Passable Enough

However, when Professor Snape reached Lyria's side, he unexpectedly stopped.

Lyria's method was highly unusual—she had not even touched the gleaming silver potion knife.

While the other students were struggling to cut the hard, slippery porcupine quills with their blades, she merely lowered her eyes slightly, extended her right index finger, and gently touched the tip of one quill.

In an instant, a wisp of nearly invisible white mist seeped from her fingertip and swiftly enveloped the entire quill. It was not ordinary vapor, but a chill infused with magical rhythm, as though the quietest frost of a winter night had descended without a sound.

Within seconds, a layer of crystalline ice formed over the quill's surface. Its once-flexible fibrous structure froze and became brittle in an instant.

With the effortless motion of snapping a dried reed, she broke it with a crisp crack. The porcupine quill split neatly into three sections, each precisely the same length, their cuts as smooth as mirrors.

Snape watched in silence. Lyria did not become flustered by his approach and continued processing the ingredients at her own pace, as though the professor were no more than a stone in the corner.

Snape raised a hand and lightly lifted a frozen piece of porcupine quill with the tip of his wand.

The ice swiftly melted beneath the touch of his magic, revealing dry but undamaged plant fibers underneath. He narrowed his eyes and rubbed them between his fingertips—the texture was easier to crush than at room temperature, but if handled properly during brewing, it could prevent the fibers from swelling with moisture and falling apart later in the process.

He rapidly worked it out in his mind: if the brewing was completed before the Flobberworm juice was added, the lingering chill would slightly slow the reaction, yet it would also help the potion's properties release gradually...

He lifted his head, his gaze sharp as a blade as he tried to see through her hood and make out Lyria's face. Yet Lyria kept her head lowered, the shadows of her cloak concealing her completely.

At last, Snape straightened, his black robes shifting slightly. He neither deducted points nor sneered, nor did he even point out a "violation of procedure."

He merely stared in Lyria's direction and uttered two words in a deep, slow voice almost entirely devoid of inflection.

"Interesting."

The other students, however, were not so fortunate. Snape resumed his hairdryer mode.

John Nash of Ravenclaw trembled nervously while adding Flobberworm juice and accidentally dripped in two drops too many.

Snape immediately appeared behind him, his voice so low that it seemed to be forced through clenched teeth. "Mr. Nash, it appears that your fingers, like your brain, are rather difficult to control. One point from Ravenclaw. If your potion turns into poison in the end, I will be more than happy to send you to Madam Pomfrey's office for clinical trials."

John was so frightened that he nearly knocked over his cauldron, making his movements even more unsteady.

Justin Finlay had it the worst. He got the stirring direction wrong—stirring counterclockwise instead of clockwise.

Snape stood behind him and said coldly, "Mr. Finlay, are you trying to summon a boil demon to play with you? Your potion currently smells like rotten socks stewed with slugs. Three points from Hufflepuff. Stay behind after class, clean up your 'masterpiece,' and then make it again."

Justin was practically on the verge of tears. As a Muggle-born who had excelled academically since childhood, he had never encountered a teacher this harsh.

Minute by minute, the potion in Yulian's cauldron gradually took on the proper pale violet sheen, giving off a fresh scent reminiscent of lavender mixed with mint.

Yulian carefully added the final ingredient—powdered snake fangs—and stirred clockwise with a silver stirring rod at a pace of seven rotations per minute.

This was the most critical step. The slightest mistake would turn the entire cauldron black and foul-smelling. More importantly, he had to control the heat while stirring.

He held his breath and focused completely. At some point, Snape had paced back to stand behind him, silently observing.

Fine bubbles rose in the cauldron as the liquid was stirred. Whenever the color deepened, Yulian would gently lift the cauldron away from the flame.

After repeating this several times, the color shifted from pale violet to a clear light blue, finally stabilizing into an almost transparent pearlescent sheen—the most perfect state for a Cure for Boils.

Yulian extinguished the fire, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and let out a long breath. Only then did he realize that Snape was standing behind him.

Snape's brow twitched faintly. He extended his wand and lightly tapped the rim of the cauldron.

A drop of potion rose into the air and formed a tiny bead, radiating a soft glow. He sniffed it, then dipped the tip of his wand into it and touched it to his tongue.

The entire classroom fell deathly silent. Everyone held their breath, as though awaiting judgment.

Snape lowered his wand, gave Yulian an expressionless glance, then turned and returned to the lectern. No one knew what he was thinking.

When the bell rang, Snape stood before the lectern and summarized in his signature voice, one capable of freezing the soul. "Overall, today's potion-making has barely reached the standard of 'not poisoning anyone to death.' Among them..."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Yulian again. "Mr. Black's work was passable. That is all. Each of you will write an essay on the applications of articulated potion apparatus. Three feet long. Due next week."

With that, he flicked his wand. All the cauldrons cleaned themselves automatically, and he strode out of the classroom, leaving behind a group of Young Wizards who had survived a disaster.

"Merlin's beard," Kayson slumped in his chair and dramatically wiped nonexistent cold sweat from his brow. "I thought he was going to turn me into his next jarred specimen! I nearly mistook porcupine quills for dried nettles! Good thing nothing exploded!"

"He actually praised you, Yulian!" Edgar looked utterly incredulous. The other Young Wizards also turned to look at Yulian.

"Has he ever praised anyone?"

"'Passable'! Coming from Professor Snape, that practically means 'flawless'! Do you know when he last called someone 'passable'? They say it was five years ago."

Yulian smiled as he packed up his things. He knew that behind Snape's "passable" lay complicated feelings toward those eyes of his, as well as a trace of recognition for the talent in potions he had displayed.

This Potions class had been perilous, but it had still yielded something. Three books had appeared in the Magic Resonance Library in his mind: <Non-Standard Potion Processing Methods: From Frost Slicing to Moonlight Extraction>, <The Shadow of Slytherin: On Prejudice and Truth in Potion-Making>, and <The Silent Cauldron: On the Role of Emotional Value in Potion-Making>.

Before Yulian had started school, his library had already formed the book Basic Potion Making, which was even more detailed than Hogwarts's textbooks. Everything about observing the texture of potion ingredients had come from that book.

The three books that had now appeared were clearly advanced versions. The third one did not yet meet the requirements for reading.

He looked toward the classroom door. Snape's black figure had long since vanished down the corridor.

Yulian thought to himself, Perhaps that greasy bat of a professor isn't as terrifying as he seems. At the very least, he's willing to cut truly talented people some slack.

At that moment, Lyria approached, a faint smile visible beneath her cloak. "Your potion was perfect."

Yulian was somewhat surprised. "Yours was good too. I saw the finished product just now. Have you handled potion ingredients before?"

"Mm, I often dealt with herbs in the tribe. I only know a little," she said softly. "Especially... the parts that require 'unconventional methods.'"

The two smiled at each other.

Meanwhile, at a distant corner of the corridor, Snape leaned against the cold stone wall, his fingers unconsciously stroking his wand.

He gazed at the gray sky beyond the window and murmured softly, "Lily... your nephew has inherited your eyes, and... your talent."

His voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible, yet it carried a trace of tenderness so faint it was difficult to notice. It vanished in an instant, buried once more beneath that thick shell of ice.