"A snow sculpture? A package from the Wizengamot for Mr. Sean?" Dumbledore mused, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. "Severus, do you know what this is?"
Snape rose from the professors' table, his face a mask of disdain. He ignored Dumbledore's question and strode toward the Slytherin table, his robes billowing.
Dumbledore, unfazed, stood and followed, a faint smile playing on his lips.
The snow sculpture, its delivery complete, didn't linger like an owl might. With a flick of its snowy wings, it soared out of the Great Hall, faster and stronger than any Hogwarts owl, vanishing into the enchanted ceiling's starry sky.
Sean eyed the package it had left behind—a flat, rectangular box, likely holding a book. He pried it open and pulled out a copy of the latest The Golden Crucible. The cover featured a middle-aged wizard stirring a bubbling cauldron, waving cheerily at Sean. Sean didn't recognize him, but he figured the man was a renowned potion-maker—nobody else would grace The Golden Crucible's cover.
The cover also listed article titles, authors, and page numbers, all showcasing prominent papers. One stood out: Sean's own. In the lower left corner, small text announced his paper's title, his name, and his status as a "Hogwarts Slytherin First-Year." It was clearly a selling point, but with his grandfather's Wizengamot clout, Sean couldn't help suspecting Gideon's hand in its placement.
Sean wasn't one to fuss over fairness. If the rules allowed him to gain an edge, he'd take it. No harm in that, he thought, shrugging.
Setting the journal aside, he didn't flip through it yet. Instead, he reached into the box and pulled out an elegant parchment certificate, adorned with formal congratulations for his paper's selection. Tucked beside it was a palm-sized gold note for thirty Galleons—a tidy sum.
Grinning, Sean glanced up to share the news with Blaise, but the Great Hall had fallen eerily silent. He turned and froze. Snape and Dumbledore stood behind him, with other professors crowding in. The young wizards nearby gaped, sensing something big but unsure what. Nothing stopped a Hogwarts crowd from enjoying a spectacle.
"Sean, has your paper been selected?" Snape asked, his voice low.
"Yes, Professor," Sean replied, handing over the journal and certificate. The gold note, he slipped into his pocket—no need to flash that around.
Snape took the items, and Dumbledore and the professors leaned in, finally seeing what Snape held. Earlier, Snape's frame had blocked their view, but now it was clear.
"Merlin's beard!" Professor Sprout, Hufflepuff's head and Herbology teacher, gasped. She spotted Sean's name on the certificate and the The Golden Crucible logo, her eyes wide with shock. "A Hogwarts student published in a top journal? A first-year?"
It had been ages since a Hogwarts student had landed a paper in a prestigious journal. For a first-year to break that barrier was unheard of.
Snape held the journal and certificate, a rare glint of pride in his eyes. His Potions Club boasted talented students who could brew complex potions and recite obscure recipes by heart. But only Sean had a paper in The Golden Crucible while still at school—and as the youngest, a mere first-year.
As Snape debated whether to offer Sean a rare word of praise, he felt a tug on his robe. He frowned, glancing at Sean, instantly suspicious the boy was up to something.
"Professor," Sean whispered, "do you think my paper in The Golden Crucible counts as a contribution to Hogwarts? It's got the school's name right there in the journal."
Though Sean kept his voice low, the professors behind Snape heard every word. Their faces shifted—some amused, others curious—while a few glanced at Dumbledore, hoping to catch a reaction. But the headmaster's kind, gentle expression didn't falter.
Snape's eyebrow arched. He turned to Dumbledore and said, "Publication in the Wizengamot's top journal, The Golden Crucible—surely that's worth more than a Gryffindor's chess game?"
At Snape's jab, Slytherins shot sneering glances at Ron Weasley. Ron's face flushed red, but he stayed silent, unable to retort.
Dumbledore met Snape's gaze, his tone calm. "Severus, you saw Mr. Weasley's chess match. His award wasn't just for winning, but for the courage and sacrifice he showed. I'm sure you understand."
Then, turning to Sean, he continued, "Of course, Mr. Bulstrode's achievement is undeniable. He's shattered a long-standing barrier for Hogwarts, making history. His skill in potions is something Hogwarts will remember.
Thus, Mr. Sean Bulstrode will receive the Hogwarts Special Contribution Award, and Slytherin will gain 50 points to honor his efforts! With this, Slytherin secures the House Cup and their seventh consecutive championship. Let's celebrate Slytherin's triumph!"
Dumbledore raised his right hand, and silver-green fireworks burst across the Great Hall's ceiling. Shimmering green and silver flecks drifted down like snow, bathing the hall in Slytherin's colors.
At the house tables, Slytherin's young wizards erupted in cheers, their voices shaking the hall. Gryffindors sat in stunned silence, while Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff's claps were polite but subdued.
Snatching victory from defeat, Slytherin's students went wild, their shouts rivaling a Quidditch win. Seventh-years, especially, gazed at Sean with gratitude and awe. They knew half the credit for their seven-year streak belonged to him.
In the wizarding world, seven was a number steeped in magic and perfection. For Slytherin, securing seven consecutive House Cup victories wasn't just about bragging rights—it was a legendary achievement. For seventh-years facing graduation, it meant leaving Hogwarts with a perfect record, a prestigious honor in a wizarding world where most witches and wizards hailed from the school. That legacy opened doors, whether they sought jobs at the Ministry, launched businesses, or climbed social ladders.
For those seventh-years, Sean was the key to reclaiming that glory. Their gratitude ran deep, their eyes shining with appreciation for the first-year who'd turned the tide.
After the end-of-term feast, students from the four houses streamed out of the Great Hall, their chatter echoing through the castle's stone corridors.
Sean and Blaise joined the Slytherin crowd heading back to the common room, the dungeon's damp chill seeping through their robes. One more night's sleep, and they'd board the Hogwarts Express tomorrow. Unlike his classmates, Sean wouldn't head straight home. From Platform 9¾, he'd travel to Beauxbatons for a month-long stay, a prospect that stirred both curiosity and unease.
In the Slytherin common room, before Sean could slip to his dormitory, the female prefect who'd spoken to him early in the year approached. Her sharp eyes locked onto his. "Sean, can we talk?" she asked.
Blaise glanced at her, then nudged Sean. "I'll head back. Find me when you're done."
"Got it," Sean replied, giving Blaise a nod.
As Blaise disappeared toward the dorms, Sean turned to the prefect. "Where to?"
"Follow me," she said, her tone brisk.
She led him deeper into the common room, past flickering green torches, to a stone door carved with a coiled serpent. As she approached, the snake slithered to life, its eyes glinting like emeralds. It raised its head, hissing in a cold, flat voice, "Password."
"Glory," the prefect said firmly.
The stone door rumbled open, revealing a striking lounge beyond. Sean followed her inside, his shoes sinking into a plush silver-and-green carpet emblazoned with Slytherin's crest. Ornate sofas and armchairs lined the room, their dark wood gleaming. Portraits of stern-faced wizards and witches adorned the walls, some dozing, others flitting between frames. With June's warmth, the fireplace sat cold, but a low table held sparkling drinks and fresh fruits.
"This is the Slytherin lounge," the prefect explained as they walked. "Only prefects and a select few can enter. Most here are active or reserve members of the Slytherin Brotherhood, like Samuel and Irina, whom you know well."
Nine students awaited them, lounging in the room's elegant glow. Six were Slytherin prefects—minus Oliver Foley, Sean noted. The other three, sixth- and seventh-years, he vaguely recognized. They greeted him warmly, some with smiles, others gesturing to a seat.
Sean settled into a single sofa beside Samuel and Irina, meeting their gazes. "I'm honored to be here and glad to meet you all. So, what's this about?"
"I like your directness," said a seventh-year male prefect, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. "No need to dance around it. First, thank you for helping us secure the seventh House Cup. We thought Gryffindor's savior would end our streak. If that had happened, we'd be facing shame, not glory."
"I'm Slytherin too," Sean said with a shrug. "It's not a big deal. Besides, my Golden Crucible paper wouldn't have happened without Professor Snape's help. No need for thanks."
"You don't get it," the female prefect said, shaking her head. "This win is huge for us. It's not something you see right away, but it's a real, hidden advantage. For those of us not yet confirmed for the Slytherin Brotherhood—except the four already in—the chance of joining has skyrocketed. In the wizarding world, whether we start businesses or build our families' names, this opens doors. You've done us a massive favor."
Sean held her gaze, staying silent. He knew more was coming.
Sure enough, Irina leaned forward. "Sean, we've discussed two ways to thank you. First, we each offer shares from our family shops. Individually, they're small, but together, they'd give you a steady yearly dividend. Second, we invite you to join us as an equal in the Slytherin Brotherhood, with the same rights and responsibilities."
Sean's mind raced, weighing the options.
His biggest worry was Gideon, his cunning grandfather. Nobody offered power without a catch, and Sean doubted Gideon's plans were purely for his benefit. Beyond that, his uncle Barnabas loomed. Barnabas had been quiet this year, almost invisible, but Sean wasn't fooled. The man was scheming—Sean could sense it, especially with Miles acting oddly quiet, a sign Barnabas was pulling strings.
If Sean were alone, he'd focus on growing stronger, ready to vanish if needed. But he had parents and friends he couldn't abandon. Uprooting his Squib parents from their Muggle lives wasn't an option. To protect them, he needed power—independent of Gideon.
The Slytherin Brotherhood was that power. A network of connections, a shield against threats.
With a calculated smile, Sean looked at the group. "I'd be thrilled to join you. I hope you'll guide me as we go."