"When you prepare horned slugs, pay attention to how their mucus is distributed. Try to pick moments when they're secreting the most. If you see them extend their feelers and tap the tabletop—don't hesitate. That's the best time to simmer…
A small reminder: once you see tiny bubbles in the cauldron, you can stop brewing…
Excellent, Mr. Dickinson—just right.
Oh! Mr. Green, you may have simmered a bit too long. Remember? Stop when the tiny bubbles appear…"
Inside the greenhouse, twelve propped cauldrons gurgled, steam curling up and making the pumpkin-like plants sway. Having just praised Bruce, Professor Sprout hurried to Sean's side to plop an escaping slug back on the bench.
She smiled gently. "Mr. Green, try not to let the slugs run off next time."
Sean was, in fact, a bit flustered—he was handling two cauldrons at once. Bruce, by contrast, looked perfectly at ease. As for Professor Sprout, she could manage seven cauldrons simultaneously and still have time to coach Sean.
"Watch the mucus, wait for the bubbles…" Sean murmured the tips as he worked, growing steadier with time—though still a touch harried. The liquid in the cauldron deepened to ink green, and Sprout came over. Sean clenched his ladle, waiting for judgment. He was nervous—partly about his shaky talent, partly about the cost of ingredients. Horned slugs weren't cheap: a jar cost one Galleon in Diagon Alley. Magical ingredients were terrifyingly expensive; it dawned on Sean that potions had to be a high-margin business or no one could afford to brew.
Sprout's verdict came quickly: "A passable prep, Mr. Green."
Sean let out a small breath. Sprout might say to use what they needed, but he couldn't keep wasting things. Once he found his rhythm, he finished the horned slugs. The three of them decanted the brew into glass bottles and picked out the slugs with especially rich mucus to drop into a big jar.
This selection, Sprout said, would raise the first-years' success rate with the Cure for Boils. The already-simmered slugs would serve as demonstration examples—and help Professor Snape with some of the preliminary workload.
While they were sorting porcupine quills, Sprout shared a tidbit that surprised Sean.
"Yes, children—Herbology and Potions lean on each other. Every harvest season, Severus comes to the greenhouses."
Sean pictured Snape with a hoe, then went back to picking quills.
"Porcupine quills—about three inches long, roughly the thickness of two slug feelers…"
Leaving the greenhouse, Sean reviewed the key points and jotted them on his parchment. So far, he had a solid grasp of all four Cure for Boils ingredients—dried nettles, porcupine quills, venomous snake fangs, and horned slugs.
Which meant Step One of his plan was complete.
The thought made his eyes shine even brighter.
"I'm saying we're out of the greenhouse now—you don't have to write it all again," Bruce said, folding his arms and tugging Sean along before his single-minded focus sent him into a suit of armor.
Up on that armor stand, a lady in formal dress covered her mouth with a laugh; the knight opposite stared, entranced.
Six o'clock. A mild breeze. A path bathed in warm, slanting light. The Hogwarts bell tolled.
Bruce stopped in the corridor by the greenhouses. Leon, hair glinting gold in the sun, cradled a book; Pister held a potted plant, its tender leaves swaying. Both looked to Bruce.
"These two…" Bruce grinned. He turned to say goodbye to Sean—only to find a piece of candied jackfruit placed in his hand.
"Snack swap—Hufflepuff tradition, Senior Bruce."
He blinked; Sean was already skipping off.
"Is he really not a Hufflepuff?" Leon shut his book.
"Maybe the Hat blundered," Bruce said, pocketing the sweet with care—then, "Hey!" He swept both Leon and Pister into a headlock, his arms like a warm lock clamping their three heads together.
"Opening!" he crowed.
"Idiot," Leon stumbled.
Pister shielded the potted plant.
…
Since borrowing a stack of books yesterday, Sean's only problem was time—there wasn't enough to finish his homework. The Hogwarts Library closed at eight, and it was already six-thirty by the time he finished dinner. So he skipped the library and went straight back to Ravenclaw Tower. The two-person dorms had desks—and, thoughtfully, floating candles. Yes, the same kind as in the Great Hall. Clearly a good place to work.
Ravenclaw wisdom, Sean thought.
"Sean, heading back to the tower?" At the Hall doors, he ran into Michael in the middle of a game of gomoku.
"Mm."
"Oh! Wait for me!" Michael slapped down his move. His gomoku piece hefted a club and knocked the other first-year's last stone clean off the board.
"Close win." He smiled, scooped up the pieces, and jogged after Sean.
The Ravenclaw stairs were still terrifyingly long. Michael climbed, panting, complaining as he went: "The welcome spiel said Ravenclaw helps seekers climb the steps of wisdom—but it didn't say the steps were this long! Merlin… do I have to climb these for seven years?"
Before he finished, a gust blasted past: an upper-year Ravenclaw swooped into the tower on a broom, drawing gasps from the nearby first-years.
"Cool!"
Michael stared, heat rising in his chest. The steps dwindled. At last they were nearly there.
"…Maybe lots of people think the Chudley Cannons' glory days are over, but everyone knows they'll be back on top…" His grumbling had become Quidditch dreams, and he was about to recite more Cannons lore when he noticed the first-year beside him starting to sway.
"Sean!"
~~~
Patreon(.)com/Bleam
— Currently You can Read 50 Chapters Ahead of Others!