In a dimly lit room, Barnabas swirled a glass of crimson wine, his eyes fixed on the man across from him. "Mr. Marwood, what do you think of my proposal?"
Marwood, a middle-aged wizard with short hair and fire-scarred skin on his left cheek, met Barnabas's gaze. His voice rasped, rough as gravel. "Mr. Barnabas, you know how much your father, Gideon, dotes on that Squib's son. If I kill Sean and no one finds out, fine. But if it's traced back, you might skate by, but I won't. I've learned enough about the Bulstrode family's reach—your influence stretches across many wizarding regions. There's nowhere I could hide where your family couldn't find me."
Barnabas leaned back, his smile thin. "I can send you to a distant wizarding region, untouched by our family. It's a thriving place, with a bustling magical community. You'd live well there."
Marwood's eyes narrowed, silence stretching. Finally, he spoke. "I'll do it, but the payment doubles."
Barnabas's smile widened, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I figured a former follower of the Dark Lord would handle a simple task like this without fuss, but here you are, bargaining like a Diagon Alley shopkeep."
Marwood shrugged, unfazed. "I served the Dark Lord, but only as a low-ranking Death Eater—never even got the Dark Mark. Don't mistake me for a loyal follower. I'm just a wizard after a better life. I work for power and Galleons, nothing more."
Barnabas nodded, his expression unreadable. "Fine. Kill Sean Bulstrode, and you'll get everything promised. He's at Beauxbatons now. I'll arrange for someone to lure him out, delivering him to you."
"I trust you'll keep your word," Marwood said, his tone flat.
"You have my assurance," Barnabas replied. "I lead many who rely on my honor. Breaking a deal would cost me their loyalty."
At Beauxbatons, Sean sat in the study room, a separate haven from the library's towering shelves. Unlike Hogwarts, where students crammed among books, Beauxbatons split reading and studying into distinct spaces, each charmed for focus. The study room glowed with floating lamps, their light soft on parchment, while enchanted quills scratched faintly in the background.
Barre entered, spotting Fleur engrossed in a journal. He approached, curious. "Fleur, what's got your attention?"
Barre and Fleur's friendship was rare. As Maupassant's favored students, they shared a bond untainted by the admiration Fleur's Veela charm often sparked. Barre, from a modest family, carried himself with quiet pride, earning Fleur's respect through hard work and humility.
Fleur tilted the journal, revealing the cover of The Golden Crucible. Barre's eyes widened at the title. "Sean Bulstrode? The kid we met? He published in The Golden Crucible? No way—is it a different Sean?"
He shook his head, correcting himself. "Wait, it says 'Sean Bulstrode, Hogwarts Slytherin.' That's him. A first-year publishing in The Golden Crucible? That's… unreal."
"Want to read it?" Fleur offered, holding out the journal.
Barre hesitated. "What about you?"
"I've finished his article," she said. "I'll read something else."
"Thanks," Barre said, taking the journal. He sank into a chair, eyes scanning the page. Shock crept over his face. "Modifying the Forgetfulness Potion's formula is one thing, but these techniques—they're new. If they work on other potions, they could be game-changers."
Fleur nodded. "I thought the same, but it's tricky. His formula adds two ingredients to support the technique, trading time for cost. It's affordable for the Forgetfulness Potion, but other potions might not balance out."
"Still, it's a brilliant idea," Barre said, awe in his voice. "I wish I'd talked to him more."
Unbeknownst to Sean, his The Golden Crucible article, freshly published, was stirring waves. At Hogwarts, students and their families, skeptical of a first-year's prowess, gaped at his name on the journal's cover, their doubts crumbling.
As the sun dipped below Beauxbatons' mountains, Sean closed his alchemy book, its dense theories swirling in his mind. He glanced at Jason, who'd been dozing for hours, his head slumped against the window. Standing, Sean stretched, joints popping. "Aldridge, let's grab dinner. I'm starving."
Aldridge snapped his book shut, smiling. "Reading all day must've drained you, young master. To the Great Hall we go."
With a gentle tap on the table, Aldridge woke Jason, who jolted upright, blinking groggily. Seeing Sean and Aldridge rise, he scrambled to his feet. "You're done already?"
"The young master's hungry," Aldridge said. "We're heading to eat."
"Got it," Jason mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
Aldridge neatly stacked the books, then fell into step beside Sean, leading the way as Jason trailed behind. They crossed the garden, its charmed flowers glowing faintly, and passed the Quidditch pitch, where distant cheers echoed.
Sean's thoughts lingered on the alchemy book. Compared to Potions or Transfiguration, alchemy was a beast—two levels tougher, its concepts dense as a Troll's skull. In one afternoon, he'd barely grasped half the basics. The alchemy arrays baffled him most, their patterns like ancient runes gone rogue. He wondered if studying Ancient Runes first might help, a subject he'd yet to tackle at Hogwarts.
A sharp bang snapped Sean out of his thoughts. He turned toward the sound, spotting Aldridge standing rigid, his face dark as a storm. Aldridge's wand was raised, and at his feet, a red Quaffle bounced feebly, charmed to a halt.
On the Quidditch pitch nearby, a group of Beauxbatons students hovered on broomsticks, their smirks wide and mocking. Laughter echoed across the field. Sean pieced it together instantly—those students had hurled the Quaffle at them, aiming to provoke.
Aldridge ignored the jeering crowd, his concern fixed on Sean. "Master, are you okay?" he said, his voice tight.
Sean shook his head, brushing it off. "I'm fine. But why are they targeting me? I haven't crossed them. Is it just because I'm an outsider?"
His tone was light, more amused than curious. Teenagers didn't need much reason to pick a fight—being different was often enough.
Aldridge glanced at the students, his eyes narrowing as a memory clicked. He leaned in, whispering, "Young master, those are likely the ones who stormed the Great Hall at lunch and got punished by Professor Maupassant. They probably blame you for their trouble."
Sean nodded, the pieces falling into place. He recalled the rowdy group and Maupassant's sharp reprimand. An unexpected mess, he thought, sighing. Trouble seemed to follow him, even here.
"Hey, Hogwarts crew!" a Beauxbatons student shouted. "Toss our ball back! Or just say you can't, and we'll grab it ourselves!"
The group erupted in laughter, their broomsticks bobbing in the crisp evening air.
Sean sighed again, his patience thinning. He'd planned a quiet month at Beauxbatons—reading, learning, then heading home to his parents. But these kids were begging for a lesson. If they wanted trouble, he'd show them why they shouldn't mess with him.
"Aldridge, hand me the ball," Sean said, his voice calm but edged.
"Master, are you…?" Aldridge hesitated, sensing Sean's intent.
"They want their ball," Sean said, grinning. "We'll give it to them."
Jason, usually quiet and coasting, piped up, indignant. "Master Sean, are we just letting this slide? Just giving it back?"
Sean glanced at Jason, surprised. The boy had been distant, tagging along without much care, content to eat and follow orders. But now, faced with the Beauxbatons students' taunts, Jason's anger mirrored Sean's—a spark of loyalty Sean hadn't expected. It was a small step forward.
Grinning wider, Sean took the Quaffle from Aldridge. "Oh, we're giving it back," he said to Jason. "But if they can't catch it, that's their problem, not mine."
Slowing his steps, Sean tensed his arm, muscles coiling like a coiled wand. With a swift motion, he hurled the Quaffle toward the loudest heckler. The ball rocketed forward with a whoosh, cutting the air like a rogue Bludger. The Beauxbatons students barely had time to scream. The Quaffle slammed into the heckler's broom, snapping it in two. He plummeted, flailing, until his friends dove to catch him just before he hit the ground.
Sean watched, satisfied, as the group scrambled. With a final grin, he turned, leading Aldridge and a stunned Jason off the pitch toward the Great Hall. The shouts behind him faded, ignored like distant wind.
In the Great Hall, Beauxbatons' ceiling twinkled with charmed stars, casting a soft glow over round tables. Sean savored starflower pasties and charmed treacle tarts, their flavors light and magical compared to Hogwarts' heavier fare.
Jason kept stealing glances at him, his eyes wide with questions. Sean could tell he was replaying the Quaffle throw, wondering how a first-year could muster such strength. If that ball had hit his face, Jason seemed to think, it'd have been a hospital wing trip—or worse.
Aldridge, too, was curious, his gaze flickering with intrigue.
But unlike Jason, he kept his thoughts locked tight. When Gideon assigned him to Sean, he'd been clear: Aldridge's loyalty was to Sean, even if Sean turned against the Bulstrode family. Curiosity about Sean's strength was natural, but Aldridge's duty held firm—he wouldn't pry. His flattery, though, flowed instinctively, always leaving Sean with a warm glow.
As Sean bit into a treacle tart, Fleur and Barre approached, Fleur clutching The Golden Crucible. "Can we sit here?" she asked, her voice polite but direct.
Sean spotted the journal and knew why they'd come. He nodded, smiling. "It's your school—I'm just a guest. Please, sit."
Fleur and Barre settled across from him, their smiles easy. "Sean, may I call you that?" Fleur asked. When Sean nodded, she continued, "We read your The Golden Crucible article and have some questions. Is now a good time?"
"Ask away," Sean said. "I'll share what I know."
"Thank you," Fleur said. "Your two new material-processing methods—can they be applied to other potions, or are they specific?"
Sean leaned in, recognizing their expertise. Fleur and Barre weren't just curious; their questions cut deep, revealing their own alchemy knowledge.
Adjusting his mindset, he listened closely, answering with care. The discussion flowed, time slipping away as the sparsely populated Great Hall emptied. They only stopped when a house-elf began clearing tables, its ears twitching.
Fleur and Barre gained insights, but so did Sean. Their questions forced him to rethink his article, seeing it through fresh eyes. Barre's practical angle and Fleur's theoretical depth sparked new ideas, deepening his understanding of his own work.
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