Professor Snape wasn't always the bane of young wizards' existence—at least not for Sean, who actually looked forward to seeing the Potions Master in the dungeons. Sure, Snape's sarcasm could sting, but his teachings? Those were gold, distilled from years of mastery, always hitting just the right note to help Sean grow.
As evening settled over Hogwarts, the corridors basked in a lazy, warm glow. The sinking sun spilled golden light through towering arched windows, casting long patches of warmth across the cold stone floor. In the distance, the edges of the Forbidden Forest blurred as a thin veil of twilight crept from the trees, slowly swallowing the tops of towering pines.
Sean, his black bag slung over his shoulder, passed a group of playful young witches and wizards. A few Hufflepuffs glanced up as he walked by, but none spoke. An orphaned student buried in studies didn't exactly have many chances to earn a galleon.
Sean had mulled over ways to make some coin:
- Homework for hire—low pay and too much competition.
- Smuggling goods—required knowing secret passages, and he suspected the Weasley twins already had that market cornered.
- His best bet? The greenhouses. Professor Sprout was happy to give students seeds, which Sean could grow and sell.
Earning galleons mattered, but if it meant cutting into his magic studies, Sean figured it wasn't worth it. Take his History of Magic notes, for example—he wouldn't rush them just to make a quick buck. The subject was fascinating enough to deserve time and care. A hasty, profit-driven product would hardly be a triumph.
Snape's words came back to him, perfectly timed: "Even the most inferior potions will find wizards eager to claim them…"
When Snape had said that last time, Sean's eyes had lit up, catching the professor off guard for a split second.
The air grew chilly and dim as Sean pushed open the dungeon door. No sign of the Potions Master—a slight letdown, but it didn't stop him. He swiftly pulled out his ingredients and lit his cauldron.
Snape's guidance could turbocharge his progress, but without a solid foundation, Sean knew he'd never truly grasp the craft. Wisps of white steam curled upward in the dungeon, a scene unchanged since the tenth century. Only the figures at the cauldrons swapped out over time, their focused gazes the one constant.
Well, two pairs of eyes, actually.
From the shadows near a row of bizarre specimens, a pair of cold eyes lingered on Sean's cauldron, silently scrutinizing every move. Progress—remarkable progress—born of stubborn, almost clumsy effort.
Just as Sean reached for the slugs, a chilling voice cut through: "Is your intellect so feeble you can't even identify a slug? Second shelf, left side."
Sean paused, glanced at the high shelf, and used a Levitation Charm to carefully retrieve the glass jar.
"Your pathetic eye for quality can only scrounge up subpar ingredients," Snape sneered. "Next time I catch you defiling the art of potion-making with such rubbish, Sean Green, you'd better be out of my dungeon before I throw you out!"
Sean brushed off the jab, though he froze for a moment. Wait, what? Snape's letting me use his ingredients?
Alright, Sean thought, Hogwarts professors really were secret tycoons.
As he dove back into brewing, Snape fell uncharacteristically silent. He recognized that technique—a clumsy imitation of his own, but an imitation nonetheless. Few wizards were clever enough to memorize every detail of his in-class demonstrations. Imitate, refine, repeat: the universal path to success.
This wizard wasn't a potions prodigy, but he was a loner who loved the craft as much as Snape did. Snape had noticed him before—uninterested in socializing, fixated only on the cauldron. It was hard not to see echoes of a certain boy from Spinner's End.
Compare that to the idiotic explosions those Gryffindor fools—especially Harry Potter—caused in Potions class. Potter didn't even try to stop his bumbling friends. Pure provocation.
Snape's perpetually furrowed brow softened slightly.
The cauldron bubbled, its thick contents turning inky green. Sean meticulously controlled the heat, using Master Libatius Borage's techniques to elevate the potion's quality.
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Where did you learn that heat control? I don't recall teaching it."
Sean's heart skipped. Oh no. Does Snape not approve of Borage's methods?
He remembered Snape's copy of Advanced Potion-Making, filled with handwritten notes improving Borage's recipes.
"Advanced Potion-Making, Professor," Sean admitted.
"Hmph," Snape scoffed. "Last step, heat's too low. Step three, you stirred counterclockwise. Redo it. Are your eyes just for show?"
Sean blinked. Snape knew about those hidden tweaks? Without hesitation, he started over.
Two hours later:
You've brewed a Scabies Potion to an adept standard. Proficiency +10.
"Thank you, Professor."
This was Sean's second adept-level Scabies Potion, good enough to sell. Snape reclaimed it under some "Hogwarts Potion Recycling Policy"—which Sean suspected was made up on the spot—but paid him a whopping three galleons.
Sean tucked the coins into his bag without a word, marveling at how potions were the wizarding world's cash cow. Snape shot him a look that screamed, "Pathetic."
Inspecting the barely passable potion, Snape's lips curled into a cold smirk. His voice rasped like a whisper in the dungeon's gloom, dripping with malice:
"It seems even the most barren soil can, by sheer luck, produce something passable. An acceptable potion only means you've barely crawled out of the pit of incompetence—not that you've set foot in the halls of mastery. Don't let arrogance dull your senses. Regret is the only antidote, Sean Green. Mediocrity is a choice, and I won't tolerate those who choose it here."