In the afternoons, Sean practiced Transfiguration.
The fireplace-blazing office felt unlike anywhere else; the professor always, almost absentmindedly, asked a string of questions.
"Mr. Green."
Her voice was as precise as ever, but far gentler than in class.
"I imagine Hogwarts in November can cut to the bone."
Sean turned to her.
Through her square lenses, her sharp gaze fell on his hastily knotted tie and the thin robes he'd put on in a greenhouse cubicle—too warm in there, and he'd forgotten to add a sweater once back in the castle.
"Hogwarts," she said slowly, each word weighted, "is not merely a school for many who come here. I think you know that."
Sean nodded quietly.
For two months now, he'd sometimes look up at the night sky. The wizarding stars were always bright; compared to half a year ago, not much had changed—except there was more hope.
"You no longer have to face the Scottish Highlands' first winter storm alone…"
The corners of Professor McGonagall's eyes softened, then firmed again. "That is not permitted at Hogwarts. Now—"
Her voice snapped back to its usual briskness. A tap of her wand, and Sean's tie straightened itself neatly.
"Twenty minutes until dinner. Plenty of time to go back and put on a thick sweater. I expect to see you in the Hall—on time, and with a good appetite."
When Sean stepped out, she lowered her head slightly, robes flaring as she turned away. Footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, leaving a straight-backed silhouette.
…
As the snow thickened, Sean's grasp of the Fusion–Enlightenment Method deepened. On one window-rattling evening, he brewed the Beginner-level Euphoria Elixir.
Snape's expression shifted and shifted—but he hid it well enough that Sean never saw.
Buoyed by success, Sean kept refining the fusion method; in a few days he would have a complete framework.
Even so, Snape threw him out again—
"Sloppy technique, quality forced up by your idiotic method—Sean Green, if you're not blind, you'd see your wretched ingredient ratios—imbecile!"
However Sean corrected and improved, in Snape's eyes he was never far from a troll. Sometimes those deep black eyes showed something complicated: in some respects—even record-worthy ones—Sean showed a top potions master's gift; in others not worth caring about, he was a fool. The contrast infuriated Snape—sometimes to tooth-grinding:
"Foolish heat! Foolish timing! Foolish stirring! Out!"
Sean rarely heard kind words on leaving, but he automatically filtered out the barbs, and always came away with plenty.
Under Snape's "intense coaching," Sean's three basic potion classes all reached Adept; three times a week he walked away with ten Galleons or more. With his notes selling briskly, his purse only grew fatter.
If he could find the twins, he'd move even faster.
Unlike Sean's calm, quiet joy, Harry was miserable.
Captain Wood had heard Ravenclaw tried to recruit Green; he was putting the team through mad extra practices. The Green Compendium hadn't updated, so Harry had fallen behind on studies. Since he'd lost Quidditch Through the Ages and made Sean go to the "dangerous" caretaker's office, Hermione had barely spoken to him for three days. She helped again afterward—but flatly refused to let them copy her homework.
"What would you learn that way?" she always said.
Still, once she checked their work, he and Ron always got the answers right.
The horror was, he was running out of time even for that.
Thinking how Sean disliked Quidditch, Harry felt like a baboon with a wand in Sean's eyes. What difference was there? One spell from Sean, and they'd both be flat on the floor.
They wanted to wait in the corridor like before, but Sean's routine had changed; they thought to ask Justin—but Gryffindor had just beaten Hufflepuff, so Harry dared not.
Which only made Justin's expression turn oddly tight. Those two… didn't seem this awkward.
Another clear Sunday.
In the courtyard, a fire salamander zipped everywhere. Just as it bounded toward Hermione's shoe, it froze. Sean flicked his wand; it swelled to three times its size—nearly a Quaffle—and then slowly backed its trail, scorching a line in the thin snow.
[You practiced an advanced transfiguration once at an Expert standard. Proficiency +1000]
How much…?
Sean had never seen a gain so large, and quickly learned why.
"Sean!" Justin grabbed him fast; after a moment of utter drain, Sean drew breath again—his strength had vanished in a blink.
"Sean—!" Hermione's concern always hid behind a scowl. "I warned you—advanced Transfiguration in deep domains drains stamina fast!"
A sip of steaming honey tea steadied him.
A moment ago he'd solved what had dogged him: in casting advanced Transfiguration, he'd chased imitation of the creature itself, forgetting Transfiguration is led by the wizard's will. When he chased power, the salamander slipped his control; when he imposed full will, the drain spiked. With a first-year's reserves, it was easy to bottom out.
Across the yard, a row flared.
Already in a mood, Harry and Ron were talking.
"It's the weekend, Harry—how's the homework?"
Ron looked stricken.
"Haven't written a word." Harry was better—but not by much.
"The Green Compendium's another week out—they say so—but I'm finished this week!"
A week's work had piled up fast.
"Hah—two Gryffindor idiots—really think you can—"
Malfoy was passing, glanced around. The flurries veiled the view; he saw nothing—just Harry, looking sour.
So he lifted his voice, delighted, and laid on the mockery.
~~~
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