Chapter 97

You brewed a swelling-reducing potion at an expert level, proficiency +50.

The swelling-reducing potion is now within your grasp; though still exhausted, Wizard Sean’s heart burned with exhilaration.

Stepping on the staircase built by Master Libaixu Bolachi, he took another step forward in the magical domain of potioncraft.

But when he turned back, he met Professor Snape’s fury-filled gaze.

…

The consequence of unauthorized innovation was this—beyond being scolded by Professor Snape, starting Thursday, he now spent three days a week organizing and processing materials in Snape’s dungeon, and at specific times, he was required to report to Snape’s office.

For example, today:

“Dragonfly larvae, leeches, unicorn horns, two-ear grass, dripping herb, and African tree snake skin—all go on the leftmost shelf. If your reckless, stupid brain can still think, you’ll know what potion they make together!”

Professor Snape sneered and assigned Wizard Sean to place daisy roots, shriveled figs, caterpillars, rat bile, and a small amount of leech juice in another area.

Clearly, the first set contained all ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion; the second, for the Shrinking Solution.

As he organized, Wizard Sean gradually became proficient in the recipes of many potions and learned the precise states of their ingredients—chopped, peeled, sliced thin.

“Wizard Sean Green,”

as Wizard Sean finished his tasks and quietly left the dungeon with his notes, Professor Snape spoke coldly, like a serpent’s hiss,

“if I catch you brewing potions anywhere outside this dungeon… you’d better pray Merlin actually comes to save you…”

Wizard Sean nodded silently.

Brew potions outside the dungeon? Aside from the danger, he didn’t even have a cauldron.

The boiling cauldron had long since cooled; the potion in the crystal vial caused Professor Snape’s gaze to freeze.

His earlier storm of rage had vanished—words like “Do you think you surpass Zigmund Bachi’s 16th-century formula?” or “Do you believe you’ve outdone every great potion master in history?” or “Ignorant fool!”—all gone.

They left no impression on Wizard Sean’s memory, nor did they register with Professor Snape.

It had always been this way. Always.

While the storm had passed, Wizard Sean quietly tidied the dungeon, and after casting the final cleaning charm,

he whispered softly, “Goodbye, Professor,” and turned to leave.

But the usually silent Professor Snape suddenly spoke, his voice heavy with rare, barely perceptible emotion:

“Very well, Wizard Sean Green,

let me tell you something—

never submit to mediocrity,

don’t be like ninety percent of wizards in this world.

If you accept mediocrity,

it is a great harm—to the world, and to yourself.”

Wizard Sean was stunned.

These words overturned everything Snape had screamed at him before.

The professor’s gaze was icy, as if whispering coldly: “If I see you accept mediocrity, stagnate, I’ll make you regret it.”

“I understand, Professor.”

Wizard Sean nodded silently, and walked slowly out of the dungeon under Snape’s prolonged stare.

In the corridor, Wizard Sean noticed his copy of Advanced Potion-Making trembling slightly in his bag.

He quietly pulled it out, waiting expectantly for Master Libaixu Bolachi’s note to appear.

But this time, nothing happened.

Only the faintly trembling Advanced Potion-Making remained, slowly revealing words beneath the cold moonlight:

【When Zigmund Bachi dwelled alone on the distant island of Hemetra with rats,

when Libaixu Bolachi poured his soul into carving the path of potioncraft.

Compared to truth, life is insignificant.

I suspect you must wonder—

why must we study the mysteries of potioncraft?

Because… it is there.】

Wizard Sean watched the words grow warm, then a portrait emerged.

In the portrait, those cloudy, weary eyes held a deep, almost imperceptible joy:

【I… saw your eyes,

child.

Like a dark dawn, carrying the weight of ancient yesterdays.

I saw all I could never comprehend—I felt truth flowing, between your eyes and mine.

Libaixu Bolachi’s greatest achievement is no longer the discovery of potion rituals and will-guidance methods,

but the continuation of truth’s path, passing it whole to the successor—

Wizard Sean Green.

We are pilgrims in darkness; only the eternal light of truth can dispel the numbness of ignorance.

Remember—follow this bitter journey to reach the stars.

Wizard Sean felt his heart pounding, hammering his chest like a drum.

Master Libaixu Bolachi’s portrait faded slowly; in contrast, the note tucked in Wizard Sean’s notebook grew warm.

A golden name burned into it—Wizard Sean Green—Third Pilgrim of the Greatest Realm of Potioncraft.

In Advanced Potion-Making, countless passages changed in ways Wizard Sean never expected—all uncompleted potion refinements, all unverified brewing methods, now laid bare before him.

He no longer held a book with a purple cover, but the lifetime of insights and explorations of the potion master, Libaixu Bolachi.

Just as Harry had received the Half-Blood Prince’s notes, the entire lifetime of a supreme potion master now stood clear and explicit before him.

He quietly put the book away.

Moonlight from Hogwarts Castle filtered through the windowpanes, thinly spilling onto the stone floor.

In the distance came a faint creak—the stairs, shifting on their own.

Wizard Sean scanned the altered text without pause, instantly realizing how much room for improvement existed in his past potion brews.

That excitement lasted through Friday.

…

“Mr. Green, you wish to learn Finite Incantatem?”

Professor Flitwick had grown accustomed to Wizard Sean appearing beside him.

Had he not been so burdened with duties,

spending an entire day discussing charms with Ravenclaw’s most diligent, humble, and gifted student—oh, he could scarcely imagine how wonderful that would be.

Like last time, that astonishing silent charm, and the dark magic…

Hmm… that one doesn’t count.

Unfortunately, Hogwarts’ heavy curriculum forced his diligent little eagle to find him only in the staff room.

The staff room.

A large chamber lined with wooden panels, flanked by two talking stone gargoyles at the entrance, filled with blackwood chairs and a hideous wardrobe crammed with teachers’ robes.

It was said the elderly Professor Binns once rested here—until one day he rose to teach and accidentally left his body seated in the armchair before the staff room fireplace, becoming Hogwarts’ only ghostly professor.