Hogwarts: Proficiency Panel

Chapter 517 518: Haze and Reality

Walking through the Lands Between was a surreal experience. Snape watched as the

mist drifted around him like living clouds—rolling and unrolling, revealing a

brilliant, piercing whiteness.

The Black Cat was perched atop a sphere of vapor. Through the kaleidoscopic

swirls of the dream-mist, Snape could see his own desires reflected back at him.

He saw the ghosts of his past still in pursuit; the plumes of mist rising from

his own spirit still wore twisted, snarling faces.

He knew he couldn't stay long, even as the Black Cat worked tirelessly to bat

the darker orbs away with its tail.

As they walked, watching the cat fight its clumsy yet careful battle with the

shadows, Snape let out a soft, unnatural laugh. Amidst the haze and the fantasy,

he had glimpsed something undeniably real.

Like that black cat, a force had accidentally stumbled into his joyless life,

and from that day forward, his world had begun to change.

"Stop wasting your effort," Snape said suddenly.

The Black Cat froze, pretending nothing had happened, and quickly hid a

particularly nasty-sounding orb of mist behind its back.

"Hmph."

Snape surveyed the blinding white expanse once more. He looked at the dreams it

offered, the intentions it bared, and the forgotten luck it granted.

Before leaving the realm, a realization struck him.

Words hidden during the day, suppressed and unspoken, were laid bare in the

Lands Between. Here, souls stood in close proximity; the only thing separating

one wizard from another was the distance between their hearts.

Snape looked down and saw his own threads of mist. They were anchored deep

within the Black Cat's fur. The lines were thick and strong—wider than a man's

finger, far sturdier than the gossamer threads he saw elsewhere.

"Dunderhead," he whispered.

The word left his lips, but no sound followed. He allowed the rising mist to

swallow him whole.

Snape woke up.

The first rays of dawn pierced through the slits in the dungeon windows, falling

across a face that hadn't yet adjusted to the return. He squinted, feeling the

jarring friction of reality.

Before last night, he had believed that all dreams were born of failure—that

they were merely the winter's desperate fantasy of spring flowers. Remote, hazy,

and fueled by a hunger to tear through the fabric of the real world. A "winter

wizard" could reach out, but he would only catch the sharp pain of loss.

But today, the dream had let him see the truth. And for a man defined by doubt,

he felt a strange, terrifying sense of certainty.

Sean still hadn't found Leta Lestrange. She was an adventurer by nature; in the

dream, Newt had remarked with a smile that losing track of her was a common

occurrence. He, after all, had "lost" her for decades.

Sean didn't feel discouraged. Even if he had found Ariana Dumbledore, there

wasn't much he could do yet. He couldn't manifest his "soul guests" in the

physical world, nor could he bring the Headmaster into the dreamscape. He

decided to lower the priority of that particular mystery for now.

Currently, his focus was singular: grinding his Fiendfyre proficiency from

[Proficient] to [Expert].

He was at the final ten percent. If he pushed himself hard enough, he might

achieve the title of "Master of the Dark Arts" before the end of the summer

holidays.

And so, Sean's life became a cycle of total immersion.

He would wake up in the Ravenclaw tower at dawn, eat a hurried meal, and head

straight to the dungeons to practice his fire. He dedicated every waking

hour—save for the bare minimum required for food and sleep—to the study of the

Dark Arts.

"Obsessed" didn't begin to describe him. Even Snape began to frown at the boy's

intensity. He didn't doubt Sean's passion, but a wizard was still flesh and

blood. Consuming one's mental reserves to the point of collapse and relying on

Pepperup Potions to restart the clock was a dangerous game.

"The Potions Conference is approaching..."

Snape interrupted Sean just as he was about to ignite another burst of flame. He

stared at the exhausted young wizard.

"Before you continue this... display, you would do well to master a sufficient

variety of brews. If a wizard cannot produce a masterpiece, the least he can do

is prove he isn't illiterate in the field." Snape's voice was as cutting and

cold as ever.

Sean took a seat, leaning back with a sigh as he opened his system interface.

Under Snape's almost retaliatory teaching style over the last two years, Sean

had already mastered the curriculum for years one through five.

Yes, it was retaliatory.

Snape was frustrated. Sean had yet to brew a single "Master-level" potion. It

had led the Potions Master to a strange suspicion: was there a flaw in the magic

of the craft itself? How could the boy who wrote the brilliant treatise sitting

on Snape's desk—The Volition of Potions—fail to reach the heights his own book

described?

Sean had outlined a theory of "Magical Intent" in brewing that described an

optimal state of perfection. Snape had tested the theory himself and found it

flawless. It was as if Sean had built a sprawling skyscraper in his mind, yet

couldn't manage to lay the foundation in reality.

This was a problem for Snape's plans. He intended for Sean to present the

"Intent Theory" at the upcoming International Potions Conference—it was to be

the most significant breakthrough in a century.

"Next, you will produce a perfect Shrinking Solution. Try to remember your

status as my Assistant," Snape sneered.

There was one more thing Snape wanted to say, but the words died in his throat:

Remember your status not just as an assistant, but as the only protégé of a

Master.

"I understand, Professor," Sean sighed.

In the realm of Potions, his talent was... modest. His system status confirmed

it:

[Title: Potion-Acquainted] Greatly increases perception of ingredients;

significantly boosts brewing talent. [Wizard Sean Green: Potions Talent - Blue

(Original: White). Note: Average wizard is Green.] [Advancement: Brew 6

Expert-level potions and 6 Proficient-level potions to unlock the 'Expert'

title.]

Six Expert potions... Sean mused.

He decided the final two would be the Shrinking Solution and the Draught of

Peace. The hospital wing always needed the latter, providing plenty of practice.

The former was a standard third-year challenge.

The only issue was time.

Fortunately, Sean knew of several alchemical artifacts designed to "stretch" the

hours.

The days slipped away in the flickering light of the dungeon. Sean spent his

time elbow-deep in daisy roots, shrivelled figs, rat spleens, and leech juice.

Occasionally, when the Shrinking Solution refused to turn the proper shade of

acid-green, Sean felt a flash of irritation—an urge to simply incinerate the

cauldron with Fiendfyre.

Whenever that thought occurred, he would freeze, a chill running down his spine.

He treated the study of the Dark Arts with renewed caution. If he was already

looking for the "hammer" of destruction to solve a brewing problem, the

corruption was closer than he thought.

He realized a simple, terrifying truth: When one carries a blade, the heart

naturally turns toward the kill.

To cleanse that influence, he had to succeed. He had to reconstruct the Order of

the Dark Arts within his soul.

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