"I understand, Professor."
Sean scoured the cauldron spotless. Before leaving, he paused; his green eyes were wholly sincere.
"Thank you for the ingredients—and the guidance."
As he stepped out, Snape's face flickered in the candlelight. He wouldn't forget those techniques; he didn't know where the boy had learned them, but they undoubtedly tugged at a rare brightness in his memory.
He had never seen a student love Potions so purely—unmoved by taunts or grudges, caring only for the brew itself. That first, unsullied devotion—and a hand he knew too well, a style he had once studied and argued over with someone—one of his few lights.
That same focus and familiar method made something ache. He loathed seeing his own shadow—especially one tied to all he'd lost. Sourness, anger… or a sliver of admiration? His gaze was hard to read as the rain soaked the windows. The storm outside raged like a feeling too long pent up.
Sean's step was light, book in arms. Ignore the barbs and Snape was, perhaps, a decent teacher—at least one who loved Potions and wielded it superbly. His ritual-fatigue would soon lift; by tomorrow at the latest he could test how far the revised rite would raise quality. Best of all, Snape seemed to have read Borage's margins too—maybe he'd even advise on the revisions…
Sean didn't know Snape wasn't the only one who'd read them.
Curfew neared. Two giddy Gryffindors hummed "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love":
"Oh, come and stir my cauldron,
and if you do it right, I'll brew you hot, strong love to keep you warm tonight…"
Celestina Warbeck's jazz-laced standard was always on the air.
"You're doomed!" came another odd cry—Gobstones. The loser's penalty: a spray of foul goo from the stones, right into a horrified face. Who knows what inspired that inventor.
As an owl winged out, a sharp gaze surfaced far off. On Minerva McGonagall's stern face, something complicated brewed—especially as Sean, weary, passed a knot of Saturday-night revelers. Only now did she realize how long that effort had carried on unseen.
Highland wind skimmed the Black Lake and boomed against the old walls. In that low, steady thunder, Hogwarts woke again.
"Little wizard! Vexing little wizard! Answering ahead of time again!" the owl squawked. Sean slipped past into the room.
Of the three, Hermione was, unusually, last to arrive. Sean slept well; Justin slept better; both were there by six. Unfair, grumbled a certain witch—who can thrive on seven hours' sleep?
"Morning, Sean," Justin said, working a little food magic on a milk–coconut pudding. A pink-covered book with a turkey on the front lay open: Conjure Yourself a Feast!—a wizarding kitchen staple.
"Please taste the new flavor," he said, handing it over. (He didn't add that the badgers had already eaten every last bite of the failed version yesterday.)
…
[You practiced Aguamenti once at Apprentice standard. Proficiency +1]
[You practiced Aguamenti once at Novice standard. Proficiency +3]
[You practiced Aguamenti once at Novice standard. Proficiency +3]
…
Sean worked himself to the point he could barely lift his wand. After jotting the charm's minutiae, he opened his panel:
[Aguamenti: Apprentice (110/300)]
[Summoning Charm: Locked (1/30)]
[Levitation Charm: Novice (200/900)]
At this pace, he'd hit Novice tomorrow—blazing speed.
He was about to head for the Quidditch pitch when Justin edged close. "Sean, my mother says there are countless ways to meet the world—but only creation never fades," he said, as if the thought had just caught him. "Are you ready to build something with me?"
Before Sean could answer, Justin had hauled him into a jammed courtyard. Unbelievably, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and Gryffindors were all gathered—murmurs swelling into chatter when Justin arrived.
"Sean—I knew it was you!" Michael crowed, chin up at Seamus and the others. "That'll be ten Knuts."
"All right, all right…"
"A bet's a bet…"
Seamus, Ernie, and company grumbled as they handed over coins. Michael shot Sean a wink and mouthed, I'll split it later.
Sean put it together.
"Are the History notes that popular?" he whispered to Justin.
"Oh, my dear Sean, you misunderstand—what you've made is something no one in the wizarding world has made. An untapped market!" Justin's light-grey eyes flashed. "When third-years started coming, I knew—this was big. Think: Binns's vagueness, the mountain of essays, the grind of self-study. Who wouldn't buy concise notes? I haven't given a single copy away—only teasers tied to last assignment's harmless bits."
He leaned in, whispering, "And when Binns dropped another muddled long essay, they all came to me—for that section of notes. Willing to pay."
…
The craze surprised Sean; almost every student bought a copy. Justin's handling surprised him more:
"Like a serial—only a slice each time. History is vast; a 'slice' fills half a booklet. And your History paper method? A certain Michael spread its fame quite far. We've time to let this grow—as long as we keep it genuine and rigorous. And don't forget—Hogwarts isn't the only subject that needs synthesis… and the wizarding world isn't just Hogwarts…"
Justin's eyes fairly shone. Sean let him dream. Quietly, he slipped to the pitch. At this rate, he'd be flying back to the Ravenclaw Tower soon. If not all the way—then half.