Sean's potion-brewing plan went more smoothly than he had dared hope.
Because of an unexpected accident that morning in Potions class—
Neville had fumbled an ingredient and drenched himself head to toe in boiling potion, bursting into painful red boils across his arms and legs—
Professor Snape had gone straight to the Hospital Wing.
According to Justin's breathless retelling:
Snape would be staying there for a while. Sean had at least three hours to brew.
The dungeon remained as cold and damp as ever,
but Sean's determination burned fiercely.
He laid out the ingredients with practiced speed, opened his books, and lit the cauldron flame.
Justin was still at the Hospital Wing, watching for Snape's return.
Sean intended to push his proficiency as far as he possibly could.
He imagined the moment he could reveal his progress in the next Potions class—
once he reached true beginner-level mastery,
Snape would surely allow him to brew in the dungeons like the upper-years did.
After all, Sean was a Ravenclaw, not a Gryffindor.
If he worked within reason and didn't break school rules, surely Snape wouldn't deliberately obstruct him.
Of course—
so long as your surname isn't Potter.
"Light the cauldron…prepare ingredients…"
These steps were already second nature to him. Only two things demanded his full attention—
the flame and the stirring.
Last night, he had combed through all of Advanced Potion-Making,
until he froze on a peculiar page written by the legendary potioneer Libatius Borage:
Different potions require different approaches.
Indeed, throughout history,
a purely physical explanation without metaphysical insight,
and metaphysics without physical manifestation,
are equally unsatisfying.
But behind that dense philosophical passage lay something extraordinary—
a scrap of inserted paper, handwritten like a secret note.
Words that could only be described as revolutionary:
Every true potioneer must understand that precise heat matters above all.
If every wizard relied on a Fire-Making Spell to control temperature,
anyone could brew a perfect potion.
But as I stated in Have Yourself a Fiery Little Cauldron,
without a wand's intuitive correction, a cauldron becomes useless scrap metal.
Sean flipped the note over—his breath caught.
Though mocked as advice for "idiot wizards,"
and rejected by tradition—well—
fuck them.
If you've found this message, then I'll tell you:
even an automatic self-heating cauldron can achieve perfect control.
Sean's excitement was no less than Harry discovering the Half-Blood Prince's annotations,
Hermione finding the Time-Turner,
or young Tom Riddle uncovering Secrets of the Darkest Arts.
I have everything I need!
He moved through the steps smoothly:
brewing the slugs, cutting and crushing ingredients,
stirring not at random but adjusted according to Snape's earlier criticism,
controlling the flame exactly the way Borage had outlined.
The dim dungeon light caught the edges of his silhouette.
Steam curled, white and silken, from the cauldron's rim.
The bubbles rose steadily under the rhythm of his spoon and breath.
The potion shifted into a pale blue-green.
Sean knew the next moment was critical.
He added the slugs, stirred with the exact measured cadence, and recited the binding charm.
From the mossy ceiling, a cold drop of water slid loose,
striking the back of his neck—
but Sean did not flinch.
His mind, will, and magic were submerged wholly in the craft before him.
A soft chime echoed in his mind:
[You have brewed a Cauldron-Crust Potion to Beginner standard. Proficiency +3]
Sean exhaled sharply, staring at the rich dark-green jellylike potion.
The hardest part was over.
Now he only needed consistency—repeating success until his weak talent shattered completely.
His heart roared with triumph, but his hands moved with efficient calm.
In seconds he packed away ingredients, bottled the potion into its crystal container, and cleaned the cauldron with a flick of his wand:
"Scourgify."
He now understood exactly why Advanced Potion-Making cost eight Galleons,
while Magical Drafts and Potions cost only two.
He checked the dungeon a final time—no trace left behind.
The corridor grew warmer, footsteps hurried, and Justin appeared breathlessly, relief washing across his face.
"Thank Merlin—Sean, did it go well?"
"Yes," Sean said simply.
At that moment, from the corridor's bend,
a tall figure with greasy, straw-yellow hair and a hooked nose strode toward the dungeon.
Students shrank aside like shadowed mice.
Sean and Justin watched Snape vanish below—
two students fleeing a crime scene.
"My mother always says," Justin whispered with a mischievous grin,
"friendships forged doing something bad last longer than friendships forged doing good."
He paused thoughtfully.
"Well…this isn't bad. But the effect is the same."
Sean stared.
What on earth does the Finley family teach their children?
In the magical world, the word science was unwelcome—almost taboo.
Even Potions, a discipline demanding meticulous precision and complex reasoning,
rejected anything too philosophical or experimental.
—not Sean's opinion, but that of Libatius Borage,
author of Advanced Potion-Making,Asiatic Anti-Venoms, and Have Yourself a Fiery Little Cauldron!
His notes had already changed Sean's brewing forever.
So before lunch, Sean headed to the library
in search of the other two books—
and hopefully, more of his "heretical" inserted pages.
The Hogwarts Library on a Friday thrummed with a strange mix of tension and exhaustion—
the atmosphere of a school stumbling into the weekend.
Perhaps students had finally realized that avoiding the library meant failing assignments.
Every oak table was full.
Feather quills scratched urgently against parchment,
the steady rasping forming a frantic symphony.
Fifth- and seventh-years sweated over towering stacks of reference texts,
faces pale with stress.
Even first-years worked furiously,
occasionally crying out in despair:
"An entire one-foot essay for History of Magic?!"
Followed promptly by Madam Pince escorting them bodily out the doors.
Advance Chapters available on Patreon
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