Statues were always bound to be broken, just like Gregory the Smarmy's statue at Hogwarts.
Because there was a secret passage hidden behind it, careless young wizards had cast countless Repairing Charms on the toppled statue.
It was the same with Professor Snape now—he had snapped out of a long, silent stillness and was staring intently at the young wizard who had shattered it.
But sometimes, silence was only relative.
Coldness spread through Snape's dark, gloomy eyes, while Sean remained completely unaware, carrying a hint of excitement.
He deftly lit the cauldron and carefully selected ingredients from the glass cabinet filled with oddly shaped specimens.
A folded white note lay tucked inside Advanced Potion-Making, soon to be veiled by rising steam.
"Ingredient preparation, heat, stirring, ritual…"
Sean recalled every annotation from his notes, each step and detail the result of his own careful improvements and experiments.
It was through this scientific, measurable approach that he was able to consistently brew potions at a proficient level.
And today, the quality of the Scabbers Potion might improve even further.
That thought filled Sean with motivation.
"If you have even a shred of intelligence left, Sean Green—you'll add those dried nettles just as the bubbles start to rise…" Snape's sudden voice cut through the room.
Before he even finished, Sean had already dropped the dried nettles into the bubbling cauldron.
At the same time, the Quick-Quotes Quill beside him swiftly recorded the action.
He didn't seem affected by the professor's mockery at all.
Snape's piercing gaze froze for a brief moment, but soon his voice returned, accompanied by a rumble of thunder outside.
"Fool—don't you know that stirring counterclockwise more than two and a half times will make this potion worse than the grime at the bottom of the cauldron?!"
Sean immediately stopped stirring, counting the seconds before adding the slugs.
As it turned out, once mockery wasn't met with a reaction, the only sounds left in the dungeon were the filtered rain outside and the crisp ding of Sean's stirring rod.
Snape's biting remarks gradually faded, surfacing only occasionally as cold, grudging "guidance."
Until—
"It's time—"
Sean's eyes gleamed. Master Libatius Borage's modified ritual was a complete process.
It was woven throughout the entire brewing, but only at the very end did it connect all the subtle preparations together.
The potion had reached its most crucial stage, when every tiny movement a wizard made during the ritual could cause violent fluctuations in quality.
The moment Sean spoke the incantation and traced the gestures,
Snape's pupils shrank. He strode forward, his black robes billowing like storm clouds, reaching the cauldron in a heartbeat.
His wide hands clutched two paper notes tightly—but their shape remained unchanged.
They were protected by multiple enchantments.
Sean, oblivious, was fully immersed in his brewing.
He felt as if he'd become that same wizard once again, painstakingly concocting Scabbers Potion.
A powerful surge of emotion enveloped him, helping him sense the fine currents of magic.
As expected—
He felt the flow of magical energy inside the cauldron shifting, and instinctively knew how to guide it to merge more completely, creating a properly brewed potion.
But the storm within the dungeon now raged as fiercely as the one outside.
Snape stared into those emerald-green eyes, watching that all-too-familiar technique.
"Where did you learn this?!"
[You have successfully brewed a Scab Potion with Expert Level Skill. Proficiency +50]
The system prompt and Snape's low, seething growl rang out at the same time, so intense that Sean flinched.
"Make Your Own Bottled Carnival!, Professor."
Sean genuinely couldn't understand his anger.
"Give me the note."
Snape's voice was squeezed out from deep in his throat.
Sean silently pulled out the smooth strip of paper from Advanced Potion-Making. It contained detailed notes on heat control.
At the very edge of the strip, barely visible, a faint number "3" was written.
When Sean sharply noticed this detail, he quickly glanced at the strip of paper he'd pulled from Make Your Own Bottled Carnival!.
A faint "2" was written on it.
Snape's expression was difficult to read under the dim light.
Only the pounding rain against the dungeon walls reached Sean's ears, nearly drowning out the professor's quiet muttering—if he was actually speaking at all.
"Sean Green, get out of my dungeon—now! Immediately!"
His anger felt like it had been buried for decades.
Sensing the terrifying shift in atmosphere, Sean was already preparing to leave,
when a strip of paper slipped out of Advanced Potion-Making and fluttered to the floor.
Sean froze, holding the paper in his hand, locking eyes with Snape's murderous glare.
"Idiot! Get out!!"
Clutching the strip tightly, Sean bolted. Even so, when he shut the dungeon door, he did it quietly.
What on earth had just happened?
What did those numbers mean?
Were they counting the number of people who knew this knowledge?
If Snape already knew the secret of heat control, then who was the second person to know it?
And why didn't that person also possess the knowledge of the ritual?
Sean's questions pooled together like raindrops trickling down a Gothic stained-glass window, eventually forming a mystery too deep to unravel as they slid into the dark earth below.
Inside the dungeon.
The cold stone walls seeped with endless dampness, mingling with the bitter, sharp scent of aged potion ingredients, condensing into an atmosphere uniquely belonging to Severus Snape.
Curled behind his massive black oak desk, he resembled a bat lurking deep within a rocky crevice.
Staring at the paper strips was all he could do.
Inside Advanced Potion-Making, two strips overlapped, one marked "1" and the other "3."
The missing strip was tied to the only days he'd ever been able to glimpse warm sunlight—a secret he had once shared with someone… and guarded together.
In Make Your Own Bottled Carnival!, "1" and "2" lay scattered.
The disappearance of that number was born solely from his mistake…
His fingers loosened slightly. The paper didn't deform, but his movements were slow, heavy with exhaustion.
His gaze fell upon the missing strip, as if it could pierce through the walls and see that rainy night long ago—when everything shattered.
Hatred and a fierce, indescribable fury clashed violently in his chest.
He could almost hear that word again—the one unforgivable sin he could never atone for.
The past gripped his throat like a ghost.
He had thought he would hold onto that strip forever… until that idiot barged into his dungeon.
His expression grew complicated.
He knew that eventually, the notes would be found by someone else…
Truth is never extinguished, just like love and hate.
…
In the corridor,
the torches cast flickering light across polished armor.
A short, chubby knight bustled between paintings, occasionally knocking over a witch's goblet,
only to be smacked by her bouquet in retaliation.
Sir Cadogan didn't care in the slightest, muttering under his breath:
"Aha—I thought that old story would never change. He clung to his hatred for so long that he forgot how he once loved potions. And now, a new, faint story seems to be emerging. Hmm, is that hope? That's what they all say…"
Just as Sean passed by,
a shadowy figure emerged suddenly in front of him.
Sean tensed, staring nervously at the sudden appearance of Professor Snape.
In Snape's dark eyes, the green of Sean's was reflected.
"Three days after every Thursday, I expect to see you in the dungeon. Don't make me regret this decision…"