Chapter 31: Fury
Severus Snape was not in a good mood.
That snivelling, cowardly fool he was supposed to be keeping an eye on had been acting increasingly erratically lately.
"Whatever you are planning," Snape murmured, his voice a low hiss, "you had best pray I do not discover it…"
He turned the corner at the bottom of the staircase when a faint, bubbling sound caught his ear. No one in Hogwarts knew that sound better than he. It was the beautiful, subtle music of a potion simmering in a cauldron.
But he wasn't in the Potion's classroom. Which meant…
Someone had broken in.
He swept down the remaining stone steps like a gathering storm cloud, thunder and lightning barely contained within his billowing black robes.
"What do you think you are doing?!" he snarled, appearing before Sean in a swirl of fabric, his voice taut with fury.
"Insolent! Ignorant!"
His black eyes darted from the steaming cauldron to the scattered ingredients, to the crystal phial containing the finished potion… It took him less than a second to grasp the situation.
Never, in all his years of teaching, had he encountered such audacious impudence! Brewing potions without authorization?! Did the boy think this was Astronomy? Or History of Magic? Some fool's pastime where mistakes had no consequence?
Potions was a precise science, a dangerous art! Without proper supervision, the slightest error could cost a young wizard their life! They wouldn't even have time to realize their mistake, let alone save themselves!
The triumphant grin froze on Sean's face. He quickly suppressed the wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew he had triggered the bad ending: Professor Snape had returned just as he'd finished brewing, before he'd had a chance to clean up and escape. He was caught red-handed.
"Heh…" Snape's voice was like the slithering of a snake. "Let me guess. Mr. Green of Ravenclaw believes himself possessed of such extraordinary talent that he requires no guidance whatsoever. He is confident he can brew a perfect potion all on his own…"
Sean kept his head bowed, saying nothing. He knew Snape. Any attempt to explain or excuse himself would be tantamount to suicide.
"Ah—then let us examine his masterpiece, shall we? Let us see what glorious results he has achieved after his last, utterly idiotic attempt. What monumental success could possibly have convinced him, like some brainless troll, to challenge the authority of the Potion Master in his own dungeon?"
Snape shot Sean a venomous glare. Sean met his eyes for a fraction of a second before quickly looking down again.
"Hmph." Snape let out a derisive snort but felt a sliver of relief. At least the boy hadn't managed to blow up the cauldron, unlike those Gryffindor dunderheads. His attention snapped to the potion itself. He needed to ensure it wasn't about to explode. As for the quality of Sean's work? Did the boy truly believe Potion-making was a discipline where one could achieve rapid progress? Given his abysmal performance in class, it was a miracle nothing had gone disastrously wrong this time.
He peered into the cauldron. And froze.
It was… acceptable. A passable Boil-Cure Potion. Far from excellent, certainly, but the improvement from the boy's last attempt was… utterly baffling.
"This is your handiwork?" Snape hissed, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at Sean.
Sean nodded mutely.
"I imagine your stirring technique was atrocious, and your heat control abysmal. It is only your marginally competent ingredient preparation that allows you to stand here now instead of being scraped off the ceiling. The truly terrifying part is that you seem utterly oblivious to this fact…"
Snape watched as Sean, ignoring the biting sarcasm, quickly began scribbling down the technical criticisms in his notebook. The Potions Master's face darkened further.
"GET OUT!" he roared, his voice echoing off the cold stone walls. "Out of my dungeon! Now! Immediately!"
Sean didn't hesitate. He swiftly packed his crystal phial, books, and remaining ingredients, and walked silently out of the dungeon. No arguments, no fear or anger, just a quiet, toneless, "My apologies, Professor Snape."
The black-haired wizard's grim face twitched almost imperceptibly. He watched the light fade from Sean's bright green eyes as the boy disappeared up the stairs.
As the air grew warmer and brighter around him, Sean's mood plummeted. He had succeeded. He had brewed the potion correctly, unlocked it on his Panel – (Boil-Cure Potion: Locked (1/30)). All he needed now was practice, steady, methodical practice to truly master the techniques and improve his abysmal talent. Even the Panel seemed to favour him now: (Unlocking one Apprentice-level Potion will grant an Apprentice-level Title in the field of Potions). Only thirty points needed for the title, and just one successful brew unlocked it. Everything was falling into place.
And then, at the most critical moment, he had messed up.
No one could predict Professor Snape's movements. The only certainty was his presence in the dungeons for Monday and Friday classes. There was no way Sean could have prepared for this.
He walked in silence, his mind racing. He couldn't improve without practice. Therefore, practice was essential. He would follow the correct methods until his talent improved. He was confident he wouldn't make any catastrophic errors. His practice was safe and effective. But trying to reason with Professor Snape was demonstrably ineffective.
As he walked towards the Great Hall, a thought struck him.
Snape hadn't explicitly forbidden him from returning. And he hadn't deducted any house points.
Why? Was he reading too much into it? Or was there, perhaps, still a sliver of a chance?
Back in the dungeon, Snape let out another cold snort. With a wave of his wand, the cauldron floated into the air before him. The dark green, jelly-like potion sat placidly within, as quiet and contained as the young wizard who had just departed.
He hadn't unleashed the full force of his sarcasm, deterred by those unnervingly bright green eyes.
He examined the Boil-Cure Potion more closely. From the final state of the potion alone, he could deduce the incredible effort the boy must have expended. In just three days, he had not only mastered the ingredient preparation but had also intuitively adjusted his stirring technique and, most crucially, achieved absolute focus. Without that unwavering concentration, given his troll-like handling of the heat and timing, he could never have produced even a passable result.
All this progress, in only three days. Snape could almost picture the sleepless nights, the relentless study, the hours spent poring over Herbology texts.
"Hmph. A pity," he murmured to the empty dungeon. "The beauty of Potions does not welcome those without sufficient natural talent…"
In the Great Hall, Sean took out his personal notebook, carefully recalling every step, every detail of the successful brew, ensuring it was permanently etched in his memory.
Was he going to abandon his Potions practice just because of Snape's scorn? The probability was about as likely as Snape awarding Gryffindor a hundred points.
Professor Snape can't be in the dungeon all the time, Sean thought grimly. And the cauldrons don't care who uses them.