Statues are always being broken, much like the statue of the sycophant Gregory in Hogwarts.
Because a secret passage is hidden behind it, careless young wizards have cast numerous Reparo charms on its fallen form.
Just like Professor Snape now, who has emerged from a long-standing stagnation to gaze upon the young wizard who broke that stillness.
But sometimes, silence is relative.
A chill permeated Professor Snape's dark eyes, yet Sheen, completely oblivious, felt a hint of excitement.
He skillfully lit the cauldron and then carefully retrieved ingredients from a glass cabinet filled with various grotesque specimens.
A white slip of paper was tucked inside *Advanced Potion-Making*, subsequently shrouded by the rising steam.
"Ingredient processing, heat control, stirring, the ritual..."
Sheen recalled every annotation in his notes; the steps and details within were the results of his own repeated summaries and improvements.
It was precisely this kind of scientific, quantifiable inquiry that allowed him to steadily brew potions at the [Skilled] level.
And today, the quality of the Scabrous Potion was likely to improve once again.
This filled Sheen with immense motivation.
"If you had even a shred of intelligence, Sheen Green—you would carefully use those dried nettles, adding them just as the bubbles begin to emerge..."
Professor Snape suddenly spoke up.
Before he could even finish his sentence, Sheen had already added the dried nettles into the bubbling cauldron.
Simultaneously, the quick-note quill beside him recorded the action.
He appeared entirely unaffected by the sarcasm.
Snape's dark gaze paused momentarily, but soon, his voice reappeared accompanied by a sudden crack of thunder
"Ignorant—do you not know that if you stir counter-clockwise more than two and a half times, the quality of this potion will be inferior to the filth in the cauldron?!"
Sheen decisively stopped stirring and turned to count the seconds, dropping the leeches into the cauldron.
As it turned out, when mockery receives no response, nothing remains in the dungeon but the filtered sound of rain and the clinking of Sheen's stirring.
Professor Snape's sarcasm gradually subsided, leaving only occasional, chillingly cold "instructions."
Until—
"It is time—"
Sheen's eyes flashed. Master Libatius Borage's improved ritual was a complete process; it laid the groundwork throughout the entire brewing period, but only at the very end would it connect all the previous subtle 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 violent fluctuations in the potion's quality.
The moment Sheen recited the incantation and made the gesture, Snape's pupils contracted. He strode forward, his black robes billowing like dark clouds, rushing to the cauldron almost instantaneously.
Two slips of paper were gripped tightly in his large hands, yet they did not deform in any way—multiple protection charms had been cast upon them.
Sheen was utterly immersed in the potion, oblivious to everything.
He seemed to have transformed back into that wizard struggling to brew the Scabrous Potion.
A powerful surge of emotion enveloped him, guiding him to perceive the subtle, flowing magic.
Sure enough—
He felt the change in the magic within the cauldron and vaguely sensed how to guide it to ensure a more thorough fusion, thereby brewing a perfect potion.
But the storm inside the dungeon was nearly as fierce as the one outside.
Snape stared at those emerald eyes, staring at that extremely familiar technique
"Where did you learn this?!"
【You have brewed a full batch of Scabrous Potion to expert standards, Proficiency +50】
The prompt from the panel and Professor Snape's suppressed, extreme growl rang out simultaneously.
It was so sudden that Sheen gave a start.
"From *Let Yourself Have a Carnival in a Bottle!*, Professor."
Sheen could not comprehend this rage.
"Give me... the paper."
Professor Snape's voice sounded as if it were being squeezed from his throat.
Sheen silently retrieved the flat slip of paper from *Advanced Potion-Making*, which contained the knowledge of heat control.
At the very edge of the paper, in a place almost invisible, was a faint "3."
When Sheen keenly noticed this, he quickly glanced at the slip of paper he had taken from *Let Yourself Have a Carnival in a Bottle!*.
On it was written a faint "2."
Professor Snape's expression was difficult to discern in the dim light.
Only the torrential rain lashing against the dungeon made it so Sheen could barely hear the professor's faint whisper—if he was indeed speaking.
"Sheen Green, get out of my dungeon—now! Immediately!"
His anger seemed to have been accumulating for decades.
Sheen had already sensed the terrifying atmosphere and was preparing to leave, but a slip of paper unexpectedly drifted out from *Advanced Potion-Making*.
Sheen froze in place, clutching the paper, staring stiffly into Snape's murderous gaze.
"Idiot! Get out!!!"
Sheen ran with the paper in hand, though he was much lighter on his feet when closing the dungeon door.
What on earth 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?
And why did that person, or they, not know the knowledge regarding the ritual?
Sheen's confusion was like raindrops gathering on a Gothic stained-glass window, eventually turning into an unsolvable mystery flowing into the depths.
***
In the dungeon.
The cold stone walls seeped with eternal moisture, mixed with the bitter, sharp scent of aged potion ingredients, congealing into an atmosphere unique to Severus Snape.
He curled up behind the massive black oak desk, like a bat lurking deep within a rock crevice, watching those slips of paper—it was the only thing he could do.
In *Advanced Potion-Making*, two slips of paper were layered together, bearing the numbers "1" and "3."
The missing one carried the days when he could once see the bright sunlight, a secret he had once... shared with someone...
In *Let Yourself Have a Carnival in a Bottle!*, however, "1" and "2" lay scattered.
The disappearance of this number stemmed solely from his own mistake...
His fingers loosened slightly; the paper did not deform, but his movements were so slow they were almost weary.
His gaze drifted toward the lost slip of paper, as if he could pierce through the walls to see the rainy nights and the breakups of long ago.
Hatred and an unspeakable, tearing rage collided wildly in his chest.
He felt as if he heard that word again—the sin he could never redeem in his lifetime.
Thus, the past gripped his throat like a ghost.
He thought he would hold this paper forever, until that idiot burst into the dungeon.
His expression was complex.
He knew that notes would always be discovered by the next person...
Truth is never-ending,
Just like love and hate.
...
In the corridor,
Torches illuminated the armor, casting reflections.
A short, stout knight shuttled through different paintings, occasionally knocking over a witch's goblet, only to be met with a sharp blow from her bouquet.
Sir Cadogan was unconcerned, muttering softly
"Aha—I thought that old story wouldn't change. He guards that hatred and has forgotten his love for potions. But now, a new, faint story seems to be emerging. Hmm, is it hope? That's what they all say..."
Just as Sheen passed by,
A figure shrouded in dark clouds suddenly appeared before him.
Sheen looked at the suddenly appearing Professor Snape with some tension.
In the professor's dark black eyes, green was reflected
"For three days following every Thursday, I want to see you in the dungeon. Do not make me regret this decision..."