[You brewed a cauldron of Deflating Draught at expert level. Proficiency +50]
He'd officially "unlocked" the Deflating Draught. Exhausted as he was, Sean's heart pounded with excitement.
He'd climbed the steps laid by Master Libatius Borage and taken another stride into the will-based magic of Potions.
But when he looked up, he met Professor Snape's furious glare.
…
The price of unauthorized innovation—aside from Snape's blistering tirade—was three days a week from Thursday on, spent sorting and processing ingredients in the dungeon, plus trips to Snape's office at set times.
Like today:
"Lacewing flies, leeches, powdered bicorn horn, knotgrass, fluxweed, and boomslang skin go on the far left. If your reckless, foolish brain can still think, you'll know what those make when combined!"
With a cold sneer, Snape then had Sean group daisy roots, shrivelfigs, caterpillars, rat bile, and a dash of leech juice in another area.
It was obvious: the first set was the full list for Polyjuice Potion; the second, ingredients for the Shrinking Solution.
While sorting, Sean grew familiar with many recipes—and with the required states of ingredients: chopped, peeled, sliced thin, and so on.
"Sean Green," Snape hissed, serpent-cold, as Sean finished the organizing, tucked his notes away, and headed for the door, "if I catch you brewing anywhere outside this dungeon… you had better pray to Merlin himself…"
Sean nodded silently.
Brew outside the dungeon? Dangerous or not, he'd need a cauldron first.
The cauldron's boil had long since calmed. The potion in the crystal phial froze Snape's gaze in place.
His storm of scolding had drifted off like smoke. Lines such as, "Do you think you can best Zygmunt Budge's sixteenth-century formulation?"
"Or surpass all the great potion-makers who came before?"
"Ignorant!"—none of it remained.
Nothing that would stick in Sean's memory; nothing Snape himself seemed to care to remember.
Ever thus.
Seizing the lull, Sean quietly put the dungeon to rights. After one last Cleaning Charm, he murmured, "Goodbye, Professor," and turned to go.
But Snape—usually silent—spoke, his voice weighted in a way Sean had rarely heard, with the faintest tremor beneath it:
"Very well, Sean Green.
Let me tell you something—
Never yield to mediocrity.
Do not be like ninety percent of the wizards in this world.
If you settle for the average,
you do great harm to the world—and to yourself."
Sean blinked.
Those words almost overturned everything Snape had shouted before.
His gaze was icy, as if whispering from the shadows: If I see you content with mediocrity, standing still—I will make you regret it.
"I understand, Professor," Sean said, nodding. Under Snape's long stare, he stepped out into the corridor.
There, he felt Advanced Potion-Making trembling faintly in his bag.
He drew it out and waited, half hoping another slip from Master Libatius Borage would pop free.
Nothing came.
Only the slight tremor of Advanced Potion-Making, and, in the cold wash of moonlight, letters slowly appeared:
"When Zygmunt Budge kept company with rats on the far-off Isle of Hermetray,
when Libatius Borage carved the tracks of potions with blood and toil—
Compared to truth, a life is small.
I suppose you want to know—
Why must we study the mysteries of potioneering?
Because… they are there."
As the lines warmed beneath his eyes, an image resolved on the page.
In the portrait, a pair of clouded, weary eyes held a deep, almost hidden joy:
"I… see your eyes,
child.
Like a dim dawn, swathed in yesterday's age-old dust.
I see all I could not grasp, and I feel truth flowing—between your eyes and mine.
Libatius Borage's greatest achievement is no longer the uncovering of ritual and the will-guided method,
but the continuation of truth's path—placing it whole in the hands of a successor—
Sean Green.
We are pilgrims in the dark; only the everlasting radiance of truth can dispel the numbness of ignorance.
Remember—follow the arduous road, and reach the stars."
Sean felt his heart hammering like a drum.
The portrait of Master Libatius Borage faded; in its place, the slip tucked inside his notebook grew warm.
A golden name burned into it, widening Sean's eyes—Sean Green—Third Pilgrim of the Greatest Domain of Potions.
Across Advanced Potion-Making, lines of ink began to change in ways he hadn't imagined: unfinished refining rituals, unverified brewing methods—all of it opened itself to him.
What he held was no longer a purple-bound textbook, but the life's insights and explorations of Master Libatius Borage.
As with Harry and the Half-Blood Prince's notes, a master's lifetime of craft lay clear before him.
He put the book away, quietly.
Moonlight broke through the windowpanes and fell thinly across the stone floor.
From afar came the soft creak of the castle's ever-shifting stairs turning of their own accord.
Sean read and reread the altered entries without stopping, realizing at a glance how much room there was to improve his past brews.
The thrill lasted straight through Friday.
…
"Mr. Green—you want to learn Finite?"
Professor Flitwick was already used to finding Sean at his elbow.
Were he not so swamped with duties, the idea of spending an entire day discussing charms with Ravenclaw's most diligent, humble, and gifted fledgling—oh, he hardly dared imagine how wonderful that would be.
Just like last time's stunning Nonverbal Spell. And the Dark Ar—
Well… perhaps not that.
Sadly, Hogwarts coursework was crushing, so his industrious little eagle had to track him down in the staffroom.
The staffroom was a paneled hall with two talking stone beasts by the door, rows of black wooden chairs, and a very ugly wardrobe stuffed with teaching robes. It's said that the elderly Professor Binns once dozed there; when he stood up to go teach, he accidentally left his body behind in an armchair by the fire—becoming Hogwarts' only ghost professor.
~~~
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