Chapter 64: The Mysterious Potion
"Oh, are you alright, Sean?" Justin asked, noticing Sean's sudden shift.
In truth, Sean wasn't alright. He had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what was about to happen. He quickly and quietly moved to a different seat just as the whispers started nearby.
"What's Seamus trying to do, Ron?" Harry asked.
"Turn water into rum," Ron replied. "Managed weak tea yesterday, but then…"
"Then?"
Suddenly, a thick cloud of acrid, black smoke erupted from Seamus's goblet, completely engulfing him. Shards of glass and droplets of water sprayed outwards, causing nearby students to yelp and duck for cover. Hermione scrambled backwards, her eyes wide with alarm.
When the smoke finally cleared, Seamus was revealed, his face blackened with soot as if he'd just crawled out of a chimney. His hair stood on end, smoking slightly. He coughed violently, his eyes glazed over, clearly stunned by the explosive failure.
A moment of shocked silence hung over the table, followed by a roar of laughter. Ron pounded the table, sloshing pumpkin juice everywhere. Even Harry couldn't help but grin, quickly lowering his head to hide it.
Only Justin immediately rushed over, offering Seamus a handkerchief. "Are you alright, Seamus?"
Just then, the usual flurry of owls descended into the Great Hall, delivering the morning post and mercifully diverting everyone's attention.
Hermione, however, was looking suspiciously at Sean, who had moved just moments before the explosion. "You sensed the magic buildup, didn't you?"
Ever since Professor Snape had given him that first, mysterious potion, Sean often found one or two new phials appearing in his bag after his sessions in the dungeon. Sometimes they came with a curt note – Drink. Sometimes, nothing at all. However, if Sean ever dared to bring a previously received, full phial back to the dungeon, Snape's sarcastic commentary would become a relentless machine-gun barrage.
He unlocked the Swelling Solution proficiency quickly, within two days. At the same time, Snape grudgingly taught him the Deflating Draught, remarking dryly, "Given your troll-like technique, you will undoubtedly require it."
Regardless of the reasoning, Sean had learned another potion. His Panel now read:
[Title: Potions Dabbler]
[Boil-Cure Potion: Apprentice (220/300)]
[Swelling Solution: Apprentice (1/300)]
[Deflating Draught: Locked (1/30)]
[Next Tier: Potions Novice (Requires three Novice-level Potions)]
Compared to the slow, steady grind in Potions, his progress in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms felt much faster.
Tuesday. Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom.
"N-now, who c-can tell me the th-three types of t-troll?" Professor Quirrell stammered, his fearful eyes scanning the Ravenclaws and Slytherins until Anthony Goldstein stood up.
"Mountain Troll, River Troll, and Forest Troll, Professor," Anthony answered clearly. "The Mountain Troll is the largest and most vicious. It is bald, with a pale-grey hide tougher than rhinoceros skin and has the strength of ten men. However, its brain is the size of a pea, making it easy to confuse."
"V-very good. Th-thank you," Quirrell mumbled.
While Quirrell went through the motions of calling on students, Michael was engrossed in Sean's Defence Against the Dark Arts notes beside him.
"Classification of Dark Creatures—regional index, alphabetical index… corresponding defensive spells and counter-curses…" he murmured, clutching the notebook like a sacred text. "Sean, how did you even think of organizing it like this?!"
He compared Sean's light-blue notebook with The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, realizing Sean's notes on the spells were even more detailed than the textbook. "You must have used more sources than just our textbook… Merlin! This is as amazing as your History of Magic notes!"
Sean paid him no mind, his own desk covered with Defensive Magical Theory, Confronting the Faceless, and other advanced texts. Given Quirrell's utter lack of teaching ability, Sean had been forced to rely on self-study, quickly building his own framework for understanding the Dark Arts.
A question that had bothered him in his past life resurfaced: Dark Arts and Charms both involved incantations and wand movements. Why were they classified so distinctly? After cross-referencing multiple sources, he found the answer.
Charms and the Dark Arts were fundamentally different. The Dark Arts were further subdivided into three categories:
Jinxes: Minor dark magic, often annoying but relatively harmless. Examples included the Knockback Jinx, Trip Jinx, and Tickling Charm.
Hexes: Moderately dark magic, causing significant discomfort or impediment. Examples included the Bat-Bogey Hex, Knee-Reversal Hex, and Toenail-Growing Hex.
Curses: The most potent dark magic, capable of causing severe, often irreversible harm. Examples included the Cruciatus Curse, Imperius Curse, and the Killing Curse.
The spells Professor Flitwick taught belonged to a separate category entirely: Charms, which generally altered an object's properties or behaviour without changing its fundamental nature.
It all made sense now. It also meant that aptitude for Charms and aptitude for the Dark Arts were likely separate talents.
After Defence class, Michael clutched Sean's notes possessively as Terry and Anthony looked on with envious eyes.
"Ahem! If you want to take a look—" Michael began magnanimously. Even Anthony raised an eyebrow in anticipation. "—tough luck!" Michael finished, then bolted down the corridor, leaving his friends sputtering in indignation.
"Oh, these are Sean's potential gold mines," Michael muttered to himself as he ran. "He doesn't seem to care much, but I can't just give them away! Got to build the hype… Heh heh, seems to be working…" He then paused, turning back to smack Terry lightly on the head. "Terry, I swear, your brain leaks! Didn't I tell you Sean said we could share with you and Anthony? Did you forget already?!"
Midday. Quidditch Pitch.
Having finished his Charms practice, Sean mounted a broomstick with practiced ease. The moment his feet left the ground, he was no longer the frail boy who struggled with running and jumping. The old Comet 260 responded instantly, soaring into the air like a silver fish. The wind whipped colour into his pale cheeks as he leaned low over the handle, becoming one with the broom.
Dive, turn, climb… He executed Madam Hooch's drills with precision.
[You have practiced Flying once to the Expert standard. Proficiency +50]
[You have practiced Flying once to the Expert standard. Proficiency +50]
His slight frame carved sharp, elegant arcs against the sky, drawing an approving smile from Madam Hooch, who was watching from the edge of the pitch. She turned to the tall witch in emerald robes who had just arrived beside her.
"Mr. Green truly is a natural Quidditch star, Minerva. Anyone can see that. Those brooms—obsolete, barely airworthy—they're adequate for the fumblers, perhaps. But even though the lad doesn't complain, you can see… they hold him back."
The tall witch watched the small figure reveling in his freedom, a softer light entering her usually stern eyes.