The dungeons of Hogwarts possessed a distinct microclimate. As Arthur descended the stone steps, his mana sense immediately detected a 12-degree drop in ambient temperature and a 40% increase in relative humidity. To most students, the cold was oppressive; to Arthur, it was an optimal environment for stabilizing volatile chemical reactions.
He took a seat at a heavy wooden workbench in the middle row. Beside him, Terry Boot was already arranging his brass scales with trembling fingers, the metal clinking nervously against the stone. Arthur ignored him, his eyes fixed on the door, his mind already reviewing everything he researched about potion brewing in advance.
The door suddenly swung open with a loud crash. Professor Snape strode in, his long black robes flowing behind him like a dark cloud. He didn't say a word until he reached the front of the room, where he started taking attendance. When he came to Arthur's name, he stopped.
"Ah, yes," Snape said softly, his voice echoing off the damp walls. "Arthur Pendergast. Our new... prodigy."
Arthur paid close attention. He used his skill Observe to notice the tiny changes in Snape's face, which showed a mix of professional curiosity and a calculated desire to find a flaw.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," Snape began, his voice barely a whisper, yet it commanded the silence of a vacuum. He spoke of bottling fame and putting a stop to death. Then, his eyes snapped to Arthur, who was sitting perfectly still, hands folded.
"Pendergast!" Snape said suddenly. "What would I get if I added the powdered root of the asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
"Asphodel and wormwood combine to create a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death, Professor," Arthur didn't even need to think ashe started, tone as flat as a readout.
Snape's lips curled, a faint twitch of annoyance at the immediate accuracy. He pushed further. "Where, Pendergast, would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
"In the stomach of a goat, sir. It is a mass of undigested fiber that serves as a universal antidote to most non-magical poisons."
The room was deathly quiet. Snape stepped closer, his shadow looming over Arthur's desk. "And the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"They are the same plant, Aconitum, also known as napellus," Arthur replied. "The nomenclature varies by region, but the alkaloid content remains identical."
Snape stared at him for a long, heavy moment. He couldn't dock points for a correct answer, but as a professor he obviously has others tricks, so he simply shifted to the practical. "Clearly, you have a memory like a filing cabinet. We shall see if your hands are as sharp as your tongue. Begin the Cure for Boils."
The instructions on the board were, in Arthur's estimation, criminally vague.
"Crush snake fangs." How fine?
"Add horned slugs." At what temperature threshold?
"Stir until blue." What specific wavelength of blue?
It was a recipe built for failure. Fortunately, Arthur did not rely on the chalkboard. He opened his textbook, cross-referenced the properties of the ingredients, and activated his Mana Sense.
"Hey Pendergast," Terry whispered, looking at Arthur's hands, which were just sitting there. "Aren't you going to start a fire or something?"
"The cauldron must reach thermal equilibrium first," Arthur said as he sorted through the dried nettles to remove any damaged parts. 'Meanwhile, It's time to get the fangs prepared—I'll need to crush them into tiny pieces, precisely 0.5 millimeters in size. If they're too large, the surface area won't allow for a 100% dissolution rate.'
Arthur took the brewing process very seriously. He didn't just brew; he monitored the micro-fluctuations in the environment. He didn't even try to guess the temperature; instead, he carefully held his hand about two inches above the liquid, allowing his mana to sense the heat it was giving off. Then, in a very precise motion, he added the porcupine quills, but only after he had deliberately removed the cauldron from the fire to avoid a volatile reaction.
After twenty minutes, Arthur's cauldron contained a liquid that had reached a state of perfect molecular stability. The liquid had transformed into a crystal-clear, translucent sapphire that emitted a gentle, calming warmth. There were no bubbles rising to the surface, no tendrils of smoke curling up into the air. Instead, the liquid existed in a state of complete chemical balance.
Snape walked up and down the rows, his lip curled in disgust, as he made failed potions disappear. He finally stopped at Arthur's table.Snape gazed into the cauldron, his eyes fixed intently on the liquid inside. He leaned in closer, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied it carefully. Reaching for a glass stirring rod, he dipped it into the sapphire liquid and lifted it out, examining the way it coated the glass. The liquid formed a flawless, even film on the rod, and Snape's expression was one of surprise and admiration. In all his years of teaching, he had never seen a first-year student produce a potion as perfect as this one. The viscosity was just right, and the way it clung to the glass was a testament to the student's skill. It was, without a doubt, an exceptional piece of work.
Snape turned to Arthur, his eyes locking onto his, and Arthur met his gaze, waiting for some sign that he had done things right.
"Acceptable," Snape said quietly, his voice icy with contempt.
Arthur's brow furrowed by exactly one millimeter.
"Professor," Arthur said, "the text says a good cure for boils should be blue and have a certain thickness, which is 1.4. My potion is exactly that. And if you do the calculation, it should work every time, 100%."Snape moved in close to Arthur, his tall frame looming over him.
"Potions isn't just about following a formula, boy," Snape said, his voice low and angry.
"You're brewing like a puppet, without any feeling or instinct. There's no creativity in this potion, nothing special that makes a real potioneer stand out from someone who just follows a recipe. It's okay, I suppose, but that's all it is. You should be grateful I'm not giving you a bad grade, considering how little imagination you've shown."Snape turned on his heel and swept away.
'Interface' Arthur called out the interface.
[Potion brewing: Beginner (20.05%)]
Arthur stood in silence, looking down at his perfect sapphire potion. He did not feel angry; he simply realized that the Potions Master was operating on a corrupted, biased algorithm.
Arthur carefully poured some of his potion into a small bottle. He was thrilled that it had turned out just right. For him, that was all that counted.