Severus Snape was in no mood for patience today.
The timid, stuttering boy he had been forced to watch so closely over the past weeks had become increasingly difficult to track—
vanishing from sight for hours without explanation.
"Whatever you are attempting… pray I am not the one who discovers it."
His voice slithered through the stone passageway like cold poison.
As he turned the corner, a faint bubbling sound pricked his ears.
No one in Hogwarts knew the music of potion-brewing better than Severus Snape.
That was a cauldron.
A potion simmering.
But he was not in the dungeon classroom.
Which meant—
Someone had broken into his workspace.
Snape stormed down the stairs, black robes billowing like a thundercloud ready to split the sky.
"What do you think you are doing?"
He appeared before Sean like a striking serpent, voice trembling with barely contained rage.
"Reckless! Idiotic!"
His gaze swept the smoking cauldron, the scattered ingredients, the open book, the crystal vial holding thick, ink-green liquid.
He understood instantly.
Someone had dared to brew a potion unsupervised.
Since the day he began teaching, he had never witnessed such audacity.
Brewing a potion in secret?
What did the child take Potions for—
Astronomy?
Or some foolishly simple course like History of Magic?
Potion-making was precise science wrapped in dangerous artistry.
A single mistake without supervision could kill a young wizard before they even realised what was happening.
Sean felt his smile freeze, his heartbeat spike.
He had triggered the worst possible outcome.
Snape had returned at the exact moment he finished brewing—
before he could clean up or escape.
Caught red-handed.
Snape's voice sharpened to a knife-edge.
"Let me guess, Mr. Green of Ravenclaw believes himself so gifted that guidance is beneath him;
he imagines he can brew perfect potions alone…"
The words slithered like venom.
Sean bowed his head.
He did not speak—not out of fear, but out of understanding.
Explaining to Snape was suicide.
Even truth would be read as arrogance.
"Well then," Snape hissed, "let us behold your brilliance—your magnificent triumph, after that pitiful catastrophe last time, so glorious that you felt justified to challenge the authority of this field like a brainless troll…"
Sean lifted his head slightly—then lowered it again immediately under Snape's piercing glare.
Snape's lip curled.
At least, he thought, the boy wasn't as stupid as Gryffindor's usual stock—
no explosions, at least.
He turned back toward the cauldron, focusing now on the real threat:
Was this potion stable?
Was it safe?
As for Sean's progress?
Potion-making did not reward effort.
It devoured the weak.
Improvement was painfully slow for those without talent.
No one could have improved meaningfully after the disaster Snape had seen last week.
But then he stopped.
The potion inside the cauldron was unmistakably apprentice-level.
Still far from excellent, but undeniably competent—
in a way that bordered on shocking.
"…This is your work?"
Snape stared at Sean.
Sean nodded once, silently.
Snape's voice dripped disdain:
"Your stirring curve must have been atrocious, your control over heat disastrous—
only barely acceptable ingredient preparation kept you from killing yourself.
The frightening thing is that you clearly learned nothing from it."
Sean immediately scribbled the critique into his notes—
even the insult, a beat late—
and that, more than anything, enraged Snape further.
"Get. Out."
Snape thundered.
"Out of my dungeon.
Now!"
Sean didn't hesitate.
He packed the crystal vial, closed his books, gathered his tools—
and walked out.
No arguments.
No panic.
No anger.
Only:
"I'm sorry, Professor Snape."
The dark-haired wizard froze for half a breath,
watching the light fade from Sean's brilliant green eyes as he disappeared down the staircase.
Warmth returned as Sean walked back toward the Great Hall, sunlight washing over him.
But his chest felt heavy, hollow.
He had succeeded—
he had brewed the potion.
He only needed practice to strengthen the skill,
to lift his Potions talent bit by bit.
Even the system had rewarded him:
[Boil-Cure Potion: Unlocked (1/30)]
[One apprentice-level potion brewed — Potion Discipline Apprentice Title Available]
He almost had a foothold.
Everything had been aligning,
until the worst possible moment.
He couldn't plan around Snape's schedule;
no one could predict when Severus Snape would appear anywhere.
His practice had been safe and controlled,
and he needed repetition to improve—
but Snape would never listen to explanation.
As he reached the hall, another thought surfaced:
Snape had not deducted House points.
He had not banned Sean from returning.
He had not issued punishment.
Why?
A strange and fragile possibility stirred inside him—
This might not be over.
Back in the dungeon
Snape flicked his wand, levitating the cauldron for closer inspection.
The thick ink-green potion shimmered quietly, calm as the boy who had walked away.
Those bright emerald eyes lingered in his thoughts longer than they should have.
He examined the potion with clinical intensity.
In only three days, that boy had:
pushed ingredient preparation well above passing standard,
refined stirring force with unusual sensitivity,
and most critically—
achieved absolute focus.
Without that last part, the brew would have curdled into toxic sludge.
Snape could imagine the nights spent with books, the obsessive repetition, the silent practice.
"A pity," he murmured coldly.
"The beauty of Potions does not welcome the untalented."
Back in the Great Hall, Sean opened his notebook again, writing every memory, every adjustment, every failure.
Give up potions because Snape insulted him?
That chance was about as high as Snape awarding Gryffindor one hundred points for good behaviour.
Snape wouldn't be in the dungeons all the time.
Cauldrons didn't care who used them.
And Sean would be back.
Advance Chapters available on Patreon
patreon.com/ZoroTL442