The best thing about having a fire constantly going was that the three returning little wizards could dry off whenever they wanted.
Damp, chilly air pooled at the back of the classroom, but the closer you got to the fireplace, the stronger the scent became—a cozy mix of warm, drying wool and clean pine smoke.
The three small figures cradled hot tea, wrapped in that glow of light and heat.
Justin pulled out a camera—click—right as Hermione's annoyed voice arrived with it.
"Sean—again—hurry up and take this!"
Hermione always materialized alongside the hearth; cheeks puffed, she thrust a towel at him, ready to lecture and then swallowing the words with a sigh.
"And you! Filthy!"
Spotting the muddy prints under Justin's shoes, she flicked her wand to clean the floor, then tossed him a fresh towel.
Neville had been watching Sean practice Transfiguration, but now he just shivered on the side, not daring to speak. Two towels were dropped into his arms—he was the wettest of the lot.
Around the fire, light and warmth danced across four faces—Justin handed some seeds to Hermione, and Neville, beaming vacantly, hugged a pot of newly sprouted, plump Bubble Pods.
Thanks to their hard work in the greenhouses, Professor Sprout not only awarded them points but also gave them plenty of seeds. Many corners of the classroom were now planted with greenery; it was starting to feel like a cozy little hideout.
Sean's gains weren't limited to that. After Snape's barbed explanations had still taught him a fair bit about ingredients, he now approached greenhouse work with a purpose:
For example, with sun-orchid root, he knew it had to be ground to powder—so he paid special attention to the grinding process. With Abyssinian shrivelfig, he knew the rind needed removing—so he focused on how to peel it and at what stage.
The link between Herbology and Potions is as strong as that between Ancient Runes and alchemy.
Over several weeks, Sean put in the hours and finally memorized both Easy Introduction to Ancient Runes and the Table of Magical Phonetics. The job was no less grueling than digesting two of Professor McGonagall's private volumes.
How did he know? Because he'd finished both at once.
Still, what he looked forward to most was that night's brewing—ten more points of proficiency and he'd unlock a new Potions-domain title.
Once his heavy cloak was dry, Sean hung it in the classroom wardrobe; anywhere with a fireplace or cauldron, it was simply too warm to wear. It was, after all, a rainproof cloak—Professor Sprout had layered it with careful enchantments to keep the kids healthy.
The rain kept on, and by evening the air had turned bitter cold. The mountains around the school were a smudged gray under snow and ice; the lake looked like quenched steel—cold and unyielding.
At times like that, the Great Hall's fireplaces always sprouted plenty of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors. Probably because those two Houses had the highest common rooms—unlike certain little badgers tucked beside the kitchens—so during breaks, the Hall mostly filled with those two Houses' students.
At the long table—
Ron sat tall over a game of Wizard Chess. With a command, his knight smashed the opposing king's head.
"Not fair! Rematch! My pieces don't listen to me!"
Seamus's face flushed. He couldn't believe what his pieces had done—his king had blustered "A king suffers no insult!" and marched into a square where the next move would capture him, only to be "split up" by the knight, literally.
"You've got a lot to learn!" Ron briskly packed away the board, already eyeing his next opponent.
Wizard Chess swept the magical world. Some thought knowing the rules was enough; it wasn't. The pieces are alive—playing is like commanding an army. Since the pieces have opinions of their own, you have to know their tempers if you want to avoid trouble giving orders.
Ron excelled at that—so he usually won.
"Ron—this is weird. Usually by now you're tearing your hair out over homework. What's with you today?" Dean asked, baffled, as Ron cut a swath through challengers.
"Oh—this?" Ron had been waiting for the question. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out several carefully kept notebooks.
"Green's Notes! Merlin—where did you—"
A ring of students craned their necks with a chorus of gasps.
"From Sean—oh no, that's a secret…" Ron clapped a hand over his mouth halfway through.
"Sean Green? Even the Slytherins say he's not one to cross…" Dean's curiosity cooled at once.
"No—" Ron's face went solemn. "No description replaces meeting Sean yourself. If you've got the nerve, go find out."
His cheeks reddened; his eyes went fiercely resolute. "And I won't hear any rumors about Sean!"
Passing by, Sean quietly quickened his pace.
Why did he sound… like a cult leader?
Down the corridor to the dungeons—
A stream of robed upper-years poured out and soon packed the hall. Sean hugged the wall and listened to their hushed grumbling—some of it sniping at Professor Snape; most only dared nod along.
At the dungeon entrance, he unusually found a figure with his face lost in shadow, a ledger in hand, staring coldly down the hallway. The subdued whispers seemed not to reach him. His eyes only fixed on Sean, lingering for a beat on the boy's slight shiver in the draft and his wrinkled scarf.
Inside the dungeon—
Steam rolled off the cauldron, driving the chill from Sean's bones. He handled the Swelling Solution ingredients cleanly, with a technique much like Professor Sprout's. Even by Snape's standards, it scraped the threshold of "excellent"—though Sean knew only part of the full ingredient list, it was enough.
From the dark, Professor Snape watched in silence. In his hand, the parchment with the Guiding Method overlapped two earlier slips. As his memory skimmed the corridor outside, he thought he heard those hushed jabs again—he'd never thought he would care, yet now they stirred a ripple in his mind.
So, as Sean stirred the cauldron with full concentration, Snape suddenly spoke:
"Heh—let me guess. You're using the outdated stirring method from the Book of Potions. Even a troll wouldn't use that anymore. You should know, Sean Green—not everything written is correct. If your eyes are for more than decoration, you'll notice the corrections marked in your own notes."