Chapter 111: The Lost One

Statues are always broken, just like Gregory the Goyle's statue at Hogwarts.

Because a secret passage lay behind it, the careless young wizards cast numerous Repair Charms on its fallen pieces.

It was also like Professor Snape now; he had emerged from a long stagnation to gaze upon the young wizard who had shattered that stillness.

But sometimes silence is relative.

A chill permeated Professor Snape's gloomy eyes, yet Wizard Sean remained utterly unaware, filled instead with a hint of excitement.

He skillfully lit the cauldron, then carefully retrieved ingredients from glass cabinets filled with various oddly shaped specimens.

A white slip of paper, hidden within the pages of Advanced Potion-Making, was soon enveloped by swirling steam.

"Ingredient preparation, heat control, stirring, ritual..."

Wizard Sean recalled every annotation in the notes,

each step and detail being the result of his repeated summarization and improvement.

It was precisely this scientific, quantifiable inquiry that allowed him to consistently brew potions of the [Adept] level,

and today, the quality of the Cure for Boils potion would likely improve once again.

This filled Wizard Sean with immense motivation.

"If you possess even a shred of intelligence, Wizard Sean Green—you would handle those dried nettles with care, adding them the moment the first bubbles appear..."

Professor Snape suddenly spoke.

Before he could finish, Wizard Sean dropped the dried nettles into the bubbling cauldron,

while simultaneously, the quick-quill beside him recorded this action.

He appeared completely unaffected by the sarcasm.

Snape's gloomy gaze paused briefly, but soon his voice returned, accompanied by a sudden clap of thunder:

"Foolishness—do you not know that stirring counter-clockwise more than two and a half times will render the quality of this potion inferior to the grime inside the cauldron?!"

Wizard Sean decisively stopped stirring, counted the seconds, and added the slug to the cauldron.

Facts proved that once mockery received no response,

the dungeon was left with only the filtered sound of rain and the clinking of Wizard Sean's stirring.

Professor Snape's sarcasm gradually subsided, occasionally issuing a few chilly words of "guidance."

Until—

"It is time—"

Light sparkled in Wizard Sean's eyes; Master Libatius Borage's improved ritual was a complete process,

one that laid groundwork throughout the entire brewing, yet only at the end did it connect all the previously obscure elements.

The potion in the cauldron had reached its most critical moment; at this stage, every minute movement of the wizard during the ritual would cause drastic fluctuations in the potion's quality.

The moment Wizard Sean chanted the incantation and performed the gesture,

Snape's pupils constricted; he strode forward, his black robes surging like dark clouds, almost instantly rushing before the cauldron.

Two slips of paper were tightly clenched in his broad hands, yet they underwent no change in shape—

they had been enchanted with multiple protective spells.

Wizard Sean, utterly unaware, remained immersed in the potion,

seeming once again to be that wizard painstakingly brewing the Cure for Boils.

A powerful emotion enveloped him, guiding him to perceive the subtly flowing magic.

Indeed—

he sensed the changes in the cauldron's magic and vaguely realized how to Making Guide it for a more thorough fusion, thereby brewing a qualified potion.

Yet the storm within the dungeon was nearly as fierce as the one outside.

Snape stared into those emerald eyes, at that extremely familiar technique:

"Where did you learn this?!"

[You have successfully brewed a pot of Cure for Boils potion to Expert standards. Proficiency +50]

The panel's notification and Professor Snape's suppressed, extreme low roar sounded simultaneously,

so intense that Wizard Sean gave a sudden start.

"From 'Have Your Own Bottle-Borne Carnival!', Professor."

Wizard Sean could not comprehend this rage.

"Give me the paper slips."

Professor Snape's voice seemed squeezed out from his throat.

Wizard Sean silently retrieved the flat slips of paper from Advanced Potion-Making, which recorded knowledge of heat control.

At the very edge of the slip, in a place nearly invisible,

was written a faint "Three."

When Wizard Sean keenly noticed this, he swiftly glanced at the slip taken from 'Have Your Own Bottle-Borne Carnival!'

On it was written a faint "Two."

Professor Snape's expression was indistinguishable under the dim light,

with only the rainstorm scouring the dungeon, making Wizard Sean barely able to hear the professor's faint whisper—if what he uttered was indeed speech.

"Wizard Sean Green, get out of my dungeon—now! Immediately!"

His anger seemed to have accumulated over decades.

Wizard Sean had already sensed the terrifying atmosphere and was preparing to leave,

when suddenly a slip of paper drifted out from Advanced Potion-Making.

Holding the slip, Wizard Sean froze on the spot,

stiffly meeting Professor Snape's murderous gaze.

"Idiot! Get out!!!"

Wizard Sean clutched the slip and ran, though when closing the dungeon door, his movements were slightly gentler.

What exactly had happened?

What did that number represent?

The number of people who knew this knowledge?

If Professor Snape knew the knowledge of heat control, then who was the second person to know it?

But why had he or she not known about the ritual?

Wizard Sean's confusion gathered like raindrops on Gothic stained glass, finally flowing underground as an unsolvable mystery.

Inside the dungeon.

The cold stone walls exuded eternal dampness, mixed with the bitter and sharp scent of aged potion ingredients, solidifying into an air unique to Severus Snape.

He crouched behind a massive black oak desk, like a bat lurking deep within a rock crevice; gazing at those slips of paper was the only thing he could do.

In Advanced Potion-Making, two slips overlapped, marked with "One" and "Three,"

the missing one bearing the days when he alone could see bright sunlight, a secret he had once guarded with someone... together...

In 'Have Your Own Bottle-Borne Carnival!', however, scattered were "One" and "Two."

The disappearance of this count stemmed solely from his mistake...

His fingers loosened slightly; the slips did not deform, yet the movement was slow, nearly weary.

His gaze fell upon that lost slip, as if able to pierce through walls to see the rainy night and the rift from long ago.

Hatred and an indescribable, tearing rage collided wildly within his chest.

He seemed to hear that word again, the sin he could never redeem in his lifetime.

Thus, the past choked his throat like a ghost.

He had thought he would hold that slip forever, until that idiot burst into the dungeon.

His expression was complex;

he knew the notes would eventually be discovered by the next person...

Truth never ceases,

just like love and hate.

In the corridor,

torchlight shone upon the armor, reflecting brightly.

A short, stout knight moved constantly between different paintings, occasionally knocking over a witch's wine goblet

only to be fiercely swatted by her with a bouquet of flowers.

Sir Cadogan cared little, muttering softly:

"Aha—I thought that old story would never change; he guarded those hates, having forgotten his former love for potions,

and now, a new, faint story seems to be emerging. Hmm, hope? That is what they all say..."

Just as Wizard Sean passed by,

a figure shrouded in dark clouds suddenly appeared before him.

Wizard Sean looked somewhat nervously at the suddenly appearing Professor Snape,

whose dark eyes reflected green:

"For the three days following every Thursday, I expect to see you in the dungeon; do not make me regret this decision..."

Sorry, Lu Ka went off-track; an extra update will be added early in the morning.