Chapter 72: Corridor Confrontation
In the dungeon, Professor Snape's dark gaze drifted towards a shadowy corner Sean couldn't see. The truth was so simple, yet so… bitterly ironic. No conspiracy, no avarice – just a frail young wizard's clumsy, determined struggle to learn. Verifying this truth would be trivially easy, yet Snape remained silent, hesitating for a long moment.
Sean, meanwhile, glanced at his open notebook and instantly understood Snape's earlier reaction. Right. Quidditch. A sensitive topic for the Professor. He mentally kicked himself for not realizing sooner. He quickly reviewed his recent actions, tracing the slight deviation from his usual laser focus back to that warm afternoon in McGonagall's office, when she had smiled and listened patiently to his excited chatter. I'll need a separate notebook from now on, he resolved.
Just then, the Swelling Solution reached its final stage. Without hesitation, Sean initiated Borage's modified ritual, immersing himself completely in the swirling, viscous liquid. He felt the subtle magical currents within the cauldron become clearer, sharper, and carefully guided them towards a perfect fusion.
And then—
[You have successfully brewed a Deflating Draught to the Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
A wave of profound exhaustion washed over Sean, turning his face ghostly pale. Ignoring the fatigue, he bottled the potion and extinguished the flame beneath the cauldron. Before leaving the dungeon, he found ten gold Galleons pressed into his hand.
He blinked, then carefully counted out seven Galleons and placed them back into Snape's outstretched palm. "You've overpaid, Professor. Standard quality Deflating Draught doesn't sell for more than five Galleons on the market."
Without waiting for a response, Sean began packing his small black bag. It was faded now, like old clothes bleached by the sun, the edges frayed and greyish, perpetually dusted with unseen particles. The surface, once smooth, was now pilled and even cracked in places, revealing the lighter fibres beneath. It was the bag Milan had given him, and he had used it ever since.
In the corridor above, Sean mentally reviewed his plans. Both the Water-Making Spell and the Summoning Charm were now at Novice level. Next up: grinding the Levitation Charm. He had to master it by the end of the week; the one-month deadline for the scholarship assessment was fast approaching.
Time was tight, but manageable. He could now cast the Levitation Charm at an 'Adept' level more than a dozen times before exhausting himself. Combined with Snape's revitalizing potions, he estimated he could gain at least six hundred proficiency points per day. The Adept level required nine hundred points; Expert level probably wouldn't exceed three thousand. If he dedicated an entire day solely to Charms and Potions… he could likely hit nine hundred points daily.
His Quick-Quotes Quill danced across a fresh sheet of parchment, recording his calculations.
He didn't notice the shadowy figure watching him from a nearby alcove, a wizard with a perpetually grim expression. Merely verifying the boy's claims… Snape melted back into the shadows.
At the end of another corridor, Hermione hurried through the relatively quiet passage beneath the portraits, clutching a letter. She was heading towards the suit of armour where Harry had asked to meet her. As if to atone for the previous night's fright, Harry had earnestly shared his suspicions about the three-headed dog and asked if she'd be willing to talk.
If that package really is connected to Professor Dumbledore, she fretted, then those two need to understand how dangerous this is! They could ruin the Headmaster's entire plan! Her steps quickened.
Suddenly, unpleasant voices echoed from ahead. Hermione looked up to see Theodore Nott and his cronies blocking the corridor. Her mind immediately flashed back to Charms class that morning. As usual, Professor Flitwick had posed a challenging question. Both she and Nott had raised their hands. Flitwick had called on her, awarding Gryffindor a point for her correct answer. Nott had glared resentfully and competed fiercely to answer every subsequent question. Hermione hadn't paid him much mind, until Flitwick asked a particularly difficult question, and she had lowered her hand. Nott, however, had kept his raised, only to stand there awkwardly, unable to answer when called upon.
"Well, well, look who it is," Nott drawled with a fake smile as she approached. "Miss Granger, fresh from the library, no doubt, ready to answer the next question nobody asked her?" His two thuggish companions snickered.
"If you spent less time loitering in corridors looking for trouble, Nott," Hermione retorted, folding her arms, trying to keep her voice steady despite her rising irritation, "and more time reviewing The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, perhaps you wouldn't have stood there like a deflated slug this afternoon."
Nott's face darkened instantly. He took a menacing step forward. "What did you say? Think you're so clever, do you? Just because Flitwick favours know-it-all bookworms like you, especially your sort…" He looked her up and down, searching for the most wounding insult.
"If you dare finish that sentence," a cold voice cut in, "I guarantee my fist will find your face."
Justin stepped out from around the corner, placing himself squarely in front of Hermione, facing down the three Slytherins.
"Look what we have here," Nott sneered, momentarily taken aback by Justin's sudden appearance but regaining his bravado when he saw Justin was alone. "Another little…" He drew out the word with deliberate cruelty. "Mud—blood—"
The air crackled with tension. Hermione's face flushed crimson with fury. But Justin…
Before Nott could even finish the slur, Justin's fist connected solidly with his face, snapping his head back with a sickening crunch. Nott staggered backwards, collapsing onto the floor, blood pouring from his nose.
"How dare you—!" he shrieked, his voice muffled by pain and outrage.
"My mother told me," Justin said calmly, his voice dangerously low, "that against scum like you, devoid of courage and honour, force is the only language that ensures equality. And my father told me," he added, cracking his knuckles, "that against pathetic worms like you lot, I can handle three."
Before the other two Slytherins could react, Justin landed another punch squarely on Nott's jaw, making his eyes roll back. The two cronies finally fumbled for their wands, but—
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
Their wands flew harmlessly into the air. Justin's head whipped around, his face breaking into a relieved grin. "Sean!"
"Oh, Sean," he said quickly, his bravado instantly replaced by anxiety as he hurried over. "I think we might have broken a school rule."
Sean glanced briefly at the three stunned Slytherins – Nott still dazed on the floor, the other two staring uselessly at their levitating wands.
"It's fine," he said, grabbing Hermione's arm – she was still pointing her wand menacingly at the remaining Slytherins – and pulling her away. "Let's go, quickly."
Because from the deepest shadows at the end of the corridor, a tall figure in black robes had emerged.
And his eyes promised murder.