Sean was silently replaying the notes in his head.
Professor Sprout had taught him not only how to process galangal, but also oxalis, shrubby wormwood, and aloe juice. All of these are ingredients for the Antiswelling Solution.
Because of that, he felt very confident about tonight's brewing. With the revised rite and the guidance of will, he should be able to brew an Adept-level Antiswelling Solution.
Yes—Adept the moment he learned it.
His steps grew lighter.
Until—
"Hogsmeade weekend is a month off… oh, actually it was only on my second trip that I realized it's the only place in Britain with no Muggles—"
A familiar voice.
"Mhm."
Sean saw it was Leon answering.
"What are you buying at Honeydukes this time?"
Leon arched a brow. "If you dare buy broom polish in there again, you can go in alone."
"Heh-heh—"
Sean could guess who that was.
"They've got everything… Pepper Imps—smoke out your ears—Chocolate Balls with strawberry or vanilla custard, sugar quills you can suck in class when McGonagall isn't looking… right up until you get tossed out—"
Leon looked down his nose at Bruce. "But you walked in asking for broom polish. When they refused, you sprinkled itching powder on people…"
By then Sean's eyes were a little round.
"All right, all right—I gave the antidote, and I took my broom whacks… mm—lovely weather… Oh—Sean!"
Bruce turned like he had eyes in the back of his head and waved. Leon quietly swallowed the line and who took a beating along with you, Pister and I?
Sean greeted the three upper-years politely. The bell rang. He was about to head to the Hall when Bruce, smiling, said:
"Oh, while you were away we spent ages cleaning up the disasters the first-years caused. I sometimes think they're born pranksters—or how are they even louder than I was?"
He blinked innocently. Behind him, Leon and Pister nodded gravely—to what, who could say.
"And it made me realize something—you're back just in time."
He somehow produced three chocolate–raspberry–crushed-nut ice creams, pressed one into Sean's hands, and whispered:
"You'll never guess—I won a bet on you. Hufflepuff Handbook: sharing joy is part of true sharing."
So a bemused Sean walked into the Hall with three chocolate–raspberry–nut ice creams.
He felt Bruce was keeping something from him—but given Bruce's brain that buys broom polish at Honeydukes and throws itching powder when refused, Sean had no idea what he was plotting.
Maybe, as Leon once sighed:
"In danger, you can trust Bruce completely. When there's no danger, best keep your distance."
In the Hall.
Hermione was still writing letters, her face by turns worried and pleased. More sweets and notebooks sat by her—clearly fresh from the post.
"Sean—um, I mean—" She turned, and a chocolate–raspberry–nut ice cream landed in her hands.
"Tastes good," Sean said, handing another to Justin, who looked a little glassy from too much time in the kitchens.
Hermione stared at the ice cream, then exhaled like she'd been holding her breath. "I noticed you were out of notebooks…"
She blurted it all at once—and suddenly a pile of notebooks hid Sean's roast chicken from view.
The Hall's hearth burned warm. Hermione went on, halting: "You brought too few—I had extras…"
Then ducked back into her letter, avoiding his eyes.
Sean blinked for a few seconds. The pages preprinted "For Miss Hermione Granger" had been torn out—these were the spares. She'd prepared this for a long time.
So when Justin, later in the classroom, whispered what else Hermione might like, Sean thought hard.
"Mature notes for all seven Hogwarts core subjects," he said.
"Mer—Merlin…" Justin pressed his brow. "I knew it… And—fine—I can't believe I'm saying this so fast, but… you're right, Sean."
Sean stayed a bit to help Justin set things up and wrap the notebooks. Justin swore Hermione wouldn't enter the room today; Sean didn't ask how.
Meanwhile, in the corridor—Harry was quietly having Hedwig slip a letter about the "Gringotts robbery" into the post bound for Hermione.
…
Dungeon.
Glowing with excitement and a bag heavy with notes, Sean rounded the corner. Just as he hadn't expected a broom to come from McGonagall, he hadn't expected notebooks to come from Hermione.
Speaking of letters, he took a time-yellowed sheet from the innermost pocket of his bag. The old lady who'd often come to the orphanage had smuggled it to him. A week after he received it, he learned she'd passed away.
The paper was thick, like some tough material.
[Dear Sean:
There's always a moment when life suddenly gets better. That's my little secret.
Please keep doing something, no matter how small. The gears of fate will turn.
My dear child—believe it.
Forever loving you,
Milan
(a pressed violet pinned to the corner)]
He put the letter away carefully and stepped into the dungeon.
It was cold and dim there; candlelight threw wavering shadows. Glass jars crowded the corners, strange organs floating, rolling in viscous liquid. Snape's black robes brushed the dusty stone like a bat unfurling its wings.
When he saw those familiar motions again, Snape's gaze grew complicated. Sean set his notebook to one side and, in every lull of the brew, scribbled notes on the steps. He was used to constant correction and refinement.
A draft flipped the notebook to a page covered in writing. Snape, seeming indifferent to the brew, swept it with a cold glance. He caught just a few words:
Use of Nimbus 2000.
~~~
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