Foolish methods used by a foolish child—follow the steps to the letter and you'll still scrape only the pass line.
Spending even one more glance on such a talentless wizard is a waste of the Potions Master Severus Snape's precious time.
Watching that technique riddled with flaws, fury nearly flared in Snape's shadowed eyes—but when he met those too-bright green irises, the fire slowly cooled.
He thought of the boy braving wind and rain these past days, playing hide-and-seek with him, all to brew one more cauldron of worthless sludge—and a strange, complicated feeling rose in Snape's chest.
At least the boy had improved; in last week's class he'd even managed a brew that brushed the edge of Outstanding. That, and that alone, was why Snape hadn't thrown him out on the spot.
Sometimes Snape came here to watch him flounder and grind through practice, while a few dunderheads assumed he was in his office. As if they knew that Hogwarts has more secret passages than towers.
There was one thing he'd never admit—
He told himself he was waiting to laugh. In truth, he was quietly watching over the boy's safety.
"Failed…"
[You brewed one cauldron of Cure for Boils at Apprentice standard. Proficiency +1]
By the cauldron, Sean sighed.
But he wasn't discouraged. Success doesn't come all at once. He'd found inspiration, just not fully caught it—tweak one step and it cascades through the rest. He hadn't rebalanced the sequence, and the quality slipped. Give him one more cauldron and he would nail it.
He was scouring the cauldron for another go when—
The dungeon door slammed wide, thudding off the stone. Shadows poured in before the man, a bat-like billow of black robes swallowing the meager light. Footsteps echoed on damp flagstones—unhurried, judicial.
Sean froze, wide green eyes following Snape step by measured step. Sallow face, hooked nose sharp in the dim glow, his voice colder for the gloom:
"Sean Green."
It hissed like a snake's tongue. The light faded from Sean's eyes. He didn't argue. He packed his ingredients, cleaned the cauldron, and made to leave. He'd chosen a risky path; getting caught came with the territory.
"Sorry, Professor Snape," he said softly. "I'll go now."
He shouldered his black satchel.
"Heh—if I were you," Snape drawled, "with such witless brewing and hole-riddled craft, I'd die of shame and flee this sacred place too."
Sean didn't react. He only mourned the near miss—he'd been so close.
"Is running away your choice?" Snape's voice cut back in. "If I were you, I'd relight the flame—and on the final stir, widen the arc and add one more turn."
Sean stopped dead and stared. Was Snape… teaching him?
He didn't hesitate. He set the bag down and reached for the kit—
—and a bundle of ingredients floated onto the bench. Snape's chill voice followed:
"If you dare fail…"
The glare was icy, almost a threat. Sean felt none of it.
He was good at seeing past masks—thanks to habit and careful study. Hermione could be lofty, bossy even, but beneath it was genuine care. Snape wrapped everything—feelings included—in barbs, bias, and hostility. You can hardly blame him; not everyone has known love.
He replayed Snape's instruction in his head; the cauldron flared and steamed again. This time the motions were smooth as silk.
A flicker of satisfaction tugged at Snape's mouth. Unlike those troll-bellowing Gryffindors or the brain-numb Hufflepuffs who never move, Ravenclaws think—and act. This one most of all. He knows what he wants, pursues it, and he is… ferociously diligent.
Ink-green thickened in the pot. Sean tensed—until—
[You brewed one cauldron of Cure for Boils at Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
[Cure for Boils unlocked]
[A new title in the Potions domain has been unlocked. Please check]
[A wizarding talent has been unlocked. Please check]
The hearth crackled brighter. Sean decanted to the crystal vial without a shred of complacency. When the cauldron was cold, he finally exhaled. Snape gave a tiny nod.
In front of him, Sean was a touch overcome. He hadn't even used the revised rite…
"Professor Snape—thank you," he said, sincerely. In those clear eyes there was nothing but gratitude.
Snape, halfway turned to go, paused. For a heartbeat, he didn't sneer. He looked deeper at the boy.
"You should be grateful you succeeded, or—" His sallow face shifted; something rare passed through his eyes. "Sean Green, let me tell you something.
Respect the self who has achieved nothing in Potions—that itself has the power to change reality. If you belittle yourself, I swear, the door of Potions will never open to you."
Even after leaving the dungeon, the words rang in Sean's head, splintering his old picture of Snape.
Under a huge portrait, with Sir Cadogan muttering overhead, Sean found himself revisiting his image of Snape:
Starved of love—that much was certain. A man who longed for love all his life, and because he never knew it as a child, lost the capacity to understand or express it. He clutched at the one love he had—Lily—and through his flaws and the age's tragedies, destroyed it with his own hands.
In the end, his life became a long, painful self-punishment, written in loyalty and courage. His greatness lay in that courage and will; his baseline nature was the lonely boy in the cold house on Spinner's End, never fed by affection.
And what then—define Snape as a soulless shell that will never grow again?
"Sean," he told himself, "you're tidying your own prejudices, trying to pin them on a living, breathing man."