Even though roaring fires burned in the common rooms and the Great Hall, the draughty corridors of Hogwarts were still bone-chilling, and classroom windowpanes clicked and rattled under the cutting wind.
Worst of all wasn't the corridors but the Potions classroom: one breath from Sean puffed a white cloud before his face, and once the steaming cauldron went out he started to shiver—his sweater wasn't very warm.
He figured the only difference between him and Professor Dumbledore just then was this: the Headmaster needed wool socks; he needed a warmer jumper.
Sean's thoughts wandered—first to Mrs. Weasley knitting Christmas jumpers for her children (and Harry), then to Dumbledore saying the Mirror of Erised had shown him wool socks—when in truth it was "young Gellert Grindelwald," not socks.
Snape stared coldly at Sean's notebook. His gaze shifted from icy disdain to a muffled surprise, and finally to utter blankness.
"You do realize this is… extremely precious," he said, voice sepulchral.
Sean nodded.
"Fool! Ignorant fool! You don't grasp its value at all! Like a Muggle holding a wand and not knowing the magic it contains!" Snape burst out. Once again, Sean couldn't tell what had set him off.
He quietly opened Advanced Potion-Making. The handwriting stood out clearly:
"Libatius Borage's greatest achievement is no longer the discovery of potion ritual and the will-guiding method, but the continuation of truth's path—handing it whole to a successor."
Snape's last syllable caught in his throat. He scanned that line—then the next:
"Endless distances, endless truth… you should know they are being born in your hands."
His anger ebbed, replaced by a low, strained murmur. "If you understood, Sean Green, you would never expose this…"
He fixed Sean with a cold stare, as if to see through him.
Sean didn't flinch. He only said softly, "Professor, in fact… you're the only one who knows."
The sneer froze on Snape's lips. He studied the student who stood with him in the shadows and, for a moment… seemed at a loss.
"Heh—so you're saying…" After a long silence, Snape asked again, dark-faced.
Sean nodded.
"You think… everyone is worthy of trust?" Snape grated, as if berating Sean—and also the version of himself who had once trusted Voldemort.
"Listen to me, Sean Green. You are not to share those notes with anyone. If you dare…"
He gripped the notebook, threatening. The boy before him was laughably foolish, stubbornly foolish—and… purely foolish.
Sean left the dungeon with a light step, but Snape's gaze stayed on his back. He couldn't name the feelings—feelings he hated, despised… feared:
This fool trusted him.
His eyes dimmed. Old bitterness, long rusted shut, surged up. Call it awkwardness, and that would be too mild—too inhuman. Perhaps it was simply the pain of the past trying to intimidate the hope of the present.
…
In the corridor, the portraits that usually chattered had all sunk into heavy sleep—some snoring softly, some wearing their hats crooked so that drool nearly dripped onto the frame.
Looking at Sir Cadogan, dozing and drooling, then at the two ladies asleep nearby, Sean sometimes thought the reason they got on was their "shared tastes."
A few torches in iron brackets still burned, throwing long, wavering shadows that made the carved stone and the tapestry patterns seem to sway with the candlelight.
Sean was used to walking at night—apart from being a bit cold. Sometimes Mrs. Norris would accompany him for a stretch; then Justin's dried fish came in handy. With it, Sean could scratch Mrs. Norris behind the ears and earn a chunk of magical-creature goodwill.
Tonight she wasn't around.
At a corner, a faint rustle sounded.
Then three small figures in wizard robes slipped out from behind a suit of armor's wide plinth. The boy in front had a mop of messy blond hair; freckles stood out on his face with excitement and nerves. Clutching his wand, he peeked up and down the corridor.
"C-clear?" the small boy whispered, voice shaking.
The blond boy didn't look back—he just nodded hard and motioned the others to follow. "Filch has to be downstairs in the trophy room, napping—you know he always takes a break at this hour… And I saw Mrs. Norris head that way, too."
Plenty of students in Hogwarts dreamed of trashing Filch's office; the ones who actually did something were usually Gryffindors.
Sean was about to walk on when they mentioned dungbombs. He stopped.
Dungbombs, a Zonkos product, are magical stink bombs that reek of rot—invented in the 1880s by Abroic Grunning. They're about the worst prank toy there is; even touching one will foul your hands.
Sean pictured Mr. Filch scrubbing up dungbombs and quickened his pace.
He was still too late.
Mrs. Norris shrieked, and the bold little wizards actually raised their wands at her. Even if it was only Aguamenti, getting drenched with freezing water on the edge of winter was no joke.
"Ag—uamen—ti!" the leader cried, mangling the syllables as he slashed his wand.
Mrs. Norris bolted for the doorway—only for Sean to scoop her naturally into his arms.
"Finite Incantatem." He flicked his wand, and Mrs. Norris huffed warm breath against his shoulder.
"Bad! Run!" the leader hissed, lunging for the exit of Filch's office.
"Bullying someone who can't do magic isn't fun, gentlemen," Sean said, blocking the door.
The three little wizards immediately went bristling and bare-toothed.