Sean had figured brewing potions wouldn't be too tricky—at least it came with those rigid steps.
But things were nowhere near as straightforward as he'd imagined.
He knew to toss the dried nettles and crushed snake fangs into the cauldron to stew, then add the porcupine quills once the fire was out.
But that was just a bare-bones rundown; in practice, it was a nightmare of snags.
How finely crushed should the snake fangs be? How long after dousing the flames before the quills went in?
What force for stirring? What arc? And when exactly?
The book was mum on all that, and Professor Snape hadn't spared a word of explanation.
Sean reckoned it was one of those wizarding instincts—no need to spell it out.
Like when he'd first practiced Wingardium Leviosa, some gut feeling to guide the way.
Since it was so obvious—or at least, something you'd pick up quick—no one bothered teaching it.
And Snape, as a potions master, probably didn't even clock the gap.
Otherwise, slim chance he hadn't spotted it himself.
"But I'm thick as a post, so these 'obvious' bits are my roadblocks."
Sean sighed inwardly,
and his hunch proved spot-on the next second. As he followed the book to the letter, leaning on whatever instinct he could muster for the brew,
the cauldron—under his resigned Told you so and Justin's baffled stare—
turned a vivid blue.
"I reckon the Cure for Boils isn't supposed to be that color."
Justin scratched his head, staring at the mess like it had betrayed him.
The potion bubbled and gurgled, the blue sludge thickening by the second,
and souring right along with it was Snape's expression.
"Idiots!"
He stormed over, robes slicing sharp angles,
"I'd wager, besides your abysmal stirring and fire control, your ingredient prep's a disaster too..."
Snape flicked his wand, conjuring a stool; he perched on it with eerie grace,
his eyes glued to the blue brew. A few seconds' scrutiny, and he let out a icy sneer,
"Foolish porcupine quill pick, trollish nettle selection, and a catastrophic fang choice—
venomless fangs, of all things?! Two cretins fit for the wall portraits!"
He roared without mercy, wand slashing the potion into oblivion.
"You should thank your lucky stars the steps were right—else you'd have learned the hard way what fools get for meddling in potions!"
His voice chilled like the dungeon drafts.
"Minus a point—each."
Justin had clocked trouble the moment Snape approached, but the barrage of barbs still flushed his cheeks,
Sean's wide eyes dulled, just like back when charms practice went pear-shaped—he had zero instinct for potion work.
He had a fair guess at his potions talent now.
...
Even after the bell, the first-years kept their voices low, the shadow of Potions still looming.
"Sean, don't fret—we'll claw those points back."
Justin's whisper reached him, half pep talk to himself.
"Mm."
Sean looked dazed, but inside, the storm had settled.
If he buckled at hurdles, jibes, or sheer difficulty,
he'd never have nailed Wingardium Leviosa.
The blank stare? He was mulling Snape's words.
Fire mismanaged, stirring off, ingredients botched...
Basics of brewing, and his personal pitfalls.
Two paths lay ahead.
One: brute-force it like with charms—trial and error till patterns emerged.
He scrapped that the instant it surfaced.
Potions weren't charms,
no safe-and-sane branch of magic.
Handling and brewing were dodgy, stomach-turning; one slip, and you had poison gas on your hands.
Guessing games? That was tempting fate with a cauldron.
So, option two it was.
Master the field of potions ASAP, iron out every glitch,
then grind practice for proficiency, snag a title, boost the talent.
Tougher, more tangled than brute force, but doable.
And once you nailed it right once, the rest sped up.
"One snag at a time—but quick. Hogwarts isn't just Potions."
Sean's murmur was for his ears only.
The Great Hall tables groaned under the feast:
roast turkey, chipolatas, peas with butter, meat gravy, cranberry sauce, Christmas pudding, turkey sandwiches, mince pies...
A proper spread.
Rubbish talent and Snape's venom? They didn't dent Sean's appetite one bit.
Merlin's beard... delicious.
He waged war on the plate—swift, elegant.
Six months since a square meal; even last night's feast had left him at seven-tenths full.
The orphanage, short on funds, pinched pennies fierce,
Matron Anna's grand theory: one meal a day per kid sufficed.
Midnight heartburn was hell,
and at his hungriest, Sean had eyed the strays by the gate like emergency rations.
"Hermione! Over here!"
Justin waved to the girl hunting a quiet corner,
she trotted up, cheeks pink.
"You're too loud!"
Hermione shot him a glare.
"Sorry—didn't want you to miss it."
Justin's dimples deepened.
"Afternoon's first up: Herbology. It's the most on the timetable...
Reckon it's no walkover, so I crammed the book again—fingers crossed.
Oh, and I heard you had Potions..."
Hermione tilted her chin, rattling off like a machine gun.
"Herbology—sounds smashing. D'you reckon we'll meet the magical plants? Like... As for Potions, well..."
Justin listened rapt, and soon they were deep in debate.
Their chatter faded in Sean's mind as he fished out his timetable, thoughtful.
[Wednesday morning: Herbology, Wednesday afternoon: Herbology, Friday afternoon: Herbology]
Top of the heap, no contest.
Hogwarts scheduling had to mean something— that many Herbology slots screamed necessity.
So, why?
"...catastrophic ingredient choice... your ingredients are likely the problem..."
Snape's snarl unspooled in his head; seconds later, it clicked.
Herbology taught handling ingredients—and that was step one in potion-making.
Easy leap: master potions? Start with Herbology.