"When handling horned slugs, mind their mucus distribution— aim for when they're secreting plenty. If you see them extend a tentacle to probe the surface, don't hesitate: that's prime brewing time... A little tip: once tiny bubbles rise in the cauldron, stop stewing... Spot on! Mr. Dickinson—handled to perfection. Oh! Mr. Greene, perhaps you overdid the simmer a touch— remember? Tiny bubbles mean time's up..."
In the greenhouse.
Twelve cauldrons bubbled and belched steam, making the pumpkinish plants sway faintly.
Professor Sprout had just praised Bruce when she bustled to Sean's side, helping corral his errant slug back to the bench.
She smiled gently:
"Mr. Greene, best not let the slugs wander next time."
Sean was indeed in a flap, juggling two cauldrons at once.
Bruce, by contrast, looked utterly at ease.
As for Professor Sprout? She managed seven brews seamlessly and had time to coach Sean.
"Watch the mucus, wait for the bubbles..."
Sean murmured the tips, hands steadying.
As minutes ticked by, his stews smoothed out—still a bit of a scramble, but progress.
The potions darkened to inky green; Professor Sprout stepped up,
Sean gripped his ladle, awaiting verdict—
half nerves over his dodgy knack, half heartache for the waste.
Horned slugs weren't cheap—a jar ran a Galleon in Diagon Alley.
Wizarding ingredients always cost the earth,
hammering home for Sean: Potions had to be a goldmine, or who'd afford the stock?
Soon, Professor Sprout weighed in:
"Mr. Greene—serviceable prep."
Sean exhaled soft; she'd said use as needed, but he couldn't squander forever.
Into the groove, and soon he'd cleared the horned slugs.
The three bottled the brews, sifting for the gooiest specimens into a big jar.
Professor Sprout explained:
This cull would boost the first-years' odds on Cure for Boils.
The finished slugs? Demo samples,
and a leg-up for Professor Snape's early grind.
While sorting porcupine quills,
Professor Sprout dropped a nugget that blindsided Sean.
"Yes, dears—Herbology and Potions go hand in glove.
Come harvest, Severus always pops by the greenhouses."
Sean pictured Snape with a trowel, then bent back to the quills.
"Three inches long, thickness of two tentacles..."
Quitting the greenhouse, Sean replayed the steps, jotting them on his ever-present parchment.
By now, all four Cure for Boils bits—
dried nettles, porcupine quills, venomous fangs, horned slugs—were crystal in his mind.
Step one of the plan: done.
That thought lit Sean's eyes brighter.
"Oi, Sean—we're clear of the greenhouse; no need to log it again."
Bruce, arms folded, tugged him gently along—
steering clear of a standing suit of armor.
Atop it,
a lady in full court gown tittered behind her fan, leaving the opposite knight gobsmacked.
The clock struck six,
a lazy breeze stirred,
warm slant-light gilding the path—
Hogwarts' bells pealed.
Bruce halted.
In the corridor by the greenhouse,
Leon cradled a book, his blond mop aglow; Pist nursed a potted plant, tender leaves dancing in the wind.
Both turned to Bruce.
He flashed a toothy grin:
"These two..."
...
He turned to bid Sean goodbye—
words unspoken, a pineapple preserve chunk landed in his palm.
"Snack swap—Hufflepuff tradition, Bruce."
Sean blinked once, then loped off light-footed.
"He really not a Badger?"
Leon shut his book.
"Sorting Hat must've slipped."
Bruce pocketed the sweet careful,
then—"Hey!"—lunged, hooking Leon and Pist in a headlock each.
His arms clamped like a warm vice, jamming three heads tight.
"Gotcha!"
He roared with laughter.
"Idiot."
Leon stumbled.
Pist cradled his pot safe.
...
Since yesterday's library haul, Sean's lone snag was time—homework wouldn't finish itself.
Eight o'clock, and the library locked sharp;
supper wrapped at half-six.
So Sean skipped it, bound straight for Ravenclaw Tower.
The dorm had desks aplenty, plus hovering candles—
Great Hall specials, no less.
Perfect spot for essays.
Ravenclaw wit,
Sean thought.
"Sean—heading to the tower?"
At the Hall doors, Sean bumped Michael mid-Fifteen Knights game.
"Mm."
Sean nodded.
"Oh! Hold up!"
Michael slammed a piece, his knight's mace swatting the opponent's last pawn flying.
"Narrow win."
Michael pocketed the set with a smile, then dashed after Sean.
The climb to Ravenclaw stayed murderously long,
Michael huffing up, griping all the way:
"The welcome bit said Ravenclaw helps knowledge-seekers scale wisdom's steps—
but it skipped how bleedin' endless they are!"
Michael craned; stairs vanished into gloom.
"Merlin... seven years of this?"
Before he could vent more, a gust whooshed—
a senior Ravenclaw, broom-mounted, soaring into the tower.
Drawing awed gasps from the little ones.
"Wicked!"
Michael gaped at the graceful witch, his own chest kindling.
Steps dwindled at last; the pair neared the top.
"...though plenty reckon Chudley Cannons' glory days are done, everyone knows they'll blaze back..."
Michael's grumbles had morphed to Quidditch dreams,
gearing up for Cannons lore—
till he clocked the wobbly first-year beside him.
"Sean!"