The dungeon was always full of the "billiard-ball" clacks of first-years' stirring, with the occasional icy voice drifting through. Mostly, though, it was the hiss of ingredients slipping into cauldrons and the glugging bubble of a brew at the boil.
Hidden in shadow, Snape had watched long enough to know—outside a few specific areas, that fool's "talent" was no different from any mediocre wizard he'd ever seen.
In the cauldron's fine white steam he couldn't discern the lovely interplay of reagents, couldn't read the minute licks of flame on the metal, much less judge the key timing windows of a brew.
In that respect, his only strength was rigor.
Hah—without rigor he'd already be on a bed in the hospital wing.
[You brewed a cauldron of Euphoria Elixir at an Apprentice level. Proficiency +1]
Without the crutch of ritual magic, Sean could at best manage Apprentice-level Euphoria. That was a real gain after more than a week of work.
At the start, he could hardly get a successful batch at all.
[You brewed a cauldron of Euphoria Elixir at an Apprentice level. Proficiency +1]
Another apprentice batch done, Sean had to stop and rest after several attempts. Though he was only a sliver away from unlocking Beginner Euphoria, he knew his willpower was spent. Under Snape's intent gaze, he uncorked a vial and drank.
A thread of heat ran through him; the fatigue in his spirit began to lift.
He set the crystal bottle down—apple-flavored, as usual.
In three full months—between broom drills and Snape's potions—his magic had climbed back to a pre-admission first-year's level. Where Levitation practice used to leave him spent, now he could stack nonverbal casts again and again without tiring.
More importantly, he felt himself at the edge of a threshold.
Before this, his body produced only a trickle of magic, far below normal. Step over the line now and he'd restore not just the body, but a normal trajectory of magical development.
All it needed was—
A vial came from nowhere and dropped into his hand. He looked up; Snape's face was hidden behind parchment.
Sean looked down. Another backlit crystal bottle, the brew within a deeper shade than before. Only one word on the label: Drink.
He didn't hesitate. Call it "Mystery Potion No. 2"; it worked ten times better than the last.
And tasted richly of apple.
A pleasant heat bloomed through him. He felt himself tip over that normal first-year threshold; when he flicked his wand for Lumos, Snape's roar could be heard outside the dungeon:
"Fool! Pull your magic back!"
Sean lowered his wand, a barely-there smile at his lips.
There was more good news.
[You brewed a cauldron of Euphoria Elixir at a Beginner level. Proficiency +3]
Magic level does strongly affect performance across branches.
[A new Potions title has been unlocked. View?]
Heart lifting, he looked:
[Title: Potions Adept]
[Greatly increases perception in potions; greatly boosts potions aptitude]
[Wizard Sean — Potions Aptitude: Blue (raised by Potions Adept; was White). Note: most wizards are Green]
[Advance: Brew six Expert and six Adept potions to unlock Potions—Expert]
Aptitude—raised!
Those days of chasing inspiration, fretting over a hair of heat or a gram of stir—pushed another step away.
He might just call himself half a potions prodigy now.
Snape's stare never left him—of course he'd felt that sudden surge of power. The fool had nearly hung a hundred magic lanterns in the dungeon, and some ingredients must be kept in the dark.
Meanwhile, small details churned through Snape's mind and finally settled into a brief misgiving.
Late November in the dungeon—cold had seeped into the stone. Snow slipped from the castle's edges in small, soothing shushes.
Sean lit the burner, prepped and added ingredients, and stirred, waiting for fusion. Guided by a peculiar instinct, he kept adjusting his technique mid-brew, the quill beside him scribbling furiously in his notebook.
Now he understood why Snape had been so urgent and angry—looking back, his brewing had been pure copycat, errors and all.
[You brewed a cauldron of Euphoria Elixir at an Adept level. Proficiency +10]
Whether stored strength or luck, joy rose on Sean's face.
Adept Euphoria—worth twenty Galleons even at buyback.
It meant he now stood on the rung where he could brew advanced potions alone.
Compared to the term's start, when even Scalp Salve was a struggle—this was a hundredfold better.
At the dungeon's coldest hour, Severus Snape turned away, standing at the window, gaze sinking into the Black Lake's frozen skin.
In Sean's cauldron the final red tongue of flame sank into ash with a faint, sighing sound.
Snape didn't move. He only watched his breath turn white and fade into the dungeon's stagnant air.
As if waiting for something—or having forgotten the waiting itself. In this corner even ghosts avoided, only memory and potion-scraps remained, sealing some never-healing wounds below zero.
He had thought it was merely poor talent—but the boy's aptitude was surfacing. In a blur, Snape could imagine only one cause:
Suffering had left him a barren body, smashed the gifts he should have had, and frozen his magic at the pass line—
Sean felt quietly elated; Snape's face stayed blank. In a rare, even tone he asked:
"Why is there no resentment?"
Snow fell silently onto the Black Lake, the Forbidden Forest—onto a long winter where no letter was sent. The snow thickened. The fire rose in the cauldron, cracking softly now and then. This winter, the snow seemed to settle on Snape's rusted windpipe and lungs.
His voice sounded like a train halted mid-run; the name in his throat stuck fast in the long winter.
~~~
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