Chapter 71: The Notes
The warmth radiating from the cauldron did little to thaw the icy fury brewing within Severus Snape.
Nimbus 2000.
The words were a key, unlocking a Pandora's Box filled with humiliation, jealousy, and bitter impotence. Seeing those eyes, now associated with that idiotic game, ignited a sharp, visceral anger – a feeling of being betrayed, mocked. He nearly spat out the most venomous sarcasm imaginable, wanting to smash the cursed broomstick and all the filthy memories it represented.
Sean, however, remained oblivious, meticulously preparing his ingredients, completely unaware of the murderous glare fixed upon him. Professor Sprout had just taught him the techniques for processing Galangal powder, Wood Sorrel, Wormwood, and Aloe juice. He couldn't afford to be distracted, lest he miss a crucial detail. He picked up his notebook, angling it towards the candlelight to review the steps.
Sensing a shift in the atmosphere, he glanced up, meeting Snape's frigid gaze. Still caught in his focused state, the intensity didn't fully register. Assuming he'd made another error, he simply turned back to chopping the Wood Sorrel, mentally reviewing his preparation technique.
Professor Snape was undeniably harsh, demanding genius rather than tolerating mediocrity. His expectations were akin to demanding doctoral-level work from primary school children. What seemed obvious to him was often utterly opaque to them. For most students, he was a figure of terror.
But for Sean… he was proving to be a good professor.
Sean carefully minced the Wood Sorrel. The pale pink herb had a faint, vinegar-like scent. In the wizarding world, it featured in several different potions.
Just as he reached for the next ingredient, his notebook was snatched away. Seeing the boy revert instantly to his earlier, clumsier movements, Snape's anger subsided slightly, replaced by a complex mix of frustration and… something else. He watched the boy fumble for a moment, processing ingredients that were clearly substandard, before his patience snapped.
"Imbecile! If you insist on using improperly ground powders and inadequately expressed juices, then remove yourself from my dungeon!"
Sean silently retracted the ingredients he was about to add to the cauldron and began reprocessing them according to Snape's implied standards. Snape's gaze was now intensely scrutinous. He would not tolerate the slightest connection between the noble art of Potions and that detestable, mud-stained sport.
Nimbus 2000… brewing potions… earning money… The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. An orphan, devoid of funds, researching the most expensive broomstick, attempting to brew potions for profit to afford it.
How utterly vulgar! Pathetic! So pathetic it drew a cold, humourless laugh from his lips.
"Heh… utterly pathetic orph—"
Before the insult could fully form, Sean dropped his notes and added the ingredients to the cauldron, causing it to boil fiercely. The sudden surge of heat sent a wave rippling through the air, distorting Snape's shadowy form and causing a page in Sean's open notebook to flutter. A single line caught Snape's eye.
[Nimbus 2000 demonstrated excellent emergency turn capability during flight test this morning. Key to control not core strength, but mental guidance of second rear charm cluster. Almost identical to willpower guidance in final Potion step. Magic truly is linked by a fundamental thread.]
Sean, startled by the sudden boiling, looked up just as Snape's words caught in his throat.
"—Pathetic heat control! I suppose your troll-sized brain cannot comprehend the subtleties of a slow simmer! If that is the case, you should consult page sixty-three, bottom left, of the Book of Potions—the heat for a Deflating Draught during boiling should be double the standard measure!"
Ignoring the familiar sting of the insult, Sean immediately adjusted the flame, his focus absolute. The violent bubbling subsided, replaced by a steady, rolling boil, releasing clouds of intoxicating white steam. His mind raced, recalling the book Snape had mentioned – Zygmunt Budge's famous text. Budge, a brilliant potioneer who had dropped out of Hogwarts in protest at age fourteen after being denied entry to a prestigious potions competition. Sean remembered an anecdote about one of Budge's rivals accidentally dousing himself with a love potion and becoming infatuated with their Potions Master. Budge had supposedly found the incident hilarious, claiming it inspired the specific quality of uncontrollable laughter required for his Laughing Potion.
It seemed like a trivial detail, but it sparked a connection in Sean's mind. If the Laughing Potion required genuine, uncontrollable mirth, could other potions also benefit from specific emotional states? Was Borage's ritual, focused on enhancing belief and desire for success, just the first step? Could Potions, like Charms (longing for light with Lumos, release from gravity with Wingardium Leviosa), be refined further through precise emotional channeling?
Potions and Charms… linked by a fundamental thread.
Snape's face became unreadable in the flickering firelight. The fury had vanished, replaced by an unnerving stillness as he retreated deeper into the dungeon shadows. Sean Green already possesses the broomstick. How he acquired it is irrelevant. What mattered was his undeniable passion for Potions, confirmed by both Snape's observations and the boy's discovery of Borage's hidden notes – secrets revealed only to those truly dedicated to the art.
So, what had Snape been suspecting? The irrational anger, the slips of parchment… it brought back the searing memory of another word, another irreversible mistake. Today, he had nearly repeated it.
"Sean Green…" Snape's voice was low, devoid of inflection. He glided back towards the workbench, his dark eyes fixed on Sean. "Heh… perhaps you would care to explain… your intended use for that foolish broomstick? Some… idiotic aerial acrobatics?"
His gaze seemed distant, looking back at a Hogwarts of long ago. If he hadn't been consumed by rage then… if he hadn't spoken that word… if he had reacted as he was reacting now…
The cauldron bubbled softly. A stray beam of moonlight pierced the dungeon gloom, illuminating the damp flagstones. Snape's internal turmoil seemed to solidify, like moss growing in the cracks. The ancient spiders scuttling in the corners seemed, for the first time, exposed.