Exemption from the Transfiguration course had indeed saved Sean a significant amount of time—time not only spared from attending the lessons themselves, but also from the tedious task of completing assignments.
He redirected all of this newfound time and energy into refining his Potions thesis, a decision that, if Professor McGonagall were ever to learn of it, would almost certainly leave her feeling more than a little displeased.
Not possibly, but undoubtedly so.
Naturally, Sean had no intention of ever letting her find out.
There were no scheduled classes during the first period after lunch, so after finishing his meal, Sean returned to the Slytherin common room with Blaise, intending to head straight to his room to rest and catch up on some reading.
However, the moment he stepped into the common room, he immediately picked up on a subtle but unmistakable sense of rejection lingering in the air—a quiet tension that made the space feel colder than usual.
Sean, of course, was well aware that not everyone present truly believed that killing the basilisk had been the wrong decision. In fact, only a minority held that opinion; yet, because of the pressure exerted by the Slytherin Brotherhood Reserve Organization, many felt compelled to distance themselves from him, choosing silence and avoidance rather than open disagreement.
He didn't blame them for it. He understood the social dynamics at play, and he harbored no ill will. But even so, he could no longer muster any genuine sense of camaraderie or belonging—neither toward Slytherin House itself, nor toward the people who filled it.
Without pausing or acknowledging anyone, Sean walked directly through the long, dimly lit hall of the Slytherin common room and continued on, making his way toward his quarters.
But at that moment, Malfoy, Goyle, and Crabbe stepped in front of Sean, blocking his way and staring at him with smug, provocative expressions.
Sean looked up at Malfoy—not with anger, but with the kind of disdain one reserves for a particularly dim-witted creature. No, not even that—he looked at Malfoy the way one might look at a fool who thought he was clever. He honestly couldn't understand why Malfoy had come to provoke him. Did he really think that just because Sean had left the Slytherin Brotherhood Reserve Organization, he was now someone Malfoy could control at will?
What in Merlin's name was going through his head?
Had he finally gone completely mad from all those years of unrequited obsession with Harry Potter? Was his brain so far gone that he couldn't tell fantasy from reality anymore? Was that why he'd dragged along two brainless second-generation Death Eaters just to block Sean's path?
Was he actually insane?
"Sean Bulstrode," Malfoy sneered, puffing out his chest, "if you don't want trouble, I suggest you return my dragon farm to me. It's my favorite thing. If you don't know what's good for you, I will be rude!"
No sooner had Malfoy finished than Goyle chimed in dutifully, "That's right! Draco's taken your spot in the Slytherin Brotherhood Reserve Organization. If you don't know what's good for you, then the Brotherhood definitely won't let you go, you—"
Bang!
Sean didn't bother waiting to hear the rest. He had no idea where these three clowns had found the courage to pick a fight with him, but he certainly wasn't in the mood to listen to their nonsense.
He punched Goyle straight in the nose. Blood started flowing immediately, tears followed, and Goyle dropped into a squat, clutching his face and groaning.
Then, before Crabbe could react properly, Sean spun and delivered another punch—this one catching Crabbe in the face just as he tried to step back. He too crumpled to the floor, clutching his bleeding nose.
Finally, Sean turned his gaze on Malfoy.
Malfoy took a step back, his bravado completely gone, staring at Sean as if he were some mountain troll charging toward him.
"Don't—don't come any closer! I've joined the Slytherin Brotherhood Reserve Organization! My father won't allow you to—"
Bang!
"Ouch—!"
Malfoy dropped. Nosebleed, tears, and snot were flowing freely as he crouched on the ground, mumbling something incomprehensible.
Sean neither understood nor cared what he was saying.
Three punches. Three bleeding noses. Three squatting fools.
Without another word, Sean turned and walked back to his room.
He glanced at Kulkan. Ever since the creature had devoured the basilisk's eyes and flesh, it had remained in a prolonged state of lethargy—waking for no more than two or three hours each day, and even then, only groggily. During those brief windows of wakefulness, Kulkan typically used the time to eat and drink before drifting off again.
Just yesterday, when Sean returned to his room, he found Kulkan asleep with its head submerged in the water bowl—bubbles still rising lazily to the surface. Had he arrived even a few minutes later, the poor thing might have drowned.
Sean sat down at his desk, took a moment to rest his eyes, and then resumed work on the potion paper he had been steadily refining.
His research on enhancing the efficacy and modifying the formulation of the Wit-Recovery potion was nearly complete. In fact, by the time he had slain the basilisk, he had already finished five trials. Though the first two suffered from minor errors and unstable variables, the remaining three had gone smoothly, fully validating his theoretical framework. Using those results, Sean had successfully brewed a revised and improved version of the original potion—an updated formula that offered greater restorative effect.
Snape, upon reviewing the final sample, had given it a rare nod of approval. While his praise might have sounded subdued to the untrained ear, anyone who knew the Potions Master understood just how significant that faint compliment truly was.
In Snape's language, it was practically a standing ovation.
And it meant, without much doubt, that Sean's work stood a very real chance of being published in The Golden Crucible—the premier journal in potion-making circles.
Wincing slightly from the soreness in his hands, Sean gave them a shake, then glanced at his watch. It was nearly time for afternoon classes. He began packing up his papers and notes, just reaching for his textbooks when a sharp knock came at the door.
At this hour, it was most likely Blaise. Sean picked up his book and opened the door casually—but instead of seeing his usual companion, he found someone else entirely.
Standing there was a student from the Slytherin Brotherhood Reserve Organization.
Sean recognized him immediately. He was from Oliver's faction. That alone was enough for Sean to know this visit had no good intentions.
"If you've got nothing important to say, step aside. I have class."
The boy sneered. "Sean Bulstrode, you're quite arrogant. You assaulted the newcomer who just joined us. Looks like you didn't learn your lesson last time."
Sean blinked lazily. "Are you done? Because if you are, I really do need to go."
The boy's face darkened. Clearly, he hadn't expected to be dismissed so easily.
He took a step forward, eyes narrowing as he glared at Sean. "Do you think you're invincible in Slytherin just because you killed some old, weak basilisk? Don't think we don't know you only managed it because of the Sword of Gryffindor. You're just using that as an excuse to bully your own House. But you're not qualified. I'd advise you to watch your step—keep your tail between your legs, and behave."
As he finished speaking, the boy reached forward, extending a finger toward Sean's forehead—some mocking gesture, meant to provoke.
He never got the chance.
Before his finger could make contact, Sean's hand shot up and grabbed it. Without hesitation, he twisted.
Crack.
The scream that followed sounded like a pig being slaughtered.
The boy clutched his broken finger, eyes wide in disbelief and pain—but Sean wasn't finished.
Without a word, he delivered a clean punch to the boy's face. The sickening crunch of a broken nose followed.
Then, with an expression of mild irritation, Sean kicked him out of the doorway.
"Don't block the path," he muttered coldly.
Just then, Blaise arrived, catching sight of the scene as Sean calmly stepped past the crumpled figure and joined him.
"Sean, what happened?"
"Nothing much," Sean replied, brushing imaginary dust off his robes. "Some people heard a few rumors, thought I was weak, and decided to test me. So they sent someone with more muscle than brain to try it."
He glanced back once, then shrugged.
"I just returned the favor. Everything's fine now."