In the Hogwarts corridors, the roaring fires of the common rooms and Great Hall did little to warm the drafty passages. The biting wind rattled the windowpanes. But the corridors were nothing compared to the Potions dungeon. Sean could see his breath misting in the air, and as soon as the cauldron's fla was extinguished, a bone-deep chill set in. His thin, worn jumper offered little protection.
He mused that the only real difference between him and Professor Dumbledore right now was that the Headmaster famously wanted woolly socks, while Sean just needed a warr sweater.
His thoughts drifted. He pictured Mrs. Weasley, faithfully knitting Christmas jumpers for her children (and Harry). He pictured Dumbledore claiming to see only socks in the Mirror of Erised, though Sean suspected the reality was far more complex.
Professor Snape stared blankly at Sean's open notebook, his gaze shifting from cold disdain, to suppressed shock, and finally, to a flat, emotionless void.
"You should know… this is exceptionally precious," Snape's voice was a low, dangerous hiss.
Sean nodded.
"Fool! Ignorant fool!" Snape suddenly roared, his anger baffling Sean once again. "I see you have no concept of its value! You are like a Muggle holding a wand, completely oblivious to the power it contains!"
Sean silently opened Advanced Potion-Making to the page where the glowing script had appeared:
[The greatest achievent of Libatius Borage was not the discovery of the ritual or the willpower technique…
It was in continuing the path of Truth, and passing it, whole, to his successor]
Snape's tirade caught in his throat. He scanned the line, his lip curling, but before he could speak, his eyes landed on the next:
$$Infinite horizons, endless truths… You must know, they are being born through your hands$$
Snape's fury slowly receded, replaced by an intensely repressed whisper. "If you understood, Sean Green, you would never have exposed this…" He stared at Sean, as if trying to see into his very soul.
Sean remained unmoved, stating simply, "Professor, as a matter of fact, you are the only one who knows."
Snape's sarcastic sneer froze. He stared at the small, pale boy standing with him in the shadows of the dungeon, and for a mont, he looked almost… lost.
"Heh… You an to say…" Snape's voice was strained as he processed the implication.
Sean nodded silently.
"And you... trust... everyone?" Snape spat the word, as if it were poison, his voice tight with a fury that seed directed as much at himself as at Sean.
"Listen to , Sean Green," Snape snarled, gripping the notebook. "You will not breathe a word of this to anyone. If you dare…"
The boy before him was laughably foolish, absurdly stubborn, and… infuriatingly pure.
As Sean walked briskly from the dungeon, he felt Snape's dark eyes fixed on his back. Snape couldn't describe the feelings warring within him—disgust, revulsion, fear…
This idiotic boy trusted him.
His gaze darkened as bitter, rusted-shut mories flooded his mind. It wasn't just reluctance; it was the past, clawing at the present, trying to smother a fragile, new... hope.
In the corridor, the portraits were all fast asleep, their painted snores echoing softly. Sir Cadogan was drooling onto his fra, and the Fat Lady slept beside Lady Violet, their "shared interests" apparently extending to synchronized napping. Torches flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that made the tapestries and stone carvings seem to writhe.
Sean was used to walking the dark castle at night, though the cold still bit at him. Sotis, Mrs. Norris would accompany him part of the way, a journey made much more pleasant by Justin's supply of dried fish. In exchange for the treats, Sean was allowed to scratch her head, steadily increasing his Magical Creature Affinity.
But tonight, Mrs. Norris was conspicuously absent.
From a dark alcove ahead, he heard a faint scuffling sound. Three small, robed figures darted out from behind the base of a large suit of armour. The leader, a boy with ssy blond hair and a spray of freckles, clutched his wand, peering nervously down the corridor.
"Is... is it clear?" a smaller boy whispered, his voice shaking.
The blond boy nodded curtly, gesturing for them to follow. "Filch is definitely napping in the trophy room downstairs," he whispered, his voice tight with suppressed excitent. "Always does around this ti. And I saw Mrs. Norris head that way, too."
Many students dread of pranking Filch's office; few, besides Gryffindors, were reckless enough to try. Sean was about to walk on when he heard the words "Dungbomb." He paused.
Dungbombs, a staple of Zonko's Joke Shop, were vile, foul-slling orbs, and touching them left a stench that lasted for hours. Sean pictured Mr. Filch trying to scrub that particular ss from his office and quickened his pace. He was too late.
He heard Mrs. Norris let out an agonized yowl. The three boys were surrounding her, and the leader was actually raising his wand. Even a simple Aguanti would be torture in this freezing weather.
"Ag—uan—ti!" the boy shouted, mangling the pronunciation.
Mrs. Norris bolted in terror, running straight into Sean, who scooped her up.
"Finite Incantatem," Sean said calmly, his wand flicking almost lazily. The misfired spell dissipated harmlessly.
"Heads up! Run!" the ringleader yelped, turning to flee, only to find the doorway blocked.
"Bullying soone who can't use magic isn't very sporting, gentlen," Sean said, his voice quiet but carrying clearly in the stone corridor.
The three young wizards, trapped, turned and raised their wands, their expressions shifting from fear to defiance.
(End of Chapter)
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