Statues always get broken, like the one of Gregory the Sycophant at Hogwarts.
Hidden behind it was a secret passage, so careless young wizards had cast plenty of Repairing Charms on its fallen pieces.
It was much like Professor Snape now, emerging from a long stagnation to fix his gaze on the young wizard who'd shattered that stillness.
But sometimes, silence is relative.
Snape's dark eyes brimmed with icy coldness, yet Sean, oblivious, bubbled with excitement.
He expertly lit his cauldron, carefully selecting ingredients from a glass cabinet filled with bizarre specimens.
A white slip of paper, tucked inside Advanced Potion-Making, was soon shrouded in swirling steam.
"Ingredient preparation, heat control, stirring, ritual…" Sean murmured, recalling every note he'd made.
The steps and details were the result of countless refinements.
This scientific, measurable approach allowed him to consistently brew potions at a [Skilled] level.
Today, his Scabbers Solution might reach an even higher quality.
That thought fueled his enthusiasm.
"If you've got any brains at all, Sean Green," Snape snapped suddenly, "you'd be careful with that dried nettle. Add it the moment the bubbles start rising."
Before Snape could finish, Sean dropped the nettle into the bubbling cauldron, his Quick-Quotes Quill scribbling the step down beside him.
He seemed utterly unfazed by the sarcasm.
Snape's piercing gaze faltered briefly, but soon his voice cut through again, sharp as the thunder outside. "Foolish boy! Don't you know stirring counterclockwise more than two and a half times will make this potion worse than the grime in your cauldron?"
Sean promptly stopped stirring, counting seconds before adding the flobberworm mucus.
As it turned out, when sarcasm got no reaction, the dungeon fell quiet, save for the filtered patter of rain and the soft clink of Sean's stirring.
Snape's jabs tapered off, reduced to occasional, icy "guidance."
Until—
"It's time," Sean said, his eyes gleaming.
Master Libatius Borage's improved ritual was a complete process, woven through every stage of brewing but culminating in a final moment that tied all the subtle groundwork together.
The potion in the cauldron had reached its critical point. Every tiny movement in the ritual now could drastically affect its quality.
As Sean chanted the incantation and made the precise gestures, Snape's pupils contracted. He strode forward, his black robes billowing like storm clouds, reaching the cauldron in an instant.
His large hands gripped two slips of paper tightly, yet they remained uncreased—protected by multiple charms.
Sean, immersed in his potion, didn't notice.
He was once again the wizard painstakingly brewing a Scabbers Solution, swept up in a powerful emotion that let him see the subtle flow of magic.
And there it was—
He felt the shift in the cauldron's magic, sensing how to guide it for a more seamless fusion, crafting a truly successful potion.
But the storm inside the dungeon raged as fiercely as the one outside.
Snape stared at those green eyes, at those achingly familiar techniques.
"Where did you learn that?!" he demanded.
[You brewed a Scabbers Solution to Expert standards, Proficiency +50]
The panel's notification chimed alongside Snape's suppressed, guttural roar, so intense it startled Sean.
"Have Yourself a Bottle-Filled Bacchanal!, Professor," Sean replied, puzzled by the anger.
"Give me the note," Snape growled, his voice sounding like it was wrenched from his throat.
Sean quietly pulled the pristine slip from Advanced Potion-Making, which detailed heat control. At its edge, barely visible, was a faint "three."
Noticing this, Sean quickly glanced at the note from Have Yourself a Bottle-Filled Bacchanal!.
It bore a faint "two."
Snape's expression was unreadable in the dim light, the pounding rain drowning out any faint mutterings—if he was even speaking.
"Sean Green, get out of my dungeon—now! Immediately!"
His fury seemed to have been simmering for decades.
Sensing the dangerous atmosphere, Sean prepared to leave, but a slip of paper floated out from Advanced Potion-Making.
He froze, clutching it, locked in Snape's murderous glare.
"Idiot! Get OUT!" Snape bellowed.
Sean gripped the note and bolted, though he was careful to close the dungeon door gently.
What had just happened?
What did those numbers mean?
The number of people who knew this knowledge?
If Snape knew about heat control, who was the second person?
And why didn't they know about the ritual?
Sean's questions pooled like raindrops on a Gothic stained-glass window, sliding into an unanswerable mystery.
In the dungeon, the cold stone walls oozed eternal dampness, mingling with the bitter, sharp scent of aged potion ingredients, forming an air that was uniquely Severus Snape's.
He curled behind his massive black oak desk, like a bat lurking in a crevice, staring at the notes. It was all he could do.
In Advanced Potion-Making, two slips lay together, marked "one" and "three."
The missing note held the memory of his only sunlit days, a secret he'd once shared with someone.
In Have Yourself a Bottle-Filled Bacchanal!, the notes were marked "one" and "two."
That loss stemmed solely from his mistake.
His fingers loosened slightly, the notes unmarred but his movements slow, almost weary.
His gaze lingered on the missing note, as if it could pierce the walls to a rainy night long ago, to a breaking point.
Hatred and an unspeakable, tearing rage collided in his chest.
He could almost hear that word again, the sin he could never atone for.
The past gripped his throat like a specter.
He'd thought he'd cling to that note forever—until this fool barged into his dungeon.
His expression was complex.
He knew the notes would always find their next keeper.
Truth never dies.
Just like love and hate.
In the corridor, torchlight glinted off suits of armor.
A stout knight darted between portraits, occasionally knocking over a witch's goblet and earning with a whack from her bouquet.
Sir Cadogan, unbothered, muttered under his breath, "Ha! I thought that old story would never change. He's been clinging to that hate, forgetting the love he once had for Potions. But now, a new, faint story seems to be stirring. Hope, is it? That's what they all say…"
As Sean passed by, a figure cloaked in shadow suddenly stepped into his path.
Sean tensed, looking up at Professor Snape, whose dark eyes reflected a glint of green.
"Every Thursday for the next three days, I expect to see you in the dungeon," Snape said, his voice low and sharp. "Don't make me regret this decision."
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