Professor Snape wasn't always someone young wizards disliked. At least for Sean, he actually looked forward to seeing the Potions professor in the dungeons.
Though Snape loved to mock, the knowledge he imparted never disappeared.
That knowledge came from years of accumulation by a true Potions master, always precise, always exactly what Sean needed.
By evening, the corridors of Hogwarts were bathed in a warm, lazy glow.
The setting sun cast golden light through the tall arched windows, stretching long patches of radiance across the cold stone floors.
The distant edge of the Forbidden Forest blurred as a thin layer of twilight spread from between the trees, slowly swallowing the tops of towering pines.
Sean, carrying a small black bag, walked past groups of noisy students. As he passed, a few Hufflepuffs lifted their heads to glance at him but didn't say anything.
An orphan living at school didn't have many chances to earn money.
Sean's methods for earning gold were roughly as follows:
Ghostwriting homework — but the pay was low, and there might be competition.
Reselling goods — he'd need to master a few secret passages for that, and he suspected the twins were already in the business.
The method he liked best was going to the greenhouses — Professor Sprout was always happy to hand out seeds to young wizards. Sean could grow the plants himself and sell them later.
Earning Galleons was important, but if making money started cutting into his time to study magic, Sean felt it wasn't worth the trade.
It was like his history of magic notes — he wouldn't rush to complete them just for gold.
Magical history was fascinating in itself. If he couldn't spend years brewing a genuine work, but instead made a hasty, utilitarian product, that would hardly be a good thing.
That was when Professor Snape's words came to mind:
"Even the poorest-quality potions will always find eager wizards willing to take them…"
The last time Snape had said this, Sean's eyes had lit up noticeably, catching the Potions Master off guard for a split second.
The surroundings gradually grew cold and dim as Sean pushed open the dungeon doors.
There was no sign of the Potions Master inside, which left him a bit disappointed.
Still, that didn't stop him from swiftly taking out his ingredients and lighting the cauldron.
Snape's occasional tips certainly accelerated his progress, but without a solid foundation, true mastery was impossible.
Wisps of white steam began rising again, curling lazily through the dungeon air. The scenery here hadn't changed in centuries.
Only the figures standing at the cauldrons changed. What remained constant were the focused eyes.
Yes—two pairs.
From deep inside the dungeon, near a row of bizarre specimens, a pair of shadowed eyes appeared.
They were lingering by Sean's cauldron, watching each step silently, for longer and longer stretches.
Progress—significant progress—born from what was almost clumsy, stubborn effort…
Just as Sean was about to add the slugs, a cold voice rang out:
"Is your intellect so low you can't even recognize slugs? Second shelf on the left—"
Sean froze for a moment, then looked up at the high shelf and carefully levitated the glass jar down.
"Your pitiful eyesight can only collect inferior ingredients.
Next time I see you desecrate a beautiful potion with such trash…
Sean Green—do yourself a favor and get out of my dungeon early!"
Sean naturally ignored the sarcasm, blinking in surprise—
What on earth? Professor Snape was actually letting him use his own stock of ingredients?
Well, Sean thought,
Hogwarts professors really are all secretly loaded.
As Sean focused on his brewing again, Snape fell unusually silent.
He hadn't forgotten that technique. Though Sean's imitation was crude, it was still remarkable. Few students were clever enough to memorize every detail of how he brewed potions in class.
Relentless imitation, relentless correction—that was almost always the road to success.
The boy before him wasn't a potions prodigy, but he was a solitary student who genuinely loved the craft. Snape had casually observed him before. He didn't care about socializing, only the cauldron before him. It was hard not to see a faint shadow of a boy from Spinner's End in that.
Then Snape thought of those idiotic Gryffindors and their constant explosions during Potions class—Especially Harry Potter. He wouldn't even bother stopping his moronic friends!
It was deliberate provocation!
And so, Snape's brow—usually furrowed from sarcasm and annoyance—relaxed just a fraction.
The cauldron bubbled with a gurgling sound, the thick liquid slowly turning dark green. Sean focused on the flame, carefully controlling it using the techniques of Libatius Borage, which could greatly improve potion quality.
But this made Snape's pupils contract sharply.
"Where did you learn that flame control? I don't recall ever teaching you this!"
Sean's heart tightened.
'Damn…'
Could it be that Snape didn't approve of Borage's flame control methods? Sean remembered that in the original book, Snape had heavily annotated Borage's text to improve the techniques within.
"Advanced Potion-Making, Professor," Sean admitted.
"Heh—" Snape gave a cold, sharp laugh. "You lowered the flame too much at the last step, and your stirring direction in step three was reversed. Do it again! Are your eyes just decorations?"
Sean froze. Snape knew about that hidden part, too?
He didn't hesitate, immediately starting over from scratch.
Two hours later—
[You brewed a batch of Boil-Cure Potion with Experienced Level Skill. Proficiency +10]
"Thank you, Professor."
It was Sean's second journeyman-level Boil-Cure Potion — good enough to sell. Snape took it, citing Hogwarts' standard potion recycling regulations.
Sean suspected he'd just made that up on the spot.
But the professor handed him three Galleons — a hefty sum.
Sean silently tucked the coins into his bag with care, thinking to himself that potion-making truly was a gold mine in the wizarding world.
Snape looked at the cautious boy, his face practically saying, "Pathetic."
Afterward, he turned his attention back to the barely acceptable potion, his lips curling into a cold smile.
His voice echoed like a whispering hiss through the dungeon, hoarse and dripping with malice:
"Even the poorest soil occasionally squeezes out something passable by sheer accident. A passable product only means you've barely crossed the chasm of incompetence, not that you've stepped into the halls of true potion-making. Don't let 'arrogance' numb your senses. Otherwise, regret will be your only antidote—Sean Green—mediocrity is a choice, and here, I do not accept those who choose to be mediocre."