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Chapter 343: You Should Return to the Common Room, Gray
“Yes,” Wade replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He then pulled out the potion he had just brewed.
“Professor, I have a few questions regarding potions.”
Looking at the freshly prepared concoction, Snape’s tone softened noticeably.
“I hope you’ll show better time management next time—rather than rushing off like a foolish Lion, doing whatever comes to mind on impulse. What is it?”
“Well, Professor… I heard that today in class, you only added a few drops of water to a shrunken toad and instantly restored it to its original size. I’ve brewed Shrinking Potion myself, but nothing has ever worked so immediately.”
Wade placed the vial on the table. “I suspect you used an Age-Enhancing Elixir—but how did you make it work without actually consuming it?”
When discussing his field, Professor Snape’s demeanor grew noticeably more approachable.
He took the vial from Wade, gently shook it, examined it closely, and then sniffed the aroma before setting it down.
“I can tell you followed every procedure precisely—though your method is as rigid and monotonous as a Muggle assembly line. I hope you don’t go so far as to stuff your own mind into such a machine.”
Snape lifted his lip slightly, delivering the critique with blunt honesty.
For other students, Snape always emphasized precision and strict adherence in potion-making. But with Wade, he found the opposite fault—too rigid, too rule-bound.
Wade lowered his head for a moment, suppressing the urge to smirk.
The moment Snape used “assembly line” as a metaphor, Wade knew he had confirmation: the professor had been watching Muggle television lately—perhaps even rewatching the same shows multiple times. That particular phrase, so vivid and unexpected, was unmistakably rooted in modern Muggle pop culture.
The most memorable “assembly line” reference recently had come from a classic Muggle silent comedy.
That realization gave Wade greater confidence in his approach.
If Snape had truly been consumed by grief over Lily Potter’s death, his soul would have become as frozen and impenetrable as an Antarctic glacier. But he wasn’t.
He still cared. He still sought meaning. He even longed, deep down, for something like the Merlin’s Medal.
Snape turned and retrieved another bottle of potion from his cabinet, then held it out.
“Take a look at this.”
Wade accepted it, examined it with the same careful method, and after a long moment of thought, murmured uncertainly: “Evening Primrose?”
“Correct. Add one-third ounce of Evening Primrose seeds, and a pinch of powdered Selenic Root, and you’ll achieve the desired effect.”
“But how do you control the dosage?” Wade asked. “How do you ensure it restores the subject to its original state—without making them too old or too young?”
“Dosage depends on weight and magical capacity. But there’s an additional factor: the time interval between the two potions.”
Snape explained the process in detail, and Wade listened attentively, taking notes.
To him, potions were never a shortcut. Mastery required memorizing every ingredient’s properties, precise measurements, and perfect timing—all refined through relentless practice.
And becoming a true Potion Master required more than effort and wealth. Talent was essential.
Wade didn’t demand such perfection of himself. After all, one’s time and energy were limited. When he devoted so much of it to spells and alchemy, potion practice inevitably suffered.
Still, even so, Wade remained one of the rare students Snape genuinely enjoyed teaching—someone whose curiosity and insight made the effort worthwhile. He wanted to say more, to share more.
When the explanation ended, Snape glanced at the clock.
Wade noticed the hint of dismissal and quickly added, “I have one more question, Professor. I heard you’re also highly skilled in Defensive Magic Against the Dark Arts.”
It was common knowledge that Snape had applied to teach the class—but Dumbledore had never agreed.
Snape raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Is there something in the curriculum you don’t understand?”
“No, the lessons themselves aren’t the issue,” Wade said. “I’m asking—can severe damage caused by Dark Magic be healed? Especially when the harm is extreme?”
Snape’s expression darkened. “It depends on the spell… and how severe the damage is. The victim’s own magic and willpower are equally crucial. What kind of Dark Magic are we talking about?”
Wade hesitated, then said, “For example… mental collapse caused by the Cruciatus Curse?”
A long silence followed.
Then, quietly: “Why do you ask?”
Wade, who had never seen Snape particularly disapproving of Neville before, answered honestly—his voice tinged with quiet concern.
“Tonight, during practice, Neville accidentally broke a dummy. He tried to repair it, but couldn’t. We all thought, ‘It’s just a wooden panel—just throw it out and get a new one.’ But Neville kept trying… over and over.”
“Then I thought… maybe he was remembering his parents. I heard that Madam and Mr. Longbottom were tortured by the Cruciatus Curse for resisting Voldemort. That’s why they’re still in St. Mungo’s—permanently damaged.”
“Neville… he’s really suffering. I just wondered—if there’s any way to help him.”
He paused, then added, almost to himself: “Sometimes I wonder… is it worse to never have had something… or to have had it and lost it?”
Wade didn’t try to persuade Snape to be kinder to Neville. He knew his place.
He was just a favored student, someone who often received guidance and support from Snape himself. To openly criticize the professor’s treatment of another student would be ungrateful, even foolish.
And even Dumbledore hadn’t managed to change Snape’s attitude toward Harry.
What hope did Wade have?
Snape wasn’t someone who listened to reason or softened with compassion. He was a fanatic—devoted to love and hate with equal intensity. He would die to kill Voldemort, but he cared little for most others.
When Snape used his authority to belittle Neville, he felt a dark satisfaction—but he didn’t feel Neville’s pain.
Perhaps he knew it. But he didn’t care.
Wade’s goal wasn’t to change Snape’s mind through argument. It was to gently pull him out of his isolation, to make him see—not through logic, but through empathy.
If Snape could just set aside his anger and prejudice for a moment, he’d realize he was harming someone who had suffered the same trauma as he had.
If he had greater moral strength, he’d recognize that he, too, bore responsibility in this.
To lash out at Neville was not justice—it was misplaced rage.
The office remained silent for a long time.
Wade didn’t know what Snape was thinking. He simply met the professor’s gaze, unflinching.
His mental defenses were strong now—no longer afraid of eye contact. And Snape, for his part, made no move to invade his mind.
Only after an endless stretch of silence did Snape speak, his voice rough and low:
“If Madam Longbottom could have been healed, she wouldn’t still be in St. Mungo’s.”
“You should return to the Common Room, Gray.”
(End of Chapter)
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