Sean hurried out of the Transfiguration classroom, his mind buzzing from Professor McGonagall's invitation. Blaise was waiting just outside, leaning against the stone wall with a grin. "Come on, mate, we'll be late for Herbology!" he called, already starting down the corridor. Their Herbology lesson was in Greenhouse One, and Sean's chat with McGonagall had eaten up precious minutes. If they didn't hustle, they'd risk a scolding from Professor Sprout.
They jogged down the spiral staircase, their footsteps echoing in the castle's vast halls. "So, how'd it go?" Blaise asked, dodging a first-year clutching an oversized Potions book. "Did McGonagall invite you to her club?"
"Yeah, I've been invited," Sean answered, catching his breath. "The Firwood Club. It starts this week—meetings every Tuesday and Thursday evening. Fits perfectly around the Potions Club."
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Firwood Club? What's that about?"
"It's McGonagall's Transfiguration club," Sean explained. "Named after her wand's wood—fir. It's her favorite tree, apparently."
Not every Hogwarts professor named their club after their subject. Snape's Potions Club was straightforward, but Horace Slughorn, Snape's predecessor, had called his the Slug Club—a quirky name that had nothing to do with Potions. McGonagall's Firwood Club followed a similar tradition, reflecting her personal touch rather than just Transfiguration.
Blaise shook his head, chuckling. "Blimey, Sean, your evenings are going to be packed. Classes all day, clubs at night? I'd lose my mind trying to keep up."
"Everyone's different," Sean said with a grin. "You might hate that schedule, but I love it. Keeps things interesting."
They laughed, their banter lightening the rush. The castle's towering doors loomed ahead, and they stepped into the crisp autumn air, the grounds sprawling before them. Greenhouse One wasn't far, but they picked up the pace, their robes flapping as they crossed the lawn.
On the way, Sean spotted Harry and Ron trudging toward the castle, their faces glum. He guessed their Herbology lesson—Gryffindor and Hufflepuff's morning class—hadn't gone well, or maybe Snape's absence meant extra homework from a substitute. With no time to chat, Sean gave a quick nod from afar, and the two groups passed like ships in the night.
Greenhouse One's glass walls glinted in the sunlight as Sean and Blaise arrived, slightly out of breath. Most of the second-year Slytherin and Ravenclaw students were already inside, adjusting their dragon-hide gloves. Professor Sprout, her patched hat tilted jauntily, handed out earmuffs with a cheerful smile. Sean took his pair, slipping them over his ears, and glanced at the flowerpots lining the tables. The tufts of green poking out confirmed his suspicion: Mandrakes.
"Children, come in! Each of you, stand by a flowerpot. We're starting the first Herbology lesson of the school year," Professor Sprout called, her voice warm despite the humid air of Greenhouse One. Her patched hat bobbed as she gestured to the tables, where rows of pots sprouted tufts of green.
The young witches and wizards shuffled into place, their dragon-hide gloves creaking. Sean and Blaise claimed two pots in the corner, the glass walls around them misted with condensation. Vines twitched overhead, as if curious about the newcomers. Sean adjusted his earmuffs, waiting for Sprout's instructions.
"Today, we're repotting Mandrakes," Sprout announced, clapping her hands. "Who can tell me their characteristics?"
Sean's hand shot up, eager to earn House points. Professors were often generous early in the term, and he'd learned last year that quick answers could boost Slytherin's score. But Ravenclaw's students were lightning-fast. Before his arm was halfway raised, four or five hands were already up, and a girl seized the moment.
"Mandrake, also known as Mandrake Root, can restore someone who's been transfigured or cursed to their original state," she said confidently. "It's a powerful restorative. But its cry is deadly, so you must be extremely careful when handling it."
"Perfect as always, Catherine! Ten points for Ravenclaw!" Sprout beamed.
Catherine Bishop, a second-year Ravenclaw, stood poised by her pot, her dark hair tucked neatly behind her earmuffs. She was a force in the classroom, consistently snagging points in Herbology and Charms. Sean had rarely outscored her in those subjects last year. In the final rankings, she'd placed third, just behind him and Hermione Granger, her practical scores in Potions and Transfiguration slightly lower. Still, her academic prowess was undeniable.
Blaise leaned closer, whispering, "You know, in July, the Bishop family got someone appointed as a review editor for Animagus, the top Transfiguration journal. They've had an editor at The Golden Crucible before, too, which helped one of them join the Wizengamot. Every Bishop's a Ravenclaw—dead serious about academics."
Sean nodded, glancing at Catherine. "You can tell just by watching her. Her family's reputation makes sense."
As he spoke, he caught Catherine's head turn slightly, her eyes flickering toward him before snapping back to her pot. The glance was fleeting, almost casual, but Sean sensed a hint of intent. He shrugged it off—whether she was looking at him or not didn't matter much. He wasn't one to fuss over classroom rivalries. Top marks came naturally to him; he studied, took exams, and ended up first without obsessing over it.
His mind wandered briefly, then refocused as Sprout's instructions echoed through the greenhouse. Sean followed her lead, gripping his Mandrake's leafy top. Even with earmuffs, the plant's wail—shrill and piercing—grated his nerves as he tugged it free. Its human-like root thrashed, its ugly face contorted in a silent scream. No wonder it could kill. This was sonic magic, raw and natural, woven into the plant's very being.
He stuffed the Mandrake into a new pot, packing soil tightly to muffle its cries. Sprout inspected his work, giving a nod of approval. Sean stepped back, his thoughts drifting. The Mandrake's wail sparked an idea. It lacked the life essence for a duel, but its cry… could it be weaponized? Sonic magic, amplified…
His eyes widened. The Basilisk.
Sean's pursuit of Tom Riddle's diary had kept him alert to the Chamber of Secrets' dangers. The Basilisk's deadly gaze was legendary, but what if he countered it with sound? A single Mandrake's cry might not suffice, but a chorus of them—say, seventeen or eighteen—paired with the crowing of roosters, could be devastating. The Basilisk might stare down opponents, but a sonic assault could turn the tables.
He stared at the now-buried Mandrake, its leaves quivering. Could its cry outmatch the serpent's eyes? Sean's lips curved into a sly grin, his Slytherin cunning alight with possibility.
------------
Author's Note:
Please collect, vote, and read on!