Sean's potion-brewing plan was going even more smoothly than he had imagined.
This was largely thanks to Friday morning's potion class accident—
Neville had mistakenly soaked himself in potion, his arms and legs covered with red, swollen sores—
So Professor Snape had gone to the infirmary.
According to Justin's hurried retelling:
Professor Snape would be there for a while, giving Sean at least three hours to brew potions.
The dungeons were still cold and damp,
But Sean's enthusiasm hadn't dimmed in the slightest. He swiftly gathered his ingredients and books, lit the cauldron, and with Justin still at the infirmary keeping an eye on Snape,
he had to put in maximum effort and gain as much proficiency as possible.
Sean thought, Once he mastered the basics of potion-brewing and showed his progress in the next class,
Professor Snape should treat him like the upper-year students and allow him to use the dungeon for potion work, right?
After all, he was in Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor.
As long as it was reasonable and didn't break school rules, Snape shouldn't deliberately make things difficult for the younger students.
Of course, The key was that you couldn't be named Potter.
"Light the cauldron, prepare the ingredients…" For these steps, Sean was already familiar. The only points to pay attention to were—The heat and the stirring.
Just last night, he had scoured the entire Advanced Potion Guide, until he froze on the page of Master Libatius Borage, full of profound words:
"Different potions require different preparation methods. In fact, from ancient times to the present, physical phenomena without metaphysical insight and metaphysics without physical representation are equally unsatisfying."
Behind this dense passage, on a page that appeared like a sticky note, was a paragraph revolutionary to the practical study of potion-making:
[Every potion master should know that heat is crucial to potion brewing.If you use a flame spell, anyone can brew a perfect potion, but as I wrote in Throw Your Own Bottle Festival, without the peculiar intuition supplied by magic, the cauldron becomes like scrap iron—unacceptable…]
Sean quickly flipped the page. The most critical section jumped out:
[Although this paragraph was mocked as necessary only for 'foolish wizards' and isn't traditionally recognized, I say, fuck them! If you can see this passage, I will reveal to you that
an automatically heated cauldron can also achieve perfect temperature control.]
Seeing this, Sean's excitement was like Harry discovering the Half-Blood Prince's notes, Hermione finding the Time Turner, Tom discovering Secrets of Advanced Dark Magic…
'I—I have everything I need!'
Sean focused on brewing the slugs and preparing the ingredients.
His stirring was no longer aimless; he adjusted it according to techniques Snape had hinted at.
His heat control no longer relied on vague standards but followed Master Libatius Borage's guidance.
The dungeon was dimly lit, but just enough to illuminate the young wizard's figure.
The cauldron emitted wisps of white steam, soft and elegant like silk.
Amid the gurgling and Sean's soft breathing, the potion in the cauldron turned a pale blue-green again.
Sean knew the most important moment was next.
Using the exact same method as before, he added the slugs and began the final stirring.
In the cold underground, stone shelves were filled with glass jars containing twisted roots, animal eyeballs, or strange scales that shimmered faintly.
A drop of icy water trickled through a moss-covered ceiling crack, landing precisely on the back of Sean's neck,
but he felt nothing. His mind and body, like the spells he cast and the magic he wielded, sank into the swirling steam.
You have successfully brewed a pot of Scabies potion with beginner Level Skill. Proficiency +3.
The notification panel snapped Sean out of his immersion. He stared intently at the dark green, jelly-like liquid.
He knew the hardest step was done.
The next step was simple: maintain this level, stabilize his potion-brewing skills, and finally transform his white-trash talent completely.
Sean's heart burned with passion, but he packed up with incredible speed.
All the ingredients were placed into his bag in an instant.
After carefully transferring the scab potion into a crystal vial, Sean waved his wand:
"S—cour—g—ify!"
The cauldron returned to its original state, and Sean carefully placed the Advanced Potion Guide and Magical Potions and Elixirs into his bag.
He now understood the difference between the eight Galleon Advanced Potion Guide and the two Galleon Magical Potions and Elixirs.
He double-checked the dungeon to ensure nothing was left behind.
As the temperature warmed slightly, Justin's anxious face appeared with the sunlight.
Seeing Sean, he visibly relaxed.
"Great! Sean, did it go smoothly?"
He asked, panting.
"Yes."
Sean nodded.
Meanwhile, around the corridor corner, a man with waxy blond hair and a hooked nose strode briskly,
and along the way, all the young wizards quietly stepped aside.
Sean and Justin watched as Professor Snape entered the dungeon, and the two felt like thieves.
'Mother always said that friendships forged in mischief are stronger than those forged in good deeds.' Justin smiled first, then thought for a moment: 'Although this isn't really mischief, the result is the same.'
?
Sean glanced at him, puzzled.
…
In the wizarding world, words like "science" were never fully accepted. Even subjects like potion-making, which required profound science and precise craft,
had their overly metaphysical dialectics consistently rejected.
Hmm,
These weren't Sean's words but those of potion master Libatius Borage, who wrote Advanced Potion Making, The Asian Compendium of Antidotes, and Throw Your Own Bottle Festival!.
His guidance on heat control had greatly benefited Sean, so before lunch, Sean planned to visit the library to study his other two works.
If there were more notes scattered within Advanced Potion Making, those "unorthodox" pieces of knowledge, it would be even better.
The Hogwarts library on a Friday always carried a unique pre-weekend atmosphere, a mix of urgency and laziness.
Perhaps the students had finally realized that homework was nearly impossible without library time.
The oak tables were nearly full.
Everywhere, students buried their heads in books, the scratching of quills on parchment forming the main soundtrack.
Fifth- and seventh-year students wore clear expressions of anxiety, surrounded by towering piles of books.
Even first-year wizards weren't exempt, occasionally complaining, 'A one-foot-long Magical History essay?!' Only to be promptly "escorted" out by Madam Pince.