In the dungeon,
Professor Snape's cold gaze slid toward a corner Sean couldn't see.
The truth was so simple—and so… bitingly ironic.
No schemes. No greed. Just the clumsy efforts of a frail first-year trying every way he could to keep studying.
Proving it was simple—so simple Snape stayed silent for a long time.
Sean, meanwhile, looked at his open notes and understood in an instant. Of course Quidditch was a raw nerve for Professor Snape; how had he missed that? He quickly reflected on the ways he'd drifted a little lately—realizing it all began that warm afternoon when Professor McGonagall smiled and listened to him talk.
He'd better bring a new notebook next time, he thought.
By then the Antiswelling Solution had reached its final stage. Without hesitation he used the revised rite; mind and body sank into the viscous brew. The subtle currents of magic in the cauldron sharpened again, and carefully he guided them into fusion—then—
[You brewed one cauldron of Antiswelling Solution at Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
His face went pale at once, but instead of resting he decanted the potion into a crystal vial and doused the flame.
Before he left the dungeon, ten Galleons were in his hand. He froze, then counted out seven Galleons and placed them in Snape's palm.
"You gave too much, Professor. Ordinary Antiswelling Solution doesn't fetch more than five Galleons on the market."
He said it and began packing his bag. The black satchel was fading to gray, like sun-bleached cloth; the edges had gone chalky, as if dusted. What should have been smooth was now fuzzy; here and there the surface had cracked to show pale fibers beneath. Milan—grandmother Milan—had given him that bag. He'd used it ever since.
…
In the corridor.
Sean quietly mapped his plan. Aguamenti and the Summoning Charm were both at Novice; next he'd grind Levitation. According to schedule, this week was the deadline—only a bit more than a week left in the month.
Time was tight, but manageable. He could cast a dozen Adept-level Levitation Charms in a row; with Snape's restorative draught a day's grind could hit 600 proficiency points. Adept demanded 900; he guessed Expert wouldn't exceed 3000. If he spent the entire day immersed in charms and potions, he estimated a day's total wouldn't dip below 900.
His shorthand quill fluttered, recording each thought.
He didn't notice, a short distance behind him, a wizard's shadow-dark face in the gloom—simply verifying whether the boy's words held truth or not. Snape slipped back into shadow.
At the far end of another corridor—
Hermione hurried beneath unusually quiet portraits, a letter in hand, making for the suit of armor with the great knight. As if to make up for that night's fright, Harry had earnestly shared his theory about the three-headed dog and said they could talk if she wished.
"If that package has anything to do with Headmaster Dumbledore, then those two should know it's dangerous! They might even wreck the Headmaster's plan!" she muttered, quickening her step.
A strange sound down the hall—she turned. Theodore and his lot. At once she recalled that morning's Charms. As always, Professor Flitwick posed a hard question. She and Theodore raised their hands; naturally, the Professor called on her and awarded Gryffindor a point. Theodore shot her a resentful look and kept trying to beat her hand—and she didn't mind. On a particularly tough one, she lowered her hand. When Flitwick kept the tough question for Theodore, he couldn't answer at all, and stood there awkwardly.
"Well, look who it is—Miss Know-It-All Granger. Fresh from the library—off to answer another question no one asked?" drawled Theodore Nott. The two Slytherins behind him gave a coarse laugh.
"If you'd spent your time revising The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 instead of slouching around looking for trouble, Nott, you might not have stood there like a popped slug this afternoon," Hermione said, arms folded. She tried to keep her voice even; the rapid pace betrayed her irritation.
Theodore's face darkened. He stepped in. "What did you say? Think you're something special, do you? Because Flitwick favors bookworms—especially your—"
His eyes raked her, searching for the insult.
"If you finish that sentence, I promise my fist will finish on your face."
Justin rounded the corner and planted himself in front of Hermione, cold-eyed, facing three Slytherins alone.
"Let me guess—heh, another one…" Theodore flinched a hair at the force of him, but seeing he was alone, his sneer returned. "Mud—blood—"
Air froze. Hermione's cheeks burned scarlet. Justin—
—landed a clean fist in Theodore's face before the word finished, twisting his features and dropping him to the floor. Blood spilled from his nose.
"You dare—" his shout rattled the corridor.
"My mother taught me that for trash with no courage and no character, force buys equality. And my father said I could take three of your sort."
Before the other two could react, Justin hit Theodore again, glazing his eyes. The two Slytherins finally raised their wands—only to—
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
As their wands shot up and out of their grip, Justin yelled, delighted, "Sean!"
"Oh, Sean—" He rushed over, suddenly anxious. "I think we just broke a rule."
Sean glanced at the three Slytherins. "We're fine," he said, and tugged the furious Hermione—wand raised—away. "Move, move."
He urged them on—because a man in black robes and cloak had already stepped from the shadows.
The look in his eyes could kill.
~~~
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