Chapter 56: The Same Knowledge
Professor Snape wasn't always universally detested by his students. Sean, at least, sometimes found himself hoping the Potions Master would be present in the dungeon. Though steeped in sarcasm, Snape's corrections were undeniably valuable, drawn from years of accumulated mastery. They were always precise, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, and Sean benefited immensely from them.
Evening settled over Hogwarts, bathing the corridors in a warm, lazy atmosphere. The setting sun cast long, golden shafts of light through the high arched windows, striping the cold stone floors. At the edge of the grounds, the Forbidden Forest began to blur as a thin veil of dusk crept in, slowly swallowing the tops of the tall pine trees.
Sean, his small black bag slung over his shoulder, navigated through clusters of chattering students. As he passed a group of Hufflepuffs, they looked up, their conversation momentarily halting.
An orphan residing at a boarding school didn't have many opportunities to earn money. Sean had considered a few options:
Doing homework for others: Low pay, high risk of competition.
Running errands/smuggling goods: Required knowledge of secret passages, and Sean suspected the Weasley twins already had that market cornered.
Working in the greenhouses: Professor Sprout often gave students seeds. He could grow magical plants and sell them. This seemed the most viable.
Earning Galleons was important, but not if it came at the expense of his magical studies. That felt counterproductive. Just like with his History of Magic notes – he wouldn't rush to finish them just for potential profit. The history itself was fascinating; producing a rushed, utilitarian product instead of a thoughtful, well-crafted work felt wrong.
Which was why Snape's earlier, seemingly offhand comment had struck such a chord: "Even拙劣 potions rarely lack for wizards desperate enough to buy them..." The memory made Sean's eyes brighten, a reaction that had momentarily startled the Potions Master.
The air grew colder and dimmer as Sean descended towards the dungeons. He pushed open the heavy door. No sign of the Potions Master. A flicker of disappointment, quickly suppressed. It didn't stop him from efficiently setting up his station, ingredients laid out, cauldron lit.
Snape's direct guidance might accelerate his learning tenfold, but without a solid foundation, deep understanding was impossible.
White steam curled once more into the dungeon air, a sight unchanged for centuries, only the figures bent over the cauldrons ever alternating, their focused eyes the one constant.
Well, two pairs of eyes.
From the deepest shadows, near a shelf lined with bizarre specimens, a pair of dark, brooding eyes watched. They lingered longer now on Sean's cauldron, silently observing every step.
Progress… significant progress… born from clumsy, obstinate effort…
Just as Sean reached for the jar of slugs, the cold voice echoed from the darkness. "Has your intellect degraded to the point where you can no longer identify a common slug? Second shelf, on the left."
Sean paused, looked up at the high shelf indicated, and carefully levitated the correct jar down.
"Your impoverished taste clearly extends to your choice of ingredients," Snape continued, stepping out of the shadows. "The next time I find you desecrating the noble art of Potions with such substandard materials… Sean Green—you had best ensure you are already gone from my dungeon!"
Sean ignored the usual barb, momentarily stunned. Was Professor Snape… allowing him to use his private stores? Well then. Hogwarts professors truly are hidden millionaires.
As Sean immersed himself once more in the brewing process, Snape fell unusually silent. He recognized the technique the boy was attempting – a clumsy imitation of his own, perhaps, but an imitation nonetheless. It was rare. Few students were observant enough, let alone dedicated enough, to memorize his every subtle movement during demonstrations.
Constant imitation, constant refinement… the universal path to mastery.
The boy before him was no prodigy, but he possessed a solitary dedication to the craft that Snape recognized. He had observed Green occasionally – the boy cared little for socializing, focused only on the cauldron before him. It reminded him, uncomfortably, of another lonely boy from Spinner's End. He contrasted it with the idiotic explosions routinely caused by those Gryffindor dunderheads – especially Potter, who never even tried to restrain his moronic friends! Utterly infuriating!
Snape's perpetually furrowed brow smoothed almost imperceptibly.
The potion bubbled, thickening towards the desired dark green. Sean controlled the heat with intense concentration, employing Borage's precise method, confident it would elevate the potion's quality.
But it made Snape's eyes narrow dangerously. "Where did you learn that technique for heat control? I do not recall teaching such a thing!"
Sean's heart leaped. Oh no. Does Snape disapprove of Borage's methods? He remembered Snape's heavily annotated copy of Advanced Potion-Making, filled with modifications and critiques.
"Advanced Potion-Making, Professor," Sean admitted quietly.
"Hmph," Snape sneered. "The final heat is too low, and you reversed the stirring direction in step three. Redo it! Are your eyes merely decorative?"
Sean blinked. Snape knew Borage's hidden techniques? He didn't hesitate, immediately vanishing the potion and starting over.
Two hours later.
[You have successfully brewed a Boil-Cure Potion to the Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
"Thank you, Professor." This was Sean's second Adept-level brew, good enough to be sold. Professor Snape confiscated the phial, citing a previously unheard-of "Hogwarts Regulation Regarding Potion Surplus Redistribution." Sean suspected the regulation was invented on the spot, but when the professor handed him three gold Galleons, he kept his mouth shut, carefully tucking the coins away. Potions truly was the most lucrative business in the wizarding world.
Snape watched the boy's careful handling of the money, his expression dripping with disdain. "Heh—pathetic."
He examined the finished potion again, a cold smirk twisting his lips. His voice was a low, rasping whisper, filled with malice. "It seems even the most barren soil can occasionally, through sheer luck, produce something passably adequate. An acceptable result merely means you have crawled out of the abyss of incompetence, Green. It does not mean you have set foot in the temple of Potions. Do not allow arrogance to dull your senses. Otherwise, regret will be your only antidote. Mediocrity is a choice, Sean Green—and in this dungeon, I do not tolerate those who choose it."