Mist floats above a dirty river.
The river winds its way through heaps of garbage tangled in weeds on both banks.
In a nearby neighborhood, a huge chimney looms — the remains of an abandoned mill from long ago. It stands there, dilapidated and gloomy, exuding an ominous feeling even from a distance.
Two-story red brick houses line the street. Windows are few and far between — only a handful of small, rectangular panes pierce the walls here and there. Each frame is crossed with wooden bars, forming the shape of a cross.
This is Spinner's End — a place where piles of trash rot in plain sight. It is the home of Severus Snape, Hogwarts' Potions Master.
No. 19 Spinner's End.
Snape sat on a worn, threadbare sofa, a copy of The Golden Crucible journal open in his hand. He picked up a teacup from the rickety table beside him — a cup so faded and chipped its original color was impossible to guess. He turned it carefully, aligning the nicked rim to the other side, then took a slow sip of the bitter black tea to moisten his dry throat, and continued reading.
After finishing the article on the Wolfsbane Potion, Snape's brow furrowed slightly. He stared at the page for a long moment, then gave a faint, dismissive shake of his head and muttered under his breath, "Useless."
He set The Golden Crucible aside and picked up another book. But just as he was about to read, a soft cooing and the clatter of claws on glass came from the window.
Snape stood, crossed the small sitting room, and opened the grimy pane. An owl perched on the sill, feathers ruffled against the chill mist drifting in from the river. Snape's frown deepened as he untied the letter from its leg. He ignored the bird's impatient pecking for a nut, brushed it away with a flick of his fingers, shut the window, and returned to the battered sofa.
Turning the envelope over, he saw the sender's name — Sean. Snape's frown eased just a fraction.
He opened the letter and read it through carefully. As he read, the faint calm on his face gave way to a new tension. He leaned forward, the crease between his brows deepening — not with annoyance, but with thought. This was Snape's way of showing true focus.
When he finished, Snape rose at once and moved to the next room — a cramped space he had turned into a makeshift laboratory. The furnishings were old and a little shabby, but every tool a potioneer needed was there. On the walls, glass-fronted cabinets like those in his Hogwarts office held rows of labeled jars and vials.
Snape took down what he needed, set out his cauldron, and began brewing — testing the substitute material Sean described in his letter. He worked quickly but precisely, measuring, stirring, observing the reaction, cross-checking with his own notes.
When he was satisfied with the results, Snape sat down at the small worktable in the middle of the lab. He tapped the end of his quill against his palm, deep in thought, then drew a fresh piece of parchment toward him. With his usual spare, elegant script, he began writing a reply to Sean.
When Sean received the reply, he had already returned home.
Reading Snape's letter — full of precise notes and sharp insights — made Sean feel genuinely enlightened. As one of the top potion masters in the magical world, Snape's advice shed light on a breakthrough for the second substitute material, which had stalled Sean's progress for days.
The Wolfsbane Potion required twenty-two ingredients, seventeen of which were notoriously expensive. Sean's goal was clear: find as many effective substitutes as possible to lower the cost, then break the brewing process into parts to indirectly reduce its difficulty.
He wasn't doing this solely for profit — or simply out of sympathy for werewolf wizards, though that played a part. His main goal was to produce a series of papers that could be published in The Golden Crucible, riding the wave of interest generated by the original Wolfsbane Potion to carve out his own place in the potioneering world.
Just like the first Wolfsbane Potion, Sean's improved version was meant to become a series of published studies — each one adding to his credibility and voice in magical academia.
Of course, there were standards. Replacing just one expensive material wouldn't make a paper compelling enough; a single change barely lowered the brewing cost or complexity in a clear, impactful way. So Sean planned to gather three or four reliable substitutes at a time, then consolidate his findings into a strong, publishable paper.
He wasn't worried about someone else running off with his methods, either. Many of his substitutions relied on Muggle chemistry principles — knowledge that most traditional potion masters ignored or outright rejected. Even if they tried to follow in his footsteps, by the time they untangled the "mundane" logic behind Sean's approach, he'd already have published the next part.
Researching like this genuinely excited him — there was nothing tedious about it.
At the very end of the holiday, Blaise dropped by to visit. Sean paused his work for half a day, entertained Blaise — who was far more interested in playing with Caesar than discussing anything useful — then kicked him out with good-natured force once he'd had enough.
After that, Sean dove right back into his experiments, working without pause until the eve of the new term.
"Hey, did you hear? I heard that the famous Harry Potter blew his aunt up like a balloon and she floated off into the sky. Loads of Muggles saw it — caused quite a stir."
"What happened after that? Did they catch him?"
"Catch him? Ha! The Minister of Magic himself — Fudge — had to step in and fix the mess." The voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Oh, no wonder. Everyone knows Fudge is just Dumbledore's lapdog. If Dumbledore wants the great savior Harry Potter to stay out of trouble, the Minister has to rush over and sweep it under the rug."
"A Minister who cleans up his mess? Hahaha."
Walking through Diagon Alley, Sean was trailed by Aldridge, who despite being busy these days never failed to accompany him for school shopping.
Hearing the two boys ahead, Sean didn't even need to see their robes to know — with that tone towards Harry, Dumbledore, and Fudge, they were definitely senior Slytherins.
They stepped into Flourish and Blotts to get Sean's textbooks for the new term.
While waiting in line, Sean overheard more chatter about Harry and his infamous airborne aunt. But compared to the Slytherins, these students were more amused than mocking — probably Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws, judging by their mild tone.
The line wasn't too long. Just as it was nearly Sean's turn at the counter, the person behind him lowered his voice to whisper urgently, "Hey, did you see the Daily Prophet? The latest news."
"News? No, I haven't read it lately. You mean about the Weasleys winning that prize and going to Egypt?"
"Of course not — this is bigger. Someone escaped from Azkaban. Just vanished, without a trace! Can you imagine? Azkaban!"
"Azkaban? Who escaped?"
"I remember the name — said to be one of You-Know-Who's Death Eaters. Sirius! Sirius Black! A prisoner who should have rotted in Azkaban forever!"