The foolish methods of a foolish boy—no matter how strictly followed—could only ever reach the bare minimum of competence.
For a wizard without talent, even a single extra glance was a waste of precious time for the Potions Master, Severus Snape!
Watching the flawed techniques, Snape's dark eyes almost flared with anger.
But when he gazed into those truly bright green eyes, the fire in his heart slowly subsided.
Thinking of how this boy had braved wind and rain, playing hide-and-seek with him just to brew a useless potion, Snape felt a strangely complex emotion stir within him.
Fortunately, the boy had shown some progress—last Potions class he had even managed to brew a barely satisfactory potion.
That was why Snape hadn't immediately thrown him out.
Sometimes he would come here, watching the boy fumble and concentrate through difficult practice.
Those other foolish students thought he was in his office?
They didn't know that Hogwarts' secret passages outnumbered the towers.
Yet there was one thing he might never admit—
That he wasn't merely watching for amusement; he was quietly keeping an eye on the young wizard's safety.
"Failed…"
[You have successfully brewed a Scab Potion with apprentice Level Skill. Proficiency +1]
In the dungeon, next to the cauldron, Sean sighed.
But he did not lose heart. He knew success was not achieved in one step.
He had found inspiration, but hadn't fully grasped it—
A change in one step caused a chain reaction in the others, and it was his failure to adjust them properly that lowered the potion's quality.
Yet if given time to brew one more, he was certain he could succeed.
Just as he was cleaning the cauldron and regrouping, the dungeon door suddenly swung open with a deafening thud against the stone wall.
A shadow entered before the figure, followed by the black robes that swallowed the faint light at the doorway.
Footsteps echoed on the damp stone floor, measured, deliberate, carrying the rhythm of judgment.
Sean froze, his wide green eyes staring dumbly at Professor Snape as he approached, step by step, until he stood before him.
The dim light barely illuminated the sharp shadow cast by Snape's hooked nose, and lent an extra chill to his dark words:
"Sean Green…"
His voice hissed like a serpent striking.
Sean's eyes dimmed in response.
He made no attempt to argue, quietly putting away the ingredients, cleaning the cauldron, and preparing to leave the dungeon.
He knew that his choices had always been dangerous,
And being caught meant accepting the consequences.
"Sorry, Professor Snape," Sean whispered, "I'll leave now."
He slung his black bag over his shoulder, ready to go.
"Hah—of course, if I were you—"
Snape sneered, "Such foolish potion-making, such flawed technique—I would feel so ashamed that I wouldn't dare linger in this sacred place either."
Hearing Snape's words, Sean said nothing, only silently regretted—he had been so close to succeeding.
"Running away—this is your choice?"
Snape spoke suddenly, "If I were you, I would immediately ignite the cauldron—and when stirring at the end, increase the motion, and stir one more full circle."
Sean froze, pausing mid-step, astonished as he looked at Snape.
Was the professor… teaching him?
Without hesitation, Sean set down his bag, ready to take out the ingredients.
At that moment, a bundle of ingredients floated onto the wooden table.
Sean heard Snape's cold voice:
"If you dare fail—"
Snape's gaze was sharp, threatening.
But Sean felt nothing.
He had always been able to ignore appearances, thanks to his deep understanding.
Like Hermione, who at times could be a bit lofty and liked to instruct others, but beneath that arrogant attitude was genuine concern.
Just like Professor Snape, who always hid his emotions behind cruelty, bias, and hostility.
Yet no one could truly blame him for that, for not everyone possesses the capacity to love.
Sean recalled Snape's teachings in his mind.
The cauldron was relit, bubbles rising once more.
This time, Sean brewed the potion smoothly, with steady hands.
A faint trace of satisfaction appeared on Snape's sullen face, unlike the loud, brash Gryffindors or the mindless, sluggish Hufflepuffs.
Ravenclaw students were always a bit smarter, and this young wizard was among the best.
He knew what he wanted, acted on it, and put in enough—
Enough effort.
When the dark green liquid reappeared, Sean felt a hint of nervousness, until—
[You have successfully brewed a Scab Potion with experienced Level Skill. Proficiency +10]
[Scab Potion unlocked]
[New potion mastery title unlocked. Check your profile]
[A wizard talent has been unlocked. Check your profile]
The sparks in the fireplace burned brighter, yet Sean carefully poured the potion into a crystal vial without rushing.
Only when the cauldron was completely extinguished did he finally relax.
Snape gave a slight nod.
Before him, Sean was visibly excited—and he hadn't even used the improved ritual…
"Professor Snape, thank you."
Sean said sincerely, his clear eyes showing nothing but gratitude.
This made Snape pause, ready to turn away.
For once, he did not sneer, but instead looked at Sean more intently.
"You should consider yourself lucky that you succeeded, otherwise—"
His waxen face flickered with uncertainty, a rare complexity in his eyes.
"Sean Green, let me tell you something: Respecting the part of yourself that fails at Potions gives you the power to change reality. But if you belittle yourself, I swear, the gates of Potions will never open to you—"
Even after leaving the dungeon, Snape's words echoed in Sean's mind, nearly shattering his preconceived notions of the Potions Master.
Under the massive portrait, with Sir Cadogan's incessant chatter,
Sean once again reflected on Snape:
He was undoubtedly a boy deprived of love.
His tragedy was that he had spent his life longing for love, yet the absence of it in childhood robbed him of the ability to understand and express it.
He had grasped Lily's love—the only one he had—but his own flaws and the tragedies of his time had made him destroy it with his own hands.
In the end, his life became a long and painful self-punishment, written in loyalty and courage.
His greatness lay in his extraordinary courage and perseverance, yet the core of his character was that lonely boy from the cold house on Spinner's End, never nurtured by love.
And yet, does that mean Sean could define Professor Snape as a soulless shell, incapable of growth?
"Sean," he told himself, "you are sorting through your own prejudices and trying to fit them onto a living, breathing person."