When Robert saw the signature "Half-Blood Prince", he took a deep breath.
He had been searching for over half a month in the Potions classroom, rummaging through the vast collection of stored items. At last, he found the elusive book—Advanced Potion-Making—in the far corner of the storage cabinet.
Carefully, reverently, he opened the cover.
Just as described in the original story, dense and detailed potion notes filled its pages. Some notes weren't confined to the margins—they directly overwrote the printed contents of the textbook. Clearly, the owner of the book had no regard for the standard curriculum and had rewritten the material to reflect his own superior understanding.
It was unmistakably Snape's style in his youth.
With just a glance, Robert confirmed the book's authenticity. This was exactly what he had been seeking. A wave of relief washed over him.
Previously, Robert had been worried that the version Harry Potter found in the original series had been a deliberate plant—too convenient, too well-timed. But now, standing in the real Hogwarts with the real book in his hands, it was clear: Harry's discovery was indeed pure chance.
Yet, just as Robert was about to dive into the notes left behind by the Half-Blood Prince, the sound of familiar footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor.
Moments later, Professor Snape entered the Potions classroom.
He surveyed the spotless room, his eyes landing briefly on the basket of Flobberworms and neatly stacked porcupine quills. A faint look of satisfaction crossed his face before his gaze locked on Robert.
"You asked for guidance in Potions," Snape said coldly. "Then how long do you plan to stand there like a statue?"
"Robert Sprout. Get out your cauldron."
"First, brew a batch of Scab-Healing Potion."
Snapping out of his thoughts about the Half-Blood Prince's textbook and Sectumsempra, Robert quickly nodded and sprang into action. The book could wait. It wasn't going anywhere.
But Snape's guidance? That came once a week, and missing even a moment might mean losing it entirely.
This was tied to his efforts to nurture the Guardian Tree—a goal far more urgent than deciphering spells. So, Robert's expression turned resolute and serious.
Noticing this, Snape's eyes flickered with a faint trace of approval.
Robert's dedication was uncommon among young wizards. It reminded Snape of himself—once full of ambition, intensity, and an obsession with mastery.
But that sentiment quickly faded as he watched Robert's movements.
After only a few steps into the brewing process, Snape barked sharply, "Stop."
Robert looked up, confused.
He had followed the textbook precisely. Scab-Healing Potion was one of the most basic potions. He had brewed it successfully during his first week at Hogwarts. Now, nearly two months into the term, it should have been routine.
What had gone wrong?
Before he could voice his confusion, Snape sneered.
"Have you already forgotten my assessment of your potion last time?"
The memory clicked.
During their last class, Robert had brewed a textbook-perfect Scab-Healing Potion. Yet Snape dismissed it outright, declaring it to be a potion with no spirit—just a lifeless replica, made by blindly following instructions.
Robert hesitated. Now that Snape brought it up again… was that the point?
A realization dawned.
The Half-Blood Prince's book was filled with handwritten corrections, replacing and rewriting the textbook entirely. Clearly, Snape in his youth had despised the rigid instructions of the curriculum. He had his own philosophy—one that prioritized instinct, perception, and precision over robotic memorization.
So even if Robert followed the textbook exactly, it wouldn't meet Snape's expectations. Not because it was wrong—but because it wasn't alive.
But where, then, was the actual problem?
As Robert pondered, Snape's cold voice lashed again.
"Idiot."
"Have you forgotten how to process ingredients?"
"Have your eyes and hands absorbed no experience at all?"
Most students would have trembled under such scathing remarks. But Robert, who had endured weekly research meetings in his previous life, didn't flinch.
Compared to his old life, this was almost gentle.
Processing ingredients… experience…
Suddenly, a flash of inspiration surged through his mind like lightning.
Yes—when preparing ingredients for Snape, he'd noticed something.
Snape always adjusted the technique based on the magical aura of each ingredient. Even two porcupine quills from the same source would be treated differently, depending on their magical signatures.
So how could the same rigid technique apply to every ingredient?
To brew a true Potion, one had to feel the magic within the ingredients.
Understanding this, Robert's gaze sharpened.
He now saw why Snape insisted on starting with the basic Scab-Healing Potion.
Its magical aura was simple, making it the perfect foundation for reconstructing his understanding of Potions—from technique to perception.
He took a breath and resumed brewing.
This time, his movements were slower, more deliberate.
He stirred the cauldron non-uniformly, altering the order of ingredient addition, deviating from the textbook completely.
Watching this, Snape didn't lash out.
Instead, he revealed a rare, approving smirk.
"In this world, even ingredients harvested from the same place are not identical," Snape said quietly. "No matter how consistent their appearance or aura may seem, there are always subtle differences."
"The so-called 'standard processing methods' in textbooks are simply the safest, the most broadly applicable. But optimal? Never."
"Tell me—can a quill plucked from a young porcupine carry the same properties as one taken from an aged, dying beast?"
"The essence of Potions is not in memorizing steps but in harmonizing the magic of diverse ingredients."
"The recipes in textbooks… They might turn you into a decent apothecary at a shop. But a Potion Master? Never."
"And the Sacred Tree Potion you are striving to brew—such a potion can only be created by someone who understands this essence."
Robert listened in silence, heart pounding.
His eyes locked onto the cauldron as it bubbled softly. The magical aura it emitted was dynamic—boiling, intense, constantly shifting.
Even this most basic potion contained surprising complexity.
Halfway through the process, he shifted the cauldron off the flame.
A foul-smelling liquid remained.
The potion had failed.
Snape, however, did not react with anger. He simply pointed out Robert's errors with an unexpected calm.
"Again," he said.
And so Robert tried again. And again. Eight times in total.
Each batch failed—but with each attempt, the potion's scent, color, and aura improved.
Snape observed the process with closed eyes, not resting, but attuning himself to the magical fluctuations from the cauldron. By the end, fine beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and his face showed fatigue.
"That's enough for today," Snape finally said. "We continue next week."
Without another word, he turned and left.
Outside the classroom, Snape sighed—barely audible.
A shadow of regret passed over his features.
Robert had incredible work ethic. But… his magical perception was only average.
If it were just low magic power, it wouldn't matter much in Potions or Herbology. But perception—that was critical for interpreting magical auras, adapting on the fly, and reacting with instinctive precision.
It could be trained, yes.
But talent always defined the upper limit.
For two months now, Robert had trained daily to improve his magical perception. Still, it remained mediocre.
If someone like Harry Potter put in just a fraction of that effort… his natural talent would allow him to surpass Robert in no time.
Some people needed ten years to master what others could grasp over a cup of tea.
That was the cruel reality of talent.
Still, Snape had made a promise. He would guide Robert in preparing the Sacred Tree Potion, even if it took over half a year.
Meanwhile, back in the classroom, Robert wore a pensive expression.
"Learning Potions by Snape's method requires far stronger magical perception than Herbology," he murmured.
"My perception has already reached Silver Tier, yet I still can't brew a successful Scab-Healing Potion."
"The Sacred Tree Potion… will be even harder."
"It probably requires at least Gold-level perception…"
Yet Robert didn't look discouraged.
He looked eager.
"The new batch of Goldfish Vine will mature soon," he said to himself. "Once I harvest them and claim the rewards, I should reach Gold-level perception."
"Sacred Tree Potion… I'm coming for you."
Then, Robert turned his attention back to the Half-Blood Prince's textbook.
He flipped through the pages filled with dense, slanted handwriting.
Suddenly, his eyes locked onto something. A glint of excitement flashed across his face.
"Found it!"
"Levicorpus, and—"
"Sectumsempra."
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