Sean thought Harry and Ron were almost too sincere.
"Yes."
With homework still to copy, Ron's face flushed; he looked like he was going for broke. Harry ducked his head, tense.
"Mm." Sean nodded.
Professor Snape was still waiting in the dungeons. Though Harry and Ron did surprise him, he wasn't planning to waste much time here.
"He's nothing like we imagined," Ron blurted once he'd recovered, joy written all over his face. "Mr. Green is… well, at least he's not Percy, and he's not Hermione. And I still get to read the Green Notes—Merlin, thank goodness…"
As Sean was leaving, Harry remembered Wood's instructions—sound Sean out about whether he'd joined the Ravenclaw team. He just couldn't bring himself to ask. For Gryffindor's sake he had to say something, yet the words wouldn't come.
"Sean, you—" Harry called. Sean turned his head.
Harry's mind went blank. He'd just been forgiven, and now he was supposed to pry into Ravenclaw's Quidditch plans? He couldn't do it. But he had to say something, and when he spotted Neville and Justin in the distance, he blurted:
"Could you teach us some spells? Like you did with Neville."
It was impulsive, but not pure nonsense—he'd been drowning in homework. Wood wanted every spare minute poured into Quidditch practice; Harry had no idea how to finish all those assignments.
What shocked him more was that, after a brief pause to think, Sean actually nodded.
On the way back to the Hall, Harry and Ron were quiet for a long while. They stared at the notebooks like rare treasures.
"Harry… I was wrong. Way off. Sean's basically Professor Sprout in student form. Oh—Merlin, why didn't we go to him sooner?" Ron groaned. "From now on, I don't want to hear a single bad word about Sean…"
Seeing Ron already completely won over, Harry nodded, approving.
…
At the end of the corridor, Sean walked, thinking. Harry had surprised him more than once. Unexpected, yes—but Sean was happy to help.
Looking at that skinny boy in broken glasses with a lightning scar, Sean suddenly understood something. Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived—had never chosen to be a "savior." He lost his parents to Voldemort's curse as a baby, grew up in a cupboard in the Dursleys' house, and a decent birthday present was a luxury. The scar the wizarding world treated like a badge of honor—Sean saw it as the brand of an attempted murder.
Harry's fate had never truly been his own. Trelawney's prophecy might have tied him to Voldemort, but what made Harry a "hero" were his choices: in first year, he faced Voldemort and chose to protect the Stone; in the Chamber, he risked his life to save Ginny; in the Triwizard arena, he insisted on bringing Cedric's body back to Hogwarts…
You don't measure a person by how much glory he brings, but by whether he deserves to be treated fairly. Harry Potter is not only a martyr's orphan; more importantly, he deserves a little kindness on his own merits.
Knowing that, it was hard for Sean to feel at ease chalking Harry's sacrifices up as "only right." Where he could help, he would. He knew it was a small thing—nothing, really, compared to Harry's long, struggle-filled years at Hogwarts. But that didn't bother him.
The dungeons.
Professor Snape had been waiting a while—lurking in his usual shadowed corner where Sean couldn't see his face. If Sean made a wrong move, the cutting sarcasm came out; if it was worse—like yesterday—it was a full-on storm.
Prep the ingredients, light the cauldron, control the flame…
With Deflating Draught at Beginner, Sean's motions were smooth and precise. Once this batch was done, he'd brew a Swelling Solution. Of the three potions he'd learned, that was the only one he hadn't unlocked yet. When he did, a new potions title would unlock in turn. Sean couldn't help feeling a twinge of anticipation.
An Apprentice-level title usually gave a small boost to perception and natural aptitude in a branch; at Beginner, perception rose sharply. Perception was like a measuring sense; in potions, it helped Sean record a brew's state and quality more precisely so he could adjust his technique.
White vapor climbed again in the dungeon. Something complicated flickered in Snape's shadowed eyes. He was sure the potions' quality had changed, but he found Green's methods utterly unfamiliar. He disdained to investigate—but that didn't mean he'd tolerate a boy hacking new trails through potions at random.
Did the boy think potions were that idiotic sport, Quidditch—its "tactics" unchanged for decades?
So he watched the boy hawk-like: just—don't turn the dungeon into a disaster.
[You brewed a Deflating Draught at Beginner level. Proficiency +3]
Deflating Draught was second nature now. Even without the refined ritual and guiding method, Sean still produced a Beginner-level potion—already close to Adept.
Progress was slow, but steady and sure.
He doused the cauldron and shelved the potion in a glass case—in a cubby marked for him alone. (Snape had said his rubbish belonged only there.) Sean took out his notebook.
"Your stirring arc was too wide; you should raise the heat when adding the second ingredient… Sean Green, ha—talent like yours, and you dare to tamper with brewing rites?" Snape sneered, as usual.
Sean ignored the second half and wrote the first half into his notes. A glint lit his green eyes—looked like he'd found the last piece for Adept.
The key difference between Beginner and Adept was that Adept-level potions met the standard for sale.
Another steady income stream, Sean thought.
He set the notebook on the wooden table and turned to the glass cabinets to gather ingredients. Dried nettles, puffer-fish eyes, bat spleens—second row, left…
Time slid by in the dungeon's drafts.
Once he'd put the table in order, Sean fell silent—and of his own accord stepped into the shadows.
~~~
Patreon(.)com/Bleam
— Currently You can Read 120 Chapters Ahead of Others!