Professor Snape."
"And… some things are best left until after Madam Pomfrey leaves," Snape added, still expressionless.
"Huh?" Wyzett blinked, not quite following.
"Like identifying potion ingredients," Snape said, stone-faced. "I still don't know how you managed to resist the effects and finish writing the formula."
"Oh!" Wyzett finally got it. Some things—like Patriarch Bodhi rapping Wukong's head three times—were best left to legends, not real life.
Still, he figured, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to keep going as he was…
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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