Sean's system pinged, the latest duel reward flashing in his mind:
[Win the duel and randomly select an ability of the duel opponent.]
[Drawing… Extraction completed, obtained: Bone Extraction Curse LV1]
He stifled a groan. Not the Memory Charm! A Bone Extraction Curse? What even was that?
As he puzzled over it, details flooded his mind. The Bone Extraction Curse was meant to be a Bone Mending Charm, a healing spell to repair fractures. But Lockhart, ever the careless showman, had botched the technique, turning it into a dark spell that ripped bones from the body. It wasn't lethal—Skele-Gro could heal the damage—but it was far from the gentle magic Lockhart claimed to wield.
Sean sighed. It wasn't the Memory Charm he'd hoped for, but a dark spell could have its uses. A small win, at least.
Glancing up, he saw Lockhart groaning as he struggled to his feet, robes dusted with classroom grime. Sean plastered on a look of admiration and hurried over, offering a hand. "Professor Lockhart, your skill is incredible! You held back again to keep me safe, didn't you?"
Lockhart wasn't as foolish as he seemed. He stepped back, eyes wary, ready to deflect another challenge. But before he could speak, the bell for the end of class rang, its chime echoing off the enchanted candelabras. Lockhart's face lit up like a kid spotting a cauldron cake. "Class dismissed!" he announced, bolting for the door without a backward glance, his robes flapping as if fleeing a swarm of Cornish pixies.
Sean watched him go, a mix of frustration and amusement tugging at him. Even an incompetent wizard like Lockhart had a dozen spells and abilities up his sleeve. Getting the Memory Charm would take luck or persistence—lots of duels, maybe even stronger tactics. If Lockhart refused to duel again, Sean might need to get creative. Worst case, he could hit Lockhart with his own Memory Charm to cover his tracks. The irony wasn't lost on him.
As the classroom emptied, a Slytherin student—older, maybe a fourth-year—paused by Sean's desk. "Giving the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor a head start on his first day is really worthy of you, Sean," he teased, flashing a grin before slipping out without introducing himself.
Sean blinked, bemused. All afternoon, students had been approaching him with cryptic comments about his duel, only to vanish before he could respond. His performance against Lockhart was clearly the talk of Hogwarts, but the constant attention left him feeling like a Puffskein in a pet shop.
In the Great Hall, Sean set down his knife and fork, pushing aside his half-eaten plate of shepherd's pie. He turned to Blaise, who was polishing off a cauldron cake. "Blaise, I'm heading to the Potions Club soon. You going back to the common room?"
Blaise shook his head, a dreamy look in his eyes. "Not yet. I'm meeting my girlfriend in the library. We're going to study together—really put in some effort."
Sean raised an eyebrow. Blaise, studying? The Slytherin who'd once charmed a Ravenclaw girl into doing his History of Magic homework? This had to be the honeymoon phase talking. Blaise's romances were as fleeting as a Fizzing Whizbee, and Sean doubted this one would last. The library was no place for Blaise's restless energy. Give it a week, and he'd be back to his old tricks, probably charming someone new by the Quidditch pitch.
Shaking his head with a wry smile, Sean said goodbye to Blaise, grabbed his bag, and headed for the dungeons. The Potions Club awaited, and with it, a chance to dive into his studies—and maybe brew something to keep Lockhart on his toes.
The dungeons of Hogwarts hummed with a quiet magic, their stone walls cool and flickering under the glow of enchanted hourglasses, each grain of sand ticking like a heartbeat. Sean stepped into the Potions Club classroom, the air thick with the sharp tang of simmering ingredients—lavender, perhaps, or crushed beetle eyes. The room, once alive with five members, now held only four tables, each set with a polished cauldron and neatly arranged tools. The absence of the Slytherin female student union president, who'd graduated last year, left the space feeling oddly hollow, like a potion missing a key ingredient.
"Hey, Sean, you're here," Elliot Pritchard called from his table, his Ravenclaw tie loosened as he adjusted a burner. "Heard about your Defense Against the Dark Arts class this afternoon. Nice work."
Sean dropped his bag, waving a hand. "Let's skip that topic. I just wanted to test the new professor's skills. No surprise—he's completely incompetent."
"Fool…" Elliot murmured, a grin tugging at his lips. "Not a word I know well, but it fits Lockhart. Must be something from my family's old traditions."
Sean chuckled, changing the subject. "You're in fifth year, right, Elliot? Prepping for OWLs? Feeling good about it?"
Elliot's grin faded, replaced by a weary sigh. "I'm confident enough, but some subjects are rough. My parents want all O's—Outstanding grades—so I can follow in their footsteps at the Ministry of Magic. Anything less, and they'll have my wand."
"You're a star at Potions," Sean said, leaning against his table. "Your other subjects can't be far off, can they?"
Elliot shrugged. "Transfiguration's a nightmare, and Ancient Runes isn't much better. I'll probably scrape an E—Exceeds Expectations—in those."
In the OWL system, O meant Outstanding, the highest mark, while E stood for Exceeds Expectations, a solid but lesser grade. For most, an E was a triumph, but Elliot's family demanded perfection. He wasn't worried about failing—his skills rivaled Cedric Diggory's in fourth year or Sean's in second—but securing all O's felt like chasing a Fizzing Whizbee in a storm. Like Sean, Elliot was among the best, but expectations weighed heavy.
They talked a bit longer, the dungeon's chill seeping into their words. Footsteps echoed as Buck Ickes, a fourth-year Ravenclaw, slipped in, his eyes flicking nervously to the cauldrons. Jennifer Foley followed, her sixth-year Slytherin confidence filling the room like a well-brewed potion. The Potions Club's four members were now assembled, their tables a small constellation in the dim light.
The air tightened as Professor Snape swept in, his black robes billowing like a Dementor's cloak. He claimed the podium, his gaze slicing through Sean, Elliot, Buck, and Jennifer. "My expectations remain unchanged," he said, voice a low hiss. "By your seventh year, you will publish a paper in a respected journal—Potions Quarterly, Potions Flame, or Misty Cauldron. Not The Golden Crucible—that's beyond most—but a lesser journal will do. Fail, and you will not claim membership in my Potions Club."
His eyes locked on Sean, cold and unyielding as the dungeon stone. "Except for one."
Sean's heart sank, his lips twitching. That stare—Snape's signature blend of expectation and menace—meant trouble.
"Sean," Snape continued, "you are the exception. Before your seventh year, you must publish two papers in The Golden Crucible. Anything less, and you cannot claim my Potions Club as your own."
Two papers? Sean's mind spun. Might as well ask me to bottle fame or brew glory! The thought of fleeing to Beauxbatons resurfaced—Gryffindor wouldn't dodge Snape's demands. This wasn't favoritism; it was a cauldron-sized challenge dumped on his head.
"Understood, sir," Sean mumbled, forcing a nod. Protesting was pointless. One wrong word, and Snape would demand three or four papers. When it came to high stakes, Snape was a master.
"Good," Snape said, turning to the blackboard, chalk scratching like a quill on parchment. "Now, we begin discussing potion-brewing methods…"
The session swirled by, a haze of precise measurements and bubbling cauldrons, the hourglasses ticking relentlessly. Buck Ickes bolted first, his social anxiety driving him out. Sean packed his vials, sensing Jennifer lingering nearby, her presence patient but purposeful.
Elliot, noticing, kept his conversation brief. "Catch you later, Sean," he said, nodding to Jennifer before slipping out.
Sean caught a flicker of distance in Elliot's nod. He treated everyone fairly, but something about Jennifer—maybe her Slytherin intensity—seemed to put him off. House rivalries, perhaps, or an old Potions Club grudge?
Jennifer turned to Sean, her smile as warm as a cauldron cake. "Sean, let's talk."
"Sure, Jennifer," he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "What's on your mind?"
"It's been a year, and you're still so formal," she teased, her eyes bright. "I heard you joined the Slytherin Brotherhood's organization?"
"That's right," Sean said, intrigued by her tone.
"You should've told me sooner," Jennifer said, her voice softening. "Oliver's in that organization, too. I could've asked him to look out for you—oh, wait, I mean, you two should look out for each other. After all, you're cousins, aren't you?"