Chapter 133: Silven Triumphs Over Dumbledore

After entering March, the weather became much warmer.

Severus's spherical wand research proceeded smoothly; so far, he had produced finished products capable of casting spells.

Unfortunately, they were single-use only—the wand body would crack internally afterward.

Severus suspected it was a problem with the magical script arrangement, and recently he had been trying another method: dividing the spherical wand body like an orange into multiple equal-sized hemispheres, carving the magical scripts onto each, linking them with the core, and finally assembling them into a whole.

The idea was sound, but the execution was far too difficult; Severus had tried repeatedly for several days, each time failing at the final step.

Severus was not discouraged; he simply tried again after each failure. And these failures weren't entirely bad—at least when he was absorbed in them, he completely forgot about the leaves in his mouth.

Of course, he still had to maintain restraint during meals.

"Severus, are you sure this is really okay?" This was not the first time Harry had said this.

For over half a month, Severus had barely eaten anything, consuming mostly milk and pumpkin juice.

He ate two sandwiches, three fried eggs, and one sausage in the morning, yet still felt hungry before noon—let alone Severus, who drank only one glass of milk.

Even witches who loudly claimed they were dieting weren't as extreme as Severus; over half a month, he visibly lost weight, leaving several upper-year girls envious.

Yet not one of them could stick to Severus's diet for even a week.

Hermione had secretly tried it too, but on the third morning she retaliated by eating five beef sandwiches and could barely walk… that had happened yesterday.

Now, when she looked at Severus, there was a hint of admiration in her eyes.

"You can't keep eating like this." Severus glanced at her. "Honestly, I can't hold out much longer either."

"Then why have you kept going so long?" Hermione said. "It's been over twenty days, hasn't it?"

"Twenty-three days." Severus said. "I've managed this far because of this."

He pulled a bottle from his pocket, half-filled with orange-red potion.

"What is this?"

"A specially formulated vitality tonic." Severus said. "A sip restores stamina quickly; without this, I probably would've fainted in class weeks ago."

"There's something like this?" Harry's eyes lit up—he desperately needed something to restore stamina.

It was foreseeable that training intensity would increase further before their final Quidditch match. After all, Oliver wouldn't lower his guard just because the opponent was Ravenclaw.

After every training session, he'd been too exhausted to walk, feeling as if he couldn't even lift his legs; if he had a bottle of this potion, things would be much better.

"Where did you buy it? How much did it cost?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Snape gave it to me." Severus said.

This answer made Harry instantly fall silent—he knew he could never drink any potion Snape had given him.

Ron, beside him, gaped and stammered, "B-but… Snape brewed this potion for you? How is that even possible…"

"Be more confident—it's impossible." Severus said. "The potion was indeed brewed by Snape, but it was McGonagall who gave it to me."

"Now there's another professor, McGonagall?" Harry was even more confused.

Probably afraid I'd suddenly collapse unconscious in class one day… Severus found it slightly amusing.

McGonagall had given him this potion a week ago, when Severus had already been drinking only milk and pumpkin juice for half a month, so weak he could barely walk.

But he hadn't told Harry any of this, nor explained anything.

It wasn't about trust—mainly for safety reasons; Severus felt it was better not to tell Harry about his Animagus transformation studies.

He didn't want to be visited by Aurors one day.

Although Severus hadn't spoken, Hermione seemed to have guessed something, and kept staring at his mouth.

But at that moment, Severus had just finished his milk, set down the cup, and left.

Although the specially formulated vitality tonic meant he didn't have to worry about stamina, the smell of toasted bread and butter was still a torment to him.

"Just hold on a little longer—just one more week…" Severus encouraged himself.

But this week seemed especially long; during Herbology, Professor Sprout was explaining the characteristics and preferences of the Dancing Umbrella Fungus, but to Severus, it looked like a bucket of constantly jumping butter-fried eggs and fried sausages.

Once during Potions class, Severus mistook the potion in his cauldron for a large pot of beef stew.

It was only the horrifying stench wafting from Neville's cauldron beside him that snapped Severus back to reality.

Severus couldn't describe what the smell resembled—it simply triggered instinctive fear, as if Neville had brewed the Avada Kedavra curse into a blue-purple liquid.

Severus sincerely felt sorry for some little gnome—if it had drunk this potion, it probably wouldn't have woken up again.

Snape gave the same assessment: he waved his wand and cleared away the unknown liquid, but this time, Neville's cauldron vanished along with it.

No one knew whether Snape had done it on purpose, or whether the cauldron had been classified by Scourgify as irreparable trash.

From Snape's surprised expression and the faint twitching of his cheek muscles, it was almost certainly the latter.

A cauldron wasn't cheap; he might favor his own house, but he wouldn't casually destroy a student's property.

Neville's ears turned bright red; his wand clattered onto the still-burning stove, sparking violently.

"P-professor," Neville frantically picked up his wand, "I might have added too little…"

"You're missing a brain." Snape flicked his wand, extinguishing the remaining sparks. "Five points from Gryffindor. You've successfully lowered the lower limit of Potions."

Several Slytherins immediately burst into sharp laughter.

But it wasn't over—Snape turned to Severus beside him.

"And you, Ollivander, do you find watching your classmate humiliate himself amusing? Why didn't you warn him?"

"I…"

"Five more points from Gryffindor." Snape didn't even want to hear Severus's explanation—he walked off like a giant black bat, gliding past Harry.

"I'm sorry, Severus, I didn't mean to…"

After Potions class, Neville trudged out of the classroom, head down, still dazed from fear.

Severus didn't know how to comfort him, so he just patted his shoulder. "It's fine—you've made history."

"Didn't you hear Snape just now? You successfully lowered the lower limit of Potions. In a way, achieving that isn't easy."

Neville paused, thinking it over—it did make sense, somehow—but it was still impossible to feel happy about.

The two walked out of the underground classroom and were quickly intercepted by another person.

"Midday, good midday, Professor McGonagall." Neville started stuttering again.

At Hogwarts, the person he feared most was naturally Snape — that was beyond question — and the next was Professor McGonagall, who was known for being strict.

He always felt his performance had dragged Gryffindor down, so he was terrified of running into Professor McGonagall.

"Same to you, Longbottom." Professor McGonagall said, then she called Silven over to a deserted corridor nearby, her voice unusually carrying a hint of anticipation. "Today is the full moon. How is it — did it work this time?"

"What — today is the full moon?" Silven hadn't reacted yet, and then a surge of wild joy welled up from the bottom of his heart.

After receiving Professor McGonagall's definite answer, he immediately opened his mouth and spat out a tender green leaf.

Although a month had already passed, the leaf showed not the slightest sign of wilting; on the contrary, it had become even fresher, its edges glowing with the fluorescence unique to Mandrake.

"Very good, excellent…" Professor McGonagall said. Although this was only the first step in learning Animagus transformation, the fact that Silven had been able to persevere already put him ahead of most wizards… including the headmaster of a certain magic school.

Professor McGonagall was genuinely astonished, but she quickly produced a small bottle containing a shallow layer of clear water.

It was dew she had collected from the Forbidden Forest that morning — a teaspoon of dew that had not been touched by sunlight or human contact for seven days… She had begun preparing it ever since Silven had nearly fainted in the classroom.

Professor McGonagall handed the bottle to Silven, told him to put the leaf inside, then added a Death's-head Hawkmoth chrysalis and one of Silven's hairs.

After that, Professor McGonagall took the bottle away, saying she was going to help Silven with the most important step… placing the bottle somewhere dark and quiet until a thunderstorm with crackling lightning, at which point the potion inside would undergo a complete transformation.

Silven was still caught up in his excitement and did not notice that Professor McGonagall had already vanished — and, more importantly, she had only said she would place the bottle in the Forbidden Forest, without telling Silven the exact location.

In other words, from then on, only Professor McGonagall would be able to find that bottle and the potion inside; as long as she did not agree, Silven would have no way to perform the Animagus transformation.

By the time Silven realized this, it was already the next day.

The fragrant fried pork cutlet and sweet pudding slightly diluted some of the joy in his heart, and also restored vitality to Silven's mind.

Only then did he realize that Professor McGonagall seemed not to have told him the exact location where the potion was buried. He immediately went to her office.

"When the time is right, I will hand it to you," Professor McGonagall said. "But not now, Silven. I hope that when you can feel the second heartbeat, you will come find me again."

Then, he was sent on his way.

Watching the big door before him close mercilessly, Silven was dumbfounded, feeling as if the world were spinning.

He never expected that the always solemn and earnest Professor McGonagall had actually learned to act like Snape, playing mind games with him, a twelve-year-old little wizard.

A professor shouldn't be too Snape-like!

……

(End of this chapter)