Chapter 47: The Potions Master
Foolish methods employed by a foolish boy, Snape thought, observing from the shadows. Even following the steps precisely, he barely scrapes by. Such a lack of innate talent… every moment spent watching him is a waste of my precious time.
Anger simmered beneath his cold exterior as he watched the clumsy, inefficient movements. Yet, as his gaze fell upon those unnervingly bright green eyes, the fury subsided, replaced by a strange, complex mix of irritation and… something else.
He recalled the boy's relentless persistence, playing cat and mouse with him in the dungeons, all just to brew a potion barely fit for a house-elf. The boy had improved, undeniably. He had even managed a brew that touched the edge of 'Outstanding' in the last class. That alone was why Snape hadn't thrown him out immediately.
Sometimes, he found himself drawn back here, watching the boy struggle, frown, and painstakingly practice. Those idiotic Hufflepuffs probably thought he was grading papers in his office. They had no idea the castle's secret passages were more numerous than its towers. He would never admit it, of course – not even to himself – but his clandestine observations, framed as disdainful curiosity, were driven by a grudging sense of responsibility for the boy's safety.
"Failed…" Sean sighed, staring into the cauldron.
[You have successfully brewed a Boil-Cure Potion to the Apprentice standard. Proficiency +1]
He wasn't discouraged. Success rarely came easily. He had felt a flicker of intuition, a potential improvement, but hadn't quite grasped it. Altering one step had a cascade effect on the others, and he hadn't adjusted correctly, resulting in a lower quality potion. But give him one more try, just one more, and he was sure he could nail it.
He began cleaning the cauldron, ready to start again.
CRASH!
The dungeon door slammed open, banging against the stone wall with a deafening echo. A shadow stretched long and distorted across the floor before the figure itself swept in, black robes billowing like a storm cloud, swallowing the meagre light from the doorway. Footsteps echoed on the damp stone, unhurried, yet carrying the rhythm of impending judgment.
Sean froze, his emerald eyes wide and uncomprehending as Professor Snape strode towards him, stopping just inches away. The dim candlelight cast sharp, severe shadows under his hooked nose, making his already cold voice sound even more menacing.
"Sean Green…"
The name slithered from his lips like a curse. The light in Sean's eyes dimmed. He didn't try to explain or defend himself. He simply began packing his ingredients, cleaning the cauldron with numb efficiency, preparing to leave. He had known the risks. Now, caught, he had to face the consequences.
"My apologies, Professor Snape," he said quietly. "I'll leave now." He slung his small black bag over his shoulder.
"Heh—of course," Snape sneered. "If I were responsible for such—such abysmal brewing, such utterly incompetent technique—I too would feel an overwhelming sense of shame, compelling me to flee this sacred space."
Sean didn't react, his only regret the lost opportunity. He had been so close.
"Running away—is that your solution?" Snape's voice cut through the silence again. "If I were you, I would light that cauldron immediately—and during the final stir, increase the amplitude, adding one extra rotation."
Sean stopped dead, turning slowly to stare at the Potions Master in astonishment. Was Professor Snape… teaching him?
Without a second thought, he dropped his bag and reached for his ingredients. Just then, a bundle of fresh materials floated onto the workbench beside him.
Snape's voice was ice. "Should you dare to fail—" His eyes narrowed in a clear threat.
But Sean didn't feel threatened. He had a knack for seeing past people's exteriors, a skill honed by careful observation. Hermione could be bossy and overbearing, but beneath it lay genuine concern. Snape habitually hid his feelings behind layers of sarcasm, bias, and hostility. But Sean couldn't condemn him for it; not everyone was fortunate enough to experience love.
Recalling Snape's instructions, Sean relit the cauldron. Once more, the familiar bubbling filled the air. This time, he brewed with renewed focus, following the unexpected guidance.
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Snape's grim features. Unlike those bellowing Gryffindor trolls or the brainless, passive Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws generally possessed a modicum of intelligence. And this particular boy… he knew what he wanted, he acted upon it, and he was… exceptionally diligent.
As the potion reached its final stage, turning the familiar dark green, Sean felt a tremor of nervousness return, lasting until—
[You have successfully brewed a Boil-Cure Potion to the Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
[Boil-Cure Potion: Unlocked]
[New Title available in the field of Potions. Please view.]
[A new Wizarding Talent has been discovered. Please view.]
The fire in the hearth seemed to burn brighter. Sean carefully bottled the potion, his hands steady despite the surge of elation. Only when the cauldron fire was extinguished did he allow himself to relax.
Snape gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod.
Sean felt a thrill course through him. He hadn't even needed Borage's modified ritual…
"Professor Snape," he said, his voice filled with sincere gratitude, his clear eyes reflecting nothing but appreciation. "Thank you."
Snape, who had been turning to leave, paused. For a moment, he seemed lost for words, the usual sarcastic retort failing him. He looked at Sean, truly looked at him, for a long moment.
"You should merely be thankful you succeeded," he finally managed, his sallow face unreadable, a rare complexity flickering in his dark eyes. "Otherwise—" He stopped himself. "Sean Green. Let me impart one piece of wisdom. Respect even the part of yourself that fails utterly at Potions. Within that respect lies the power to change reality. If you ever succumb to self-pity… I swear to you… the doors to this art will remain forever closed."
Even long after he had left the dungeon, Snape's words echoed in Sean's mind, chipping away at his preconceived notions of the Potions Master. As he passed under a large portrait, enduring Sir Cadogan's rambling complaints, Sean found himself thinking about Snape again.
He was undoubtedly a man starved of love. His tragedy was that he craved it desperately, yet his loveless childhood had robbed him of the ability to understand or express it. He had grasped onto Lily's love, the one pure affection he had ever known, only to destroy it through his own flaws and the darkness of the times. His life had become a long, agonizing act of self-punishment, written in loyalty and courage. His greatness lay in his bravery and resilience, but the core of his being remained that lonely boy in the cold house on Spinner's End, untouched by warmth or affection.
But does that mean, Sean questioned himself, that I can simply define him? Relegate him to a fixed, soulless caricature, incapable of growth?
Sean, he told himself sternly, you are tidying up your own prejudices and attempting to impose them upon a living, breathing person.