Vincent disliked meddling in other people’s business.
He had heard plenty about Harry and his group’s antics, but he had never actually joined them.
Now, a far bigger trouble had landed right in front of his face.
If he didn’t solve it, he would have to worry about his own livelihood.
Aside from his days at the orphanage, Vincent had never thought he would have to worry about basic necessities again.
He wasn’t particularly invested in material comforts; he cared far more about securing better learning conditions for himself.
He wasn’t fond of the student telescope in the astronomy tower and wanted a better one, and naturally, that money had to come from his nominal adoptive parents.
In a sense, the letter had arrived quite opportunely, giving him an excuse to reach out to them.
Vincent returned to the Ravenclaw common room and sat quietly in the corner of his dormitory window sill, clutching the letter tightly.
The paper was somewhat crumpled in his hand.
Stripping away the cold, superficial greetings at the beginning, all that remained was a copy of a Muggle hospital’s diagnostic report.
The contents were simple and direct.
Removing the useless rhetoric, it boiled down to their hope that he could use magical means to cure his younger brother’s illness.
Heh, Vincent sneered inwardly.
Despite the deep disdain and resentment in his heart, Vincent understood that before he came of age, he still had to rely on their living expenses.
To prevent a lack of funds from constraining him, he still needed to find a solution for his younger brother’s condition—not necessarily a complete cure, but extending the boy’s life would suffice.
He stood up emotionlessly and casually tossed the letter onto his bed as if discarding worthless trash.
After a moment’s hesitation, he kept the diagnostic report and burned the full page of garbage.
A flame burst from the tip of his wand, controlled precisely to consume only the paper before quickly transforming into a stream of clear water.
Washing the residue off his hands, Vincent walked toward the Potions classroom with a calm, indifferent demeanor.
The Potions classroom was located deep in the castle’s dungeons, where the unique environment helped preserve the potency of various ingredients.
The surrounding corridors were steeped in a mysterious, ancient atmosphere unique to Hogwarts.
Candlelight flickered in the draft on the stone walls, making shadows dance like a troupe of specters—though Hogwarts ghosts only glided about and never actually danced on flames.
The door to the Potions classroom stood half-ajar.
Looking in from the outside, the room was dimly lit.
Rays of light struggled through the narrow, high windows, casting faint beams where dust motes danced like lost pixies.
It wasn’t actual sunlight, merely an illusion from the lamps out in the corridor.
A place like this had no access to real sunlight.
He pushed the door open gently.
The hinges gave a soft squeak that sounded exceptionally jarring in the silence.
The classroom was filled with a strange aroma, a mixture of various potion ingredients.
The scent was rich without being pungent.
Neat rows of old wooden shelves stood in orderly lines, displaying all kinds of ingredients sorted by category.
On the top shelf rested precious materials.
A unicorn horn gleamed with a soft white glow in the dim light, exuding a sense of sacred gentleness.
Dragon scales sat like mini shields, reflecting iridescent colors, hard and brimming with mysterious power.
These were display specimens; no one was permitted to touch them except the professor.
Nor was any foolish student brave enough to test how the Potions professor protected his rare ingredients.
Severus Snape was likely the worst-tempered professor at Hogwarts.
On the middle shelves sat common yet equally important ingredients.
Dried Mandrake roots looked like twisted little dolls sealed inside pots, from which faint, infant-like whimpers could occasionally be heard.
Strings of bat wings hung neatly like black silk, radiating an eerie vibe.
The bottom shelves held basic herbs.
Evening primrose petals appeared a hazy white in the shadows, while hop vines glowed a vivid green, as if bursting with vitality.
Vincent cast a faint glance over them, finding it somewhat amusing, before looking away to focus on the task at hand.
He walked straight to a long table in the center of the classroom.
The wood was covered in deep and shallow scuffs left behind by generations of students during potion-brewing accidents—a testament to the history of Potions, or perhaps Hogwarts’ disregard for student furniture.
He remembered Harry complaining to him about this very table, and now Vincent felt a slight urge to complain as well.
It was nothing more than sheer irritation.
He casually set his tools on the table, sat down, and flipped open his heavy Potions textbook.
The sound of turning pages echoed through the quiet room.
Every page was densely packed with potion recipes, ingredient properties, and brewing techniques.
His slender fingers slid slowly across the pages, his sharp gaze carefully scanning every single word as he attempted to find a standard potion from this vast ocean of knowledge that could treat his brother’s condition.
The Muggle doctor’s diagnosis was congenital heart disease.
After skipping past medical jargon he didn’t care about, Vincent had focused only on the final diagnosis.
Another case of congenital heart disease.
He had researched his adoptive parents before; their previous child had suffered from the same condition and died before reaching the age of eight.
Now they had another child, and it was the exact same story.
Why on earth did they insist on having more children under such circumstances?
Vincent couldn’t fathom Muggle logic, though fortunately, he didn’t need to.
He was a wizard and would never have to deal with such troubles.
As for congenital heart issues, Vincent had never received formal apothecary training.
To find anything useful, he would need to read more books and gather far more information.
The recipes in the book were complex and varied, with countless combinations of ingredients and precise brewing requirements that could make anyone dizzy.
Vincent’s brow furrowed slightly as a surge of annoyance rose in his chest.
Yet his expression remained cold and impassive.
Nothing in this world seemed capable of causing a major storm in his heart; commanding even a slight ripple of his attention was already the utmost effort he would spare.
Just as Vincent remained buried in his search for a usable potion recipe, the classroom door was pushed open once more.
Vincent raised his eyes unhurriedly, not expecting the person walking in to be Theodore Nott.
Theodore Nott appeared at the doorway.
He was tall and straight, like a fir tree growing in the dark of night, exuding a unique aura.
His dark brown hair fell smoothly over his forehead like finely carved silk.
A few unruly strands curled slightly, catching the light with a subtle chestnut sheen, as though quietly kissed by the sun.
Just a moment ago, Vincent had felt the dungeon classroom was dim and dark.
Yet looking at the boy who had just entered, he suddenly felt the room had grown remarkably bright.
When he had initially chosen Theodore Nott as his experimental subject, it was hard to say whether that face of his had played a role in the decision.
Theodore Nott was indeed a handsome boy.
His features looked as though they had been meticulously sculpted by a master craftsman—sharp yet soft.
His skin was pale, taking on an almost translucent quality in the dim light of the Potions room, as if it might shatter at the slightest touch.
Vincent’s unhidden gaze made Theodore Nott feel rather uncomfortable.
Some time ago, this person’s stares had already annoyed him.
Things had finally quieted down for a while, so he hadn’t expected to run into him here in the Potions classroom.
He had specifically checked the class and room schedules.
At this hour, the Potions classroom was supposed to be completely empty.