Chapter 294: Returning Home

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The operation titled "Old Man Splurges Gold Coins" proceeded unusually smoothly. While Horace Slughorn could be stingy in certain matters, when it came to cultivating relationships and befriending rising stars, he was more than willing to invest generously—of course, only when he deemed the person worth it.

If an investment's input far outweighed its returns, then such an investment was undoubtedly a failure. As an angel investor who had already successfully funded dozens of outstanding talents across political and commercial sectors, Horace had an acute sense of where the cost boundary of an investment lay.

Although Severus Snape, as Horace's student, didn't indulge in the same methods, he had long since understood his teacher's logic, simply by being around him. Horace's plans had already been anticipated—and countered—by Snape.

The layers of aura surrounding Harry had been subtly hinted at during Snape's casual conversations. Even before revealing his full potential to the world, Harry had already grown into a mighty shark, and the shrewd old investor who recognized a surefire profit didn't hesitate to go all-in. Most importantly—Harry was Snape's godson.

Horace knew about Snape's relationship with Lily, so this didn't surprise him too much. The issue, however, was Snape himself. Although Horace often felt exasperated with this "promising student," he couldn't deny Snape's strength. A Potions Master at thirty—if he weren't old enough to be Snape's grandfather, he might've considered making him his son. Unfortunately, even if he did, Snape would've been a rebellious one. Not wanting to be angered into an early grave, Horace gave up on that tempting idea.

With Snape as a strong backer, Harry would never lack quality potions. Even though Snape specialized in curses, toxins, and combat elixirs, for a master at his level, brewing most potions was hardly a challenge—unless the highest tier of quality was demanded. To impress Harry, Horace really had to bleed a little.

Ordinary items wouldn't cut it. Even if Harry didn't openly refuse them, he wouldn't be interested. Horace was well aware that Snape had come to extort him, yet he felt no resentment. With access to information far beyond most people, Horace knew exactly what Harry had been up to these past two years. Voldemort had shown up twice and been soundly defeated both times. Although publicly credited to Dumbledore and Grindelwald, Horace had doubts—especially since Grindelwald, who once ignored Voldemort's rampage, had suddenly intervened. Why?

If Dumbledore had taken the lead, it might make sense—but after working with him for decades, Horace knew his character well. Clearly, Harry was involved. Whether Dumbledore and Grindelwald were backing Harry or had their own motives, the fact remained: this young man had two titans standing behind him. Coincidentally, Grindelwald had started teaching at Hogwarts just as Harry enrolled. Horace didn't buy that it was a coincidence. A talent like Harry being noticed by Grindelwald was not improbable.

Based on that alone, Horace was willing to bet on Harry. But there was also Sirius Black. Horace knew how close Black had been with James Potter—they were like brothers, inseparable. After clearing his name and being released, Black had access to the vast wealth and resources of the Black family. To think Harry had no claim to that would be absurd.

Moreover, Horace knew that at the recently concluded World Youth Spellcaster Duel, for the first time in decades, someone from Europe had reached the finals—and that person was Harry Potter.

With a cheerful tone, he said, "Old man like me doesn't have much to offer, but since you're here, Harry, take this little gift. Snape is my excellent student, my prized pupil—so I suppose that makes me your grandmaster, in a way."

He shoved a small, exquisite box—no bigger than a palm and two fingers thick—into Harry's hand. Watching from the side, Snape nearly lost his signature deadpan expression. His eye twitched as he gave Harry a stiff nod, and his clenched fists only relaxed once they had left Horace's lavish temporary residence.

"Sssss—haaaaaa—"

Snape audibly swallowed, his face lit with an uncharacteristic grin so bright that Harry rubbed his eyes to make sure Snape wasn't possessed. Even after returning from Slytherin territory, he'd never seen Snape this excited.

"That old geezer—no, my dear teacher—is really… generous."

After bringing Harry to his house in Spinner's End, Snape stared intently at the ornate box, letting out repeated exclamations of awe.

"This thing's that valuable?"

Harry, still unaware of its contents, examined it curiously. Other than the intricate, dizzying alchemical engravings, and the fact that it could probably survive being launched from orbit and crash into the earth unscathed, there didn't seem to be much else to the wooden box.

"It's actually not anything too expensive."

Snape cleared his throat with a cough. "Ahem—my teacher just gave you… a life, that's all."

"He showed it to me once—as the pinnacle of his skills as a Potions Master."

"I've told you before about blessing potions. Despite their pleasant name, they represent pushing one's potential beyond its limits—a form of extreme overdraft. They are among the strongest, most ferocious potions in existence, bar none. The immense cost brings effects akin to divine miracles—allowing even a Muggle to kill a giant with bare hands, achieving the unimaginable."

"But misusing blessing potions leads to terrifying consequences. In proper doses, they grant blessings. Misused, they become the most lethal, incurable poisons in the world."

"Among Potions Masters…" Snape paused briefly. "Even among masters, there are levels."

"In at most thirty years," he raised three fingers, "I'll be able to craft my own ultimate potion. It may be a toxin, a curse brew, or a combat elixir. Whatever the category, it will have unique, irreplaceable power unmatched anywhere in the world."

"To create one's own signature potion—that's the dividing line among Potions Masters. Perhaps we could call those who cross it… Grandmasters."

Snape shook his head uncertainly. "Maybe once I personally brew my own ultimate potion, I'll finally understand it all."

"As for the potion my teacher gave you…" Snape paused briefly. "It's called 'Substitute.' Sounds ordinary, doesn't it?" He gave a faint smile. "Its effect is just as simple—it pays the price for you. If I'm not mistaken, that box contains a full set of my teacher's blessing potions—and in a dose that's lethal if consumed."

"If you drink this set of potions, you will instantly burn through all of your future potential, all of your future luck, everything you could ever have. In exchange, you'll ignite like the sun, blazing brilliantly—into bloom!"

Snape emphasized those last two words heavily, as if trying to awaken Harry to the immense weight carried by what he now held in his hands.

"But if, before drinking the blessing potions, you take this 'Substitute' potion…"

"It will bear that entire cost for you."

Snape carefully handed the exquisite box back to Harry, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings etched into its surface. "To anyone, this is a second life—a chance to rise again from certain death."

"There are only seven of these in the world. So, remember to thank your grandmaster someday."

Snape patted Harry on the shoulder, smiling as he nodded. "The old man's treated you quite well, especially considering this is your first meeting."

"Want something to drink, Harry?"

With a wave of his hand, a silver teapot and two cups floated over from the dim recesses of the house. "I only have black tea."

"No sugar, thanks."

Harry nodded absentmindedly, still in disbelief as he murmured, "So this… is the power of connections?"

"What connections?" Snape shot him a glance. "He's my teacher—the one who loved your mother the most—and you're my godson, Lily's son. This is simply what he owes you."

"The old man never married or had children. When he's old and close to death, you expect me to bring flowers to his grave?"

Snape's words, constantly filled with barbed jabs at his "rebellious student" persona, would've pierced any old man's heart—but Harry was long used to his godfather's sharp tongue. Snape wasn't exactly a warm person, but he was deeply sentimental.

"Oh, then I'll be sure to bring flowers for you too, godfather."

"What kind of nonsense are you learning?!" Snape flicked Harry's forehead with a loud smack. "Picking up the role of a rebellious son so fast, huh?!"

"Finish your tea and get lost, I still have to pack."

Harry rubbed his head and chuckled, then wandered around the small house, tea in hand. There was no luxury here; rather, the place felt old and worn, a space filled with traces of Snape's youth and life.

Perhaps he never changed this place because within these walls lingered the memories of playing with Lily all those years ago.

Through the window, Harry saw a shabby little park nearby, where an old, crooked swing swayed in the wind. The sunset cast its golden light, breaking through the rooftops and eaves, illuminating the swing like the center of a stage.

Once, a young girl had sat on that swing, and a boy had stood beside her. That same golden sunset had lit up their innocent, youthful faces.

But the girl had long since moved away—likely never to return.

Knock, knock, knock.

The door was rapped upon. A swirl of a black cloak—and the boy stood in front of Number 4, Privet Drive.

"I'm home!"

Harry turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, greeted by his cousin waving at him and his uncle setting aside his newspaper. From the kitchen drifted the aroma of food, and a woman carrying a plate hurried toward him.

"Welcome home, Harry."

She rose up on her toes, and the boy bent down, pulling her into a warm, tight hug.

"I'm home."

He said it again, a wide smile on his face.

(End of Chapter)