"In spite of everything, I have to wonder whether those… are truly safe…"
Professor Flitwick's voice was as high as ever. He stood on the floor, hidden behind two tall witches—audible but not visible—until he conjured a stack of books beneath his feet. Only then did everyone see the worry in his eyes.
In the Headmaster's office, silver instruments crowded the oak desk; a battered kettle puffed white steam. Fawkes the phoenix dozed on his gilded perch, feathers glowing a deep red.
Albus Dumbledore did not answer at once. Seated behind the desk, his blue eyes glinted over his spectacles. The open spellbook before him turned a page on its own; only then did his voice flow out, gentle as ever:
"I think we needn't worry, do we? Children are braver than we imagine."
He smiled benignly, with intent.
"Of course—brave as they hurry to their deaths," Snape sneered. "First-years against a troll—that's your plan… Dumbledore?"
Professor McGonagall watched in silence—neither agreeing nor refuting.
"Hogwarts is the safest place in all Britain," Dumbledore said, the words laden with meaning.
"Hmph." Snape spoke no more—an icy snort—and swept out.
"You should be more cautious, Albus," Minerva said, and left as well.
Only after they were gone did Dumbledore murmur, thoughtful, "Severus—change… it has been… so long…"
He turned to Flitwick. "Professor Flitwick, tell me about the child?"
"Gladly, Headmaster! In Charms—and in the 'defensive' side of the Dark Arts—the boy is even more gifted than we supposed…" Flitwick's piping voice held excitement. In truth, had Severus and Minerva seen the child's dueling, they'd have wondered—between a troll and a first-year, which is the real challenger? That was why—of all present—Flitwick had been the calmest.
In the corridor.
Snape's billowing black robes carried a pressure so low the first-years flinched from his path. The last student who'd crossed him was still in dungeon detention—an entire month…
Sean waited at Professor McGonagall's office door, an armful of Transfiguration books in hand. The wind was knife-cold, but could not pierce Filch's scarf. He wore Mrs. Finch-Fletchley's gloves, Snape's sweater, and in his bag lay McGonagall's private texts. All told, he rarely felt the chill anymore.
He was there because Transfiguration came first that afternoon; arriving early was his habit. If the professor was in, he could learn a little more. If not, he could revise.
A broad shadow blotted the window's light. Sean looked up into Snape's stormy face. The man's eyes flicked to Sean's sweater collar for two seconds, then toward the dungeon. His voice was a whisper of menace:
"Come, fool."
Sean filtered out the insult and followed silently.
The dungeon was colder still. From far off, he could hear rain battering windows; frost filmed the panes.
"Who do you think you are?" Snape's mockery was as quick as ever. Before Sean could react, the torrent was on him:
"Ah—our Mr. Green, who fancies himself a 'hero,' taking on a troll alone. I suppose the idiots adore you for it?! Green—do you think 'defeating a troll' is impressive? Let me tell you—staying alive is impressive…"
His mouth curled in a cold, scornful smile; his eyes burned with "why won't you learn" frustration.
"And compared to those idiots… Do you think anyone would mourn you if you died?!"
Sean said nothing.
Snape snorted heavily. He'd known it—this boy was a thoroughgoing fool. Give a fool second and third chances, and he still never learns prudence.
"Keep a grip on your wand!" Snape's tone was harsher than the wind. "I do not believe this fool's time has come—"
Sean looked up as something landed in his hands: a battered notebook, yellowed pages, decades old by the look of it.
While Sean flipped the book open, Snape's attention slid to his wand:
Not ordinary deadwood. The shaft held the hue of midnight—nearly black—but when light slid over it, threads of deep violet and dark red showed through.
Elder.
The rarest wood of all—and the worst reputation. Elder wands are harder to master than any other. They wield tremendous power, but will not suffer a wizard they deem unworthy. However long a wizard keeps an elder wand, he will be noticed. Only the truly unusual pair with elder perfectly—and when that happens, fate is never quiet.
And yet this proud wood sat in a fool's hand.
Its core, prouder still—a phoenix feather—made the wand even more unwilling to be tamed.
A wand… exceedingly suited to the Dark Arts.
Snape looked at the boy clutching the notes, eyes bright with a spark; his cold face clouded, complicated.
An elder wand promised a life far from peaceful. His voice grew icier, more severe:
"If you don't learn it, don't expect to leave this dungeon."
…
"Sectumsempra!"
No flare lit Sean's wandtip—but the struck toad split with a deep, slashing wound. Snape snapped the counter-curse at once, yet his gaze had already gone a little vacant, fixed on Sean.
[You practiced Sectumsempra once at an Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
[Sectumsempra: Beginner (100/900)]
In barely an hour, the boy had not only learned Sectumsempra before Snape's eyes—he'd reached entry level at startling speed. His talent outstripped Snape's own, who as a first-year had rivaled some sixth-years in the Dark Arts.
"Arrive… an hour early to the dungeon…" came Snape's low voice as Sean left. "Tell no one what you are studying. Remember—no one."
Before Sean could nod, Snape slammed the dungeon door shut.