These days felt as though they had been stolen from ti itself.
They were quiet, peaceful, and profoundly productive. Sean found himself with a schedule that never seed to end; between attending classes, refining his notes, and producing inventory for the shops, his hours were accounted for down to the last minute.
He had added extra-curricular studies in Alchemy, Transfiguration, the Dark Arts, and Potions. Consequently, his progress in Charms, Herbology, and Divination had slowed to a crawl, though he remained determined to see them through.
Transfiguration remained his most familiar territory—the field where he had accumulated the most raw knowledge— and he was always willing to dedicate massive blocks of ti to it. However, his current focus was being split by two new projects: the brewing of Wolfsbane Potion and the crafting of Undetectable Extension Pouches.
Mastering the process of the Wolfsbane Potion had already cost him a week of research, and he had only just managed to grasp ninety percent of the theory. Still, with the aid of ritual magic, he felt confident he could produce a successful batch within the month.
As for the Extension Pouches, that involved a branch of magic he had yet to fully explore. Sean planned to start by learning the Undetectable Extension Charm itself. He hoped to catch Professor Flitwick in the staff room this weekend for so private guidance—preferably while the tiny professor was sober and not dozing in a booth at the Three Broomsticks.
While Sean's life was defined by a quiet, focused energy, the rest of Hogwarts was a whirlwind of chaos. It felt as though a hundred different rumors had descended upon the castle at once.
The Great Hall.
"Hagrid? The Heir of Slytherin?" Ron spluttered, coughing as he accidentally inhaled a mouthful of pumpkin juice. "If Hagrid's the Heir of Slytherin, then I'm... I'm Snape's long-lost heir!"
"That's what the papers are saying," Hermione said, her brow furrowed as she scanned the morning post. "If you read the article carefully, it ntions that Hagrid was actually sent to Azkaban once before, and it was Professor Dumbledore who vouched for him."
"But we know it was Voldemort!" Harry said, pushing his plate away. "The Daily Prophet is getting as bad as The Quibbler lately. It's all nonsense."
"Mmm-hmm," Hermione added with a sharp edge to her voice. "The Quibbler is a load of rubbish. Everyone knows that."
Nearby, sitting a short distance away at the Ravenclaw table, Luna Lovegood drifted over.
"I beg your pardon," Luna said. Her voice was suddenly devoid of its usual airy quality. "My father is the editor of that magazine."
"I... oh," Hermione turned a vivid shade of pink. "Right. Well... so of the articles are actually quite... I an, it's very..."
"Thank you," Luna said coldly, before drifting back to her seat.
"Well, that was awkward," Justin whispered, a small grin tugging at his lips.
Hermione shot him a look that would have wilted a Devil's Snare. Harry and Ron quickly looked down at their breakfast, not daring to say a word. Only Neville, having finally processed the exchange, let out a sudden, bark-like laugh before clapping his hands over his mouth in terror.
While Harry and the others were fascinated by the revelation that Tom Riddle had frad Hagrid fifty years ago, Hermione and Justin had retreated into a private conversation. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had Herbology together today, and Hermione was eager to et the "Bruce" that Sean had ntioned.
According to Justin, Bruce was a legend within Hufflepuff House. He wasn't a standard hero like Cedric Diggory, but soone far more... unique. He was described as being simultaneously the most reliable and most unreliable person in the school.
After Herbology, Justin had arranged for them to stay behind in the greenhouses to help Professor Sprout process so ingredients. This would be Hermione's first ti joining their informal "work-study" group.
"Don't write off The Quibbler just yet, Hermione," Justin said as they left the Hall. "My mother told that language is a blade. Whether it's used to cut through superstition or wound the truth, it's always sharp."
Hermione blinked, not quite catching his aning.
"If we find proof that Lockhart is a fraud," Justin guided her, "how exactly do we plan on letting the world know? The Prophet won't touch a celebrity without ironclad proof, but The Quibbler... well, they'll print anything if the story is juicy enough."
Hermione's eyes widened as the realization hit her.
Afternoon.
The grounds were blanketed in heavy snow, leaving the castle standing in a world of brilliant, blinding white. Sean walked through the quiet corridors; at this hour, most of the student body was cramd into the Great Hall.
The bulletin board was covered in massive news reports—posters so large they obscured everything else: notices for second-hand spellbooks, Filch's weekly reminders of the rules, Quidditch practice schedules, and requests for Chocolate Frog card trades.
The new reports were printed in bold black type, bearing official-looking seals and surrounded by moving magical photographs.
MASTER OF THE CHAMBER? THE TRUTH BURIED FOR FIFTY YEARS!
RUBEUS HAGRID: VILLAIN OR VICTIM?
ARMANDO DIPPET: ARCHMAGE OR ABSOLUTE IDIOT?
Accompanying the reports was a newly published biography of Armando Dippet. Within hours, the book was already showing signs of becoming a bestseller. While anyone familiar with Rita Skeeter's style knew the content was likely a cocktail of exaggeration and twisted facts, it didn't stop the students from devouring every word.
The core of the story was a bombshell: the decades-old mystery of the girl killed in the Chamber of Secrets was being reopened, and the true culprit was soone no one would ever suspect. Furthermore, the book painted the forr Headmaster, Armando Dippet, as a complete dunderhead who had been easily blinded by the most basic of deceptions.
The Great Hall was a cacophony of shouting and debating. Students were so enthralled by the reports that several actually forgot they had classes to attend.
This uproar had nothing to do with Sean. In a quiet corner of the library, Snowy flew in through a high window and dropped a snow-dusted letter onto his table:
Honored Mr. Hers,
The reports have been drafted exactly as you and Professor Dumbledore requested. The truth has been laid bare.
—Yours faithfully, Rita.
Sean looked out the window at the white landscape. With a flick of his wand, the letter ignited and burned to a fine ash, which then drifted out into the wind.
Hagrid was going to be exonerated. It was a victory worth celebrating. The newspapers had spent a small fortune on the marketing and "hype" for this story, and the frenzy in the Great Hall was proof of their success.
As for the reporter... Rita had "defected." Or rather, she had realized that absolute loyalty was her only path to survival, especially after her last "private consultation" with Professor Terra.
December marched on, the blizzard showing no signs of relenting.
In Greenhouse Three, a group of Mandrakes had decided to hold a raucous, screaming "dance party," much to Professor Sprout's delight. Her smile was warr than usual as she greeted the students who had co to help.
She spotted a new face among the regulars.
"A new sprout! Miss Granger, dear—welco to the gardens."
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