Chapter 22: Candied Pineapple
"When processing horned slugs, you must pay close attention to the distribution of their mucus," Professor Sprout's voice echoed through the steamy greenhouse. "It is best to choose a moment when they are secreting a large amount. If you see them extend their horns to touch the tabletop, do not hesitate. That is the optimal moment to begin stewing… a small tip: when you see tiny bubbles begin to form in the cauldron, you may stop the heat… Excellent, Mr. Dickinson! Perfectly done. Oh! Mr. Green, perhaps you've stewed that a little too long. Remember? As soon as the tiny bubbles appear…"
Twelve cauldrons bubbled away, their steam filling the humid air and causing the large, pumpkin-like plants nearby to sway gently.
Professor Sprout had just finished praising Bruce when she had to hurry over to Sean's side to help him corral an escaping slug. She smiled warmly. "Next time, Mr. Green, try not to let the slugs get away."
Sean was, admittedly, fumbling. He was trying to manage two cauldrons at once, while Bruce, by contrast, seemed to be handling his with effortless ease. As for Professor Sprout, she was simultaneously brewing seven cauldrons while still having ample time to supervise Sean.
Observe the mucus… wait for the bubbles…
Sean repeated the professor's instructions in his mind as he worked. As time passed, he grew more proficient, though he still felt clumsy and rushed. When the liquid in his cauldron finally turned a dark green, Professor Sprout came over to inspect it. Sean gripped his ladle, waiting for her verdict.
He was nervous, partly because of his own lack of talent, and partly because of the cost of the materials. A single jar of horned slugs cost a full Galleon in Diagon Alley. The price of magical ingredients was always terrifyingly high, a fact that had led Sean to a simple conclusion: Potion-making had to be an incredibly profitable business, otherwise no one could possibly afford the raw materials.
After a moment, Professor Sprout delivered her evaluation: "Acceptable work, Mr. Green."
Sean let out a small sigh of relief. While the professor had told them to use whatever they needed, he couldn't bear the thought of continuing to waste her supplies.
Now that he had the hang of it, he finished processing the rest of the horned slugs quickly. The three of them bottled the stewed liquid and then selected the most mucus-rich slugs, placing them in a large jar. Professor Sprout explained that using these prime specimens would greatly increase the first-years' chances of successfully brewing their Boil-Cure Potions. The stewed liquid would be used as a demonstration example and would also help Professor Snape with some of his own prep work.
While they were sorting through a box of porcupine quills, Professor Sprout revealed a piece of information that surprised Sean.
"Yes, children, Herbology and Potions are always intertwined. During the harvest season, even Severus comes to the greenhouses to help."
Sean briefly pictured Professor Snape holding a hoe, then quickly went back to sorting the quills.
"The ideal porcupine quill is approximately three inches long, and about the thickness of two slug horns…"
As he walked out of the greenhouse later, Sean reviewed the key points, transcribing them onto the roll of parchment he always carried. He now had a deep, practical understanding of all four ingredients for the Boil-Cure Potion: dried nettles, porcupine quills, venomous snake fangs, and horned slugs.
The first step of his plan was complete. The thought made his eyes shine even brighter.
"I say, Sean, we've already left the greenhouse. You don't need to write it all down again, do you?" Bruce said with a helpless grin, grabbing Sean's arm to prevent him from walking straight into a suit of armour.
From atop the suit of armour's pedestal, a lady in a ceremonial gown in a portrait giggled, causing the painted knight opposite her to stare, completely transfixed.
The clock tower struck six. As a gentle breeze rustled through the grounds, Bruce stopped.
Down the corridor, Leon was reading a book, his blond hair glowing in the warm, slanting sunlight. Pister was cradling a small potted plant, its tender leaves trembling in the wind. They both turned to look at Bruce, waiting.
Bruce grinned. "Those two…" He turned to say goodbye to Sean.
Before he could speak, a piece of candied pineapple was pressed into his hand.
"Sharing snacks," Sean said seriously. "A Hufflepuff tradition, Bruce."
Bruce stared, momentarily speechless, as Sean walked briskly away.
"Are you absolutely certain he's not a Hufflepuff?" Leon asked, closing his book.
"The Sorting Hat must have made a mistake," Bruce replied, carefully pocketing the sweet. He then let out a sudden whoop of laughter and, in a flash, threw his arms around Leon and Pister, pulling them into a tight, warm headlock that locked their three heads together. "Gotcha!" he roared.
"You idiot," Leon grumbled, stumbling.
Pister just carefully protected his potted plant.
Ever since his successful raid on the library the previous day, Sean's only problem was a lack of time to do his homework. The library closed at eight o'clock, and he was only just finishing dinner at half-past six.
So, instead of heading to the library, he went straight back to Ravenclaw Tower. The two-person dormitories had their own desks, thoughtfully equipped with the same kind of floating candles that lit the Great Hall. It was the perfect place to work.
The wisdom of Ravenclaw, Sean thought.
He ran into Michael at the entrance to the Great Hall, in the middle of a game of Gobstones.
"Sean! Heading back to the tower?"
"Yes."
"Oh! Wait for me!" Michael quickly made his move. His playing piece swung a tiny club, knocking his opponent's last piece off the board with a splat of foul-smelling liquid. "A narrow victory," he said with a charming smile, quickly packing up his set and jogging to catch up with Sean.
The staircase back to Ravenclaw Tower was still terrifyingly long. Michael panted as they climbed. "The welcome speech said Ravenclaw helps knowledge-seekers climb the steps of wisdom," he complained. "It didn't mention the steps were this long! Merlin's beard… I have to climb this for seven years?"
As if in response, a strong gust of wind swept past them. An older Ravenclaw student shot past on a broom, flying straight into an upper entrance to the tower, drawing gasps of admiration from the younger students below.
"Wicked," Michael breathed, his eyes shining with envy.
The steps slowly dwindled, and they were finally nearing the top.
"…and a lot of people might think the Chudley Cannons' glory days are over," Michael was saying, his complaints having morphed into a passionate monologue about Quidditch, "but everyone knows they're going to make a comeback…"
He was about to launch into a detailed history of the team when he noticed the small wizard beside him was swaying on his feet.
"Sean!"