Walking through the Borderland was a strange experience. Snape saw the mist floating there like clouds.
The clouds drifted and shifted, glowing with a bright, pure whiteness.
The black cat lay sprawled atop a bundle of mist, and from those bizarre, ever-changing mist-clusters, Snape could clearly see his own desires.
He saw that the old days were still chasing after him. Those masses of mist drifting out of his body still wore twisted, ferocious faces.
He knew he probably could not remain here for long, even though the black cat was discreetly batting at those mist-clusters with its tail.
And as he walked on, watching the black cat struggle against the mist with such effort and care, Snape suddenly smiled—awkwardly, almost unnaturally.
Within all this haze and fantasy, he had caught sight of something real.
Just like that black cat, which had accidentally wandered into his far-from-proud life—and from that day on, his life had actually begun to change.
"Stop wasting your effort."
Snape said it abruptly.
Pretending nothing had happened, the black cat tucked a mist-cluster giving off an ominous hiss behind its back.
"Heh—"
Snape surveyed that white, endless realm.
Surveyed the beautiful dream it had given him, the thoughts it had stirred, the forgotten luck it had returned to him.
And before leaving the Borderland, he suddenly understood everything.
Certain words, hidden away in daylight and impossible to speak aloud, were laid bare here in the Borderland—honest and naked.
Because the souls here stood very close together. In the Borderland, the only thing separating wizards was the distance between one heart and another.
Snape saw his own mist-threads, subtly woven into the black cat's fur. He saw that the thread was astonishingly thick—wider than a finger, far stronger than those threads thin as cicada wings.
"Foolish."
The word reached his lips, but no sound came out.
So he simply let the mist rise and swallow his figure whole.
Snape woke.
The first ray of morning sunlight slipped through the crack in the window and fell across his face, which had not yet adjusted to it.
He narrowed his eyes, still unaccustomed to being back in reality.
Until last night, he had thought dreams belonged only to the disheartened.
Like the flowers of spring being winter's beautiful dream—distant, hazy, carrying fantasy and the yearning to tear reality apart.
And so the wizard in winter reached out his hand, only to grasp the pain of wanting and fearing loss at once.
But today, the dream had shown him the truth.
And so even someone as doubtful as he was had come to feel certain.
...
Sean still had not found Rita. She had always been the adventurous sort, and in the dream Mr. Newt had said with a smile that failing to find her was nothing unusual.
Just like him—he had lost her for decades.
Sean was not disappointed. In truth, even if he had found Ariana, there was little he could do for now.
He still could not bring his soul-guest out, nor could he let the old wizard see her.
So Sean lowered the priority of that matter.
What stood before him now was grinding his Fiendfyre Curse from [Skilled] to [Expert].
Only the final tenth remained. If he worked hard enough, Sean might become a master of Dark Magic before summer ended.
And so his life sank once more into the vast sea of magic.
Every morning, he woke in Ravenclaw Tower, ate quickly, and went straight down to the dungeon to practice the Fiendfyre Curse.
Then he devoted the entire day and night, aside from eating and sleeping, to the study of Dark Magic.
"Obsessive" barely began to describe him. Even Snape had started to frown.
He had no doubt about the boy's passion for magic, but a wizard was still flesh and blood. To keep draining his mental strength dry, then rely on potions to recover, was hardly a good idea.
"The Potions Conference isn't far off…"
Snape stared at the exhausted wizard and interrupted him just as he was about to start practicing again.
"Before that, you'd better first learn enough potions. If a wizard cannot brew potions of sufficient quality, then he had best at least know enough of them."
Snape said it in a cold, sinister tone.
Resting in his chair, Sean silently opened his panel. Under Professor Snape's almost retaliatory style of teaching, Sean had already learned every potion taught from first through fifth year at Hogwarts—
yes, every single one.
And yes, it was revenge.
Sean still had not managed to brew a master-level potion, and because of that, Snape had developed a strong suspicion.
He had begun to suspect that perhaps the potions themselves were the problem—how else could the young wizard who had written The Theory of Potion Will fail to reach the level described in his own book?
In other words, Sean had merely guessed at the greatest possible effects the theory of Potion Will could produce, yet he himself could not achieve them.
And yet the guess had been correct. Snape had personally tested it.
So it was as if he had built a towering castle in midair, without any foundation beneath it.
This was not good for Snape's plans at all. The Theory of Potion Will was supposed to be the work Sean would present at the Potions Conference—the finest achievement the field of potions had seen in a hundred years.
"Next, you'd better brew a proper Shrinking Solution. And remember who you are—Potions assistant."
Snape said darkly.
There was one last sentence he did not say aloud.
Remember who you are—not only the Potions assistant, but also the only…
"I understand, Professor."
Sean sighed.
In potions, he could only be considered mildly gifted, and his talent on the panel had been stuck in place for quite some time:
[Title: Potions Familiarity]
[Greatly increases perception for potions, greatly improves potions talent]
[Wizard Sean, Potions Talent: Blue (enhanced by the title "Potions Familiarity"; original talent: White). Note: an average wizard is Green.]
[Advance Requirement: Brew six Expert-level potions and six Skilled-level potions to unlock an Expert-tier title in the field of Potions.]
Six Expert-level potions...
Sean thought quietly for a moment, then settled on the final two he lacked: the Shrinking Solution and the Calming Draught.
The Calming Draught was needed by the hospital wing, so Sean had many chances to practice it. The Shrinking Solution, meanwhile, was a potion third-year students were required to learn.
The only problem now was time.
Fortunately, Sean happened to know of a few alchemical creations that could stretch time.
The days slipped by one after another beneath the sunlight of the underground classroom.
All day long, Sean dealt with daisy roots, shriveled figs, rat spleens, and leech juice.
Once in a while, Sean found himself wanting to burn the entire batch of green Shrinking Solution to ashes with Fiendfyre if it still refused to turn into a smooth, even liquid.
Whenever that thought flashed through his mind, he would abruptly pause and then treat his study of Dark Magic with even greater caution.
If his first instinct was already to use the ruinous Fiendfyre Curse, then once he mastered the Imperius Curse, it would probably affect him too.
Sean clearly came to understand a simple truth:
when you carry a blade, the urge to kill appears naturally.
And if he wanted to remove that influence, then he would have to reshape the "order" of Dark Magic within a wizard's heart.
~~~
Patreon(.)com/Bleam
— Currently You can Read 120 Chapters Ahead of Others!