The sharp ringing of the dismissal bell pierced through the stagnant air of the dungeon.
As if granted a reprieve, the students hurriedly packed up their cauldrons and ingredients. The clattering sounds of glass and metal colliding felt unusually loud in that moment.
Hermione Granger's movements, however, were unnaturally slow.
Her fingers were stiff, barely able to hold onto the thick copy of Magical Drafts and Potions. The edges of the pages—flipped countless times the night before—were already curled, now seeming to mock the futility of her efforts.
Around her, classmates whispered among themselves, their voices blending into a vague, buzzing hum.
"Prince… is he insane? Talking to Snape like that…"
"But he was right! He even pointed out an error in the book!"
"And Snape didn't turn him into a toad… he actually let him sit down…"
Every word became an invisible needle, stabbing into Hermione's ears.
She stuffed the textbook into her bag without care. The heavy parchment and ink bottles knocked together with a dull thud. She could feel it—behind her, Eric Prince's calm gaze. There was no mockery, no flaunting of superiority. Just a depthless indifference.
And it was precisely that indifference that suffocated her.
A lofty disregard born of an absolute gap in strength.
She yanked her heavy bag onto her shoulder and almost fled the dungeon, the first to rush out. The icy chill of the corridor seeped into her bones, yet it was nothing compared to the frozen wasteland in her heart.
Jealousy.
Frustration.
Self-doubt.
Three poisons churned violently within her young heart, threatening to tear her apart.
Everything she had taken pride in had been shattered—utterly and completely—by the boy named Eric Prince, for the second time.
The dungeon soon returned to its usual cold and silence.
The students were long gone.
Only Severus Snape remained, standing perfectly still.
His gaze was fixed on the finished product Eric had left on the workbench.
A bottle of Scabbers Cure.
The most basic, introductory potion.
And yet, this small vial displayed a perfection that had no business belonging to a first-year.
The potion was clear—a uniform pale green, without the slightest trace of impurities. There wasn't even any condensation clinging to the glass, something commonly seen during brewing. Leaning closer, one could detect a faint, precise scent—a blend of dried nettle and crushed snake fangs—proof that the heat control had reached textbook-level precision.
Snape extended a pale, slender finger and lightly traced it along the still-warm glass.
He didn't even need magical testing to know that its efficacy exceeded the standard by at least ten percent.
Because during the brewing process, Eric had independently adjusted the order in which two ingredients were added, and changed the stirring pattern—from seven clockwise turns and one counterclockwise, to a more complex alternating sequence of five clockwise and two counterclockwise.
A subtle optimization—yet one that significantly altered the efficiency of magical catalysis.
A technique only a potions master with decades of immersion and countless experiments could possibly discover.
Snape's Adam's apple bobbed once.
Satisfied?
No.
That word was far too shallow.
This was shock.
This was the shiver of witnessing another possibility bloom right before his eyes.
The near-perfect result inevitably reminded him of another red-haired witch who had once shone brilliantly in Potions class—one who used to flash him a radiant smile whenever she successfully improved a formula.
Lily Evans.
A familiar talent.
A detested surname.
The two collided violently within him, stirring a storm of admiration and agony he himself could not untangle.
He stood there for a long time.
Long enough for the residue in the cauldrons to cool completely.
Then, with an almost gentle motion, he stored the vial of Scabbers Cure into his private cabinet.
Placing it alongside the rarest—and most dangerous—potion ingredients.
At the same time.
At the highest point of Hogwarts.
In the headmaster's office, sunlight streamed through enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the intricate silver instruments as they whirred and clicked.
Albus Dumbledore felt not a trace of warmth.
The usual kindness and knowing cleverness in his blue eyes were gone, replaced by a deep, barely concealed anxiety.
"Albus."
On the wall, a portrait of former headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black yawned lazily, speaking in his characteristically drawn-out aristocratic tone.
"I feel compelled to inform you that Severus seems to be in quite a good mood today. He just passed one of my other portraits and didn't even roar about docking Slytherin points after Peeves dropped dungbombs on his head."
Before Dumbledore could respond, the Fat Friar's ghost cheerfully floated out of the wall, his translucent body carrying a chill of ancient stone.
"Fresh news, Headmaster!"
He announced happily, entirely oblivious to Dumbledore's expression.
"That Ravenclaw—Mr. Prince—what a remarkable genius! His performance in Potions class was astonishing… honestly, he was practically Severus's illegitimate son! You know, he actually pointed out an error in the textbook, and not only did Severus not punish him, he even—"
Reports from portraits and ghosts arrived one after another.
Each word struck Dumbledore's taut nerves like a small silver hammer.
Eric's astonishing performance in Potions.
Snape's abnormal "approval."
That unusual, almost hereditary sense of rapport between them.
Dumbledore wearily rubbed his throbbing temples, the pressure making his vision briefly distort.
He was beginning to worry.
A cold fear, creeping up from the marrow of his bones, seized him tightly.
He feared that Eric Prince would become a second Tom Riddle.
The same extraordinary talent.
The same orphaned background, with no family to speak of.
The same unfathomable depth of mind.
And Severus Snape…
Dumbledore's breath caught sharply.
A name—a ghostlike figure—rose unbidden in his thoughts.
Horace Slughorn.
A potions professor just as brilliant, yet indulgent and fond of collecting talented students.
A man who had been completely bewitched by young Tom Riddle's talent and charm, and who had ultimately revealed the secret of Horcruxes.
Severus…
Would he become a second Slughorn?
Once that thought took root, it grew like a vine, wrapping tighter and tighter around Dumbledore's heart.
His original intention in arranging that "transaction" between Snape and Eric regarding Occlumency had been to test, monitor, and keep this potential danger within sight.
But now, it seemed Snape had not only failed as a watcher—he had revealed something far more troubling.
The pure, instinctive admiration of a teacher toward a genius student.
Had he made a mistake?
Dumbledore rose abruptly, pacing back and forth across the office, his long beard swaying with his anxious movements.
Had he personally pushed one "Prince" into the arms of another?
Snape's mother—Eileen Prince.
Eric Prince.
Two people sharing the blood of the Prince family.
A bond forged by blood and talent—far stronger, and far more dangerous, than he had anticipated.
Dumbledore's anxiety reached its peak.
At the same moment.
Far from the dungeon's chill and the headmaster's unease—above the Ravenclaw common room, inside the Hogwarts library.
Perfect silence.
Eric sat calmly in a secluded corner hidden by towering bookshelves.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, breaking into multicolored beams that slanted across the open pages before him, bathing the ancient inked characters in warm gold.
The air carried the dry scent of parchment and old books.
He was preparing preliminary research for his next investment target—the Philosopher's Stone.
He turned a page on "Medieval Alchemical Lineages," the parchment rough and dry beneath his fingers.
Then—
Without warning—
A cold, emotionless mechanical voice rang precisely in the depths of his mind.
[System Alert: Remote S-rank emotional resonance detected. Source: Albus Dumbledore.]
[Emotional anchor: Extreme anxiety and self-doubt.]
[Headmaster's Office—Remote Special Check-in triggered!]
[Congratulations, Host. Gold-tier reward obtained! Gold Treasure Chest ×1!]
Eric's page-turning paused for less than half a second.
He lifted his head, gaze passing over the book toward the brilliantly sunlit blue sky beyond the window, and the faintly visible spire of the headmaster's tower in the distance.
A smile slowly curled at the corner of his lips.
Sitting calmly in the library—without even lifting a finger—
The S-rank anxiety of the greatest white wizard of the century had already been neatly packaged and delivered to his doorstep.
This feeling of "remote harvesting"…
Was truly exquisite.