Ron gagged loudly and threw up another glob of slimy mucus.
The acrid stench of stomach acid was so overwhelming that he nearly choked on it.
Dylan instinctively took another step back, covering his nose and mouth while giving his wand a light wave.
*"Ventus!"*
A gust of wind whooshed through the corridor, swiftly dispersing the thick, nauseating smell.
"What happened to you guys…?" Dylan blinked, suddenly recalling something. Wasn't there an incident early in their second year where Ron had a run-in with Malfoy again?
Ron had tried to cast a hex on Malfoy, but the spell had backfired spectacularly.
His broken wand had reflected the curse right back at him instead.
Dylan had heard about it, but he wasn't Ron and Harry's babysitter. He couldn't possibly follow them around all day, ready to jump in whenever they got into trouble.
That said, he clearly remembered warning Ron at the start of the school year: *Don't pick fights with Malfoy and his gang.*
They were all classmates, after all. If Malfoy was being an ass, just cursing out his ancestors for eight generations would've been enough—no need to get physical.
But looking at Ron now, it was obvious he hadn't taken that advice to heart.
Even though at the time, he had nodded so earnestly.
Since he hadn't listened, he'd just have to deal with the consequences.
Still, out of concern for a friend, Dylan waited for Hermione and Harry to explain the situation before asking, "How are you feeling now? Any better?"
Ron's pained expression froze for a second, and a giant question mark practically appeared over his head.
*Can't you tell how I'm feeling just by looking at me?!*
But before he could respond, his stomach churned violently again. He immediately doubled over, clutching his midsection.
This time, Harry was ready. Unlike before, he quickly shoved a large bucket in front of Ron.
*"Blaaargh!"*
Ron vomited once more.
A fat, slimy slug plopped into the bucket.
Hermione frowned. "Wasn't it getting better just now? Why is he throwing up again so soon?"
Harry, still holding the bucket steady, explained, "Professor Flitwick said there's no real cure for this curse. He told us that once Ron's thrown up enough, he just has to stay calm, and it'll eventually stop."
Hermione blinked, then gently reassured Ron, "Just relax, you'll be fine soon."
Ron's face was pale as a sheet. "Dylan, do you have anything that could help?"
Dylan clicked his tongue. "You guys just came from Professor Flitwick's office, right? If even he doesn't have a solution, what do you think I can do?"
The Slug-Vomiting Charm was similar to the Bat-Bogey Hex.
One made the victim puke up shiny, fat slugs. The other turned their nasal mucus into giant black bats that flew out of their nose.
With the slug curse, the moment it took effect, slugs would begin forming inside the victim's body. And once they were there, they weren't going to just *vanish*—they had to be expelled.
As for the Bat-Bogey Hex, it didn't even rely on whether the target actually had boogers. The spell forcibly transformed *something* inside the nasal cavity into bats. Boogers were just the easiest thing to use.
When Dylan admitted he didn't have a solution either, Ron closed his eyes in despair.
Dylan sighed at the sight and shook his head. "It's not that I don't *want* to help. Spell backfires are unpredictable and difficult to fix."
Spell backfires happened when a spell went wrong, producing unexpected effects—sometimes even the opposite of what was intended.
Like using an Engorgement Charm, only for the object to *shrink* instead. Or worse, for the caster themselves to start inflating.
Or trying to use a healing spell, but instead of curing the injury, it made things even worse.
In extreme cases, spell backfires could trigger *completely unrelated* magical disasters—explosions, bursts of uncontrolled magical energy, or even the summoning of bizarre creatures.
Dylan had studied spell backfires extensively with Professor Flitwick last year.
Because backfired spells worked differently from properly cast ones, their counter-spells often didn't work.
In such cases, the best bet was usually to use a Finite Incantatem and hope it dispelled the effects.
But the Slug-Vomiting Charm was tricky. It involved transfiguration on a biological level.
For example, the slugs Ron was vomiting weren't just *disappearing*—they had to be physically expelled.
Dylan thought for a moment before suggesting, "How about this? I can use a spell to help you throw up faster. Once you've gotten rid of all the slugs, you'll be fine."
"Professor Flitwick already tried a counter-curse on you, right?"
Ron hesitated for a second but then nodded, squeezing his eyes shut as if preparing for execution. "Alright, do it! Just get this over with!"
Dylan smacked his lips. "Uh… maybe hold onto the bucket properly? And why are you closing your eyes? What if you miss and puke on someone?"
Ron: "…"
Awkwardly, he cracked his eyes open again.
Harry helpfully shoved the bucket into his arms.
Seeing Ron ready, Dylan raised his wand.
*"Emesisurge!"*
A strange blue light shot from his wand and hit Ron squarely in the chest.
Ron shuddered violently, his face twisting as his stomach churned.
A powerful nausea overwhelmed him, and he clung to the bucket for dear life before doubling over.
*"Blaaaaargh!"*
Slugs poured out of his mouth like a waterfall, landing with wet splats inside the bucket.
His entire body trembled as he heaved, vomiting slug after slug until finally, he had nothing left but stomach acid.
His arms went limp, the bucket slipping from his grasp. His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed against the wall, panting heavily. His eyes were dull and unfocused, his entire body utterly drained of energy.
*"Anapneo!"*
*"Rennervate!"*
With two quick spells, Dylan restored Ron's breathing and replenished his energy.
Then, he handed him two potion bottles.
"Here. One's a Blood-Replenishing Potion, the other is a Ginger-Peppermint-Pepper Tonic. Drink them both, and you'll feel much better."
Ron's eyelid twitched at the mention of the second potion.
He *knew* that stuff—it was absolutely disgusting.
But it *would* ease his nausea and settle his stomach. No matter how much he didn't want to drink it, he had no choice.
With a grimace, he forced both potions down.
Afterward, he *did* feel noticeably better.
—Good enough, in fact, to start cursing.
"That bloody Malfoy! Calling Hermione a *Mudblood*—how *dare* he!"
Harry sighed. "Ron was so furious that he tried to hex him, but… well, you know what happened."
Dylan shook his head. "Your wand's broken. Even simple spells could go wrong, let alone a hex."
"So next time, think twice before picking a fight. Even if you're angry, at least make sure you can *back it up*."
Ron pouted. "But I couldn't just stand there and let them bully my friends."
Hermione looked touched.
Dylan nodded understandingly. "Then why not just curse them out instead?"
Ron froze. He scratched the back of his head awkwardly and mumbled, "Well… I'm not exactly great at insults. Slytherins are just *so* sharp-tongued…"
Dylan shrugged. "Anyway, I gotta get to class—Snape's lesson, actually."
Ron immediately shrank back.
Dylan grinned. "One last piece of advice: Try not to lose your temper so easily. Know why?"
Ron froze, looking up. "Why?"
Hermione and Harry also turned their eyes toward him.
"Because when you're angry, you'll use your real skills—and then everyone will know just how bad they actually are."
Ron: "( - ) ..."
Ron clutched his chest with one hand.
—He felt like his heart was breaking.
And he was kind of nauseous. What now?
Harry helped Ron up from the floor while Dylan smirked. "Seamus's friend, Dean—didn't he just have a huge argument with someone in the common room? You might want to take a few lessons from him on how to win a war of words."
After saying goodbye to the others, Dylan hurried off toward Professor Snape's office.
That left Ron standing there, looking utterly devastated, with Harry holding onto him.
"Good thing I'm not late."
Dylan arrived a few minutes early and let out a small breath of relief before knocking on the door to Professor Snape's office.
"Come in." A familiar, low, and indifferent voice came from inside.
As Dylan pushed the door open, a dry, herbal scent filled the air. Professor Snape stood with his back to him, carefully selecting bottles from a row of potions on the shelf.
Hearing Dylan's approaching footsteps, Snape slowly turned around. The candlelight cast his shadow onto the specimen display case against the wall. His pitch-black eyes, cold and unreadable like the depths of a dark night, locked onto Dylan.
"You have impeccable timing. Unlike the other Gryffindor students who are always late, but barely. Apparently, you prefer other professors' classes—since they tell me you always show up a full thirty minutes early."
Dylan immediately caught the meaning behind Snape's words. He forced an awkward smile and quickly explained.
"Professor, I actually got here early, too. But I ran into Harry and the others on the way—Ron accidentally hit himself with his own spell, so I had to stop and heal him. That's why I was slightly delayed. I'm really sorry. Next time, I'll make sure to arrive even earlier."
Snape walked over to his chair and sat down, glancing at Dylan. "Hit himself with his own spell? Hmph. Exactly what I'd expect from those foolish Gryffindor students. And yet McGonagall insists I'm too hard on them."
Dylan kept a stiff smile and wisely chose not to comment.
Honestly, getting injured by your own spell and wand rebound was a pretty ridiculous mistake—even he had to admit that.
Snape's office was dimly lit, almost gloomy. The wall sconces cast a faint glow, illuminating the surrounding dark wooden shelves packed with an assortment of glass containers—each holding something bizarre. Shed basilisk skin, a murtlap's venom sac…
—Dylan had always wanted to get his hands on a few murtlaps to raise.
But as a high-risk magical creature, murtlaps were both dangerous and extremely valuable. Their blood and venom were so useful that they'd been hunted nearly to extinction.
At least in England, it was nearly impossible to find them in the wild anymore.
Snape had already taken out Dylan's cauldron and even thoughtfully set out a stirring rod, mortar and pestle, and other tools for him.
He'd even prepared all the necessary ingredients in advance.
Dylan smiled slightly, then walked over to the cauldron to begin brewing today's potion.
He carefully placed some sneezewort into the mortar and started grinding.
"Lighter pressure—don't waste the essential properties of the ingredients. Pay attention to the texture."
"Raise your wrist two inches higher."
Snape's voice was as smooth and sharp as a bat's wing brushing against stone. His wand, partially visible beneath his sleeve, was pointed at Dylan's mortar.
Dylan felt his wrist subtly lifted and quickly adjusted, continuing to rotate the pestle.
On the seventh clockwise grind, the moonstone pestle suddenly emitted a faint emerald glow—the sign that the sneezewort's finest essence had been activated.
Taking Snape's lessons required absolute concentration—it was mentally exhausting. If Dylan let his focus slip for even a moment, he wouldn't be able to meet the professor's impossibly high standards for each step.
By the time the potion was finally complete, Dylan exhaled deeply as a faint shimmer spread across the liquid surface.
Snape reached out with a long, silver spoon shaped like a snake. As he stirred the potion, the tiny emerald embedded in the handle flickered with a soft green light—a sign of minor impurities.
When he looked up, the candlelight cast sharp shadows along his hollowed cheekbones, making his already severe features even more intimidating. "Barely passable. Pack it up and take it with you—I have no use for such low-quality potions."
Despite his words, a glint of satisfaction flickered in Snape's eyes.
After spending so much time with Snape, Dylan had learned to read him well. Grinning, he pulled out his supplies and eagerly bottled up his potion.
Every time he came here, he managed to score free potion ingredients. Some of them weren't just expensive—they were practically impossible to buy. You had to source them yourself.
Dylan beamed as he secured his filled potion bottles. But then, Snape's cold voice suddenly cut through the air.
"From now on, come once every two or three weeks. No need to come every week."
Dylan froze, hand hovering mid-air as he packed his things.
What did that mean?
Snape didn't want to teach him anymore?
Was it because he always showed up to use ingredients, and Snape was finally sick of supplying them?
Had he actually drained Snape's resources dry just by constantly learning from him?
Dylan hesitated, then carefully chose his words. "Professor, I could bring some of my own potion ingredients… at least some of them."
Snape's expression darkened instantly.
"What exactly is going through that ridiculous brain of yours? Do you think I'm doing this because I can't afford it?"
Isn't that why?
The thought popped into Dylan's head, but he quickly shook it off. "Of course not! I'd never think that!"
"I just figured… I shouldn't always rely on you to provide everything. I wanted to lighten your workload a bit, that's all!"
Dylan's sincerity made Snape narrow his eyes suspiciously.
After a moment, Snape scoffed. "I'm telling you to come less frequently because I've already taught you nearly everything I can. That happened last school year."
Crossing his arms, Snape looked down at Dylan with an icy gaze. "Tell me—what's the real key to mastering potion-making? And don't tell me it's just memorizing recipes."
Dylan blinked before immediately answering. "Professor, it's the technique—only precise execution can ensure the highest-quality potions."
Seeing that Dylan had answered correctly, Snape gave him an approving glance.
"At least you have some memory."
He walked back to his desk and sat down. "Keep going."
Dylan hesitated for a second, then continued.
"Potion-making is all about technique. It's the foundation of everything. But technique isn't just about stirring and grinding—it's about measuring the exact right amount, knowing when to add more or less."
"Beyond that, temperature control is key. High heat accelerates reactions, low heat allows for slow extraction. Every ingredient requires different conditions—too soon, and it's rushed; too late, and it's ruined."
Dylan rambled on for a bit.
Snape raised an eyebrow, the coldness in his gaze softening slightly.
—The kid had remembered every word he'd said before.
Snape pressed down the slight smirk trying to form at the corner of his mouth. "Last year, I already drilled all of this into you."
"Potion mastery takes time. Repeating basic steps every week won't make you an expert. You need practice—lots of it. And I don't have endless supplies for you to waste."
"So I'm having you come less frequently to ensure that when you do, you're refining higher-level potions under my supervision. That's enough."
"You're not trying to steal all my skills, are you? Remember—you're Dylan Hawkworth, not me. You should develop your own style."
It was rare for Snape to say so much all at once.
Dylan finally understood his intentions and nodded firmly. "Got it."
—But honestly? He still wanted to learn everything Snape knew.
What did it matter if he borrowed techniques from others? If he mastered them all, wouldn't they become his own?
Snape seemed satisfied with Dylan's response and gave a brief nod. "Good. Then let's have a test."
"Sure—wait, what? A test?"
Dylan had been about to agree enthusiastically when he suddenly processed what Snape had said.
He looked up in alarm.
(End of chapter)