Chapter 618: The Long Road Ahead
In the world of wizards, tidying up and clearing the kitchen were trivial tasks.
Minerva needed only a flick of her wand for the plates and cutlery to begin
scrubbing themselves, before hopping back into the cupboards a few moments
later. Sean watched the dishes scurry away, giving a tiny, casual twitch of his
finger to speed up a lagging saucer.
His wandless casting was now remarkably fluid. In most situations, he no longer
required the wooden focus. If an [Expert] proficiency corresponded to silent
casting, then a [Master] possessed more than enough authority to cast without a
wand entirely.
"Very impressive," Minerva noted. She had been watching him closely. With a
small smile, she reached out and ruffled Sean's messy black hair.
It was a gesture of affection Sean hadn't quite grown used to. He remained
still, his emerald eyes flickering as he processed the contact, his mind a
whirlpool of unspoken thoughts.
"I only hope..."
A low, silky voice interrupted the moment. Severus Snape stepped closer, his
dark eyes fixed on the boy. He spared a fleeting, unreadable glance at Minerva.
"...that your combat instincts have not grown dull in the sunlight."
He gestured for Sean to follow him. They walked through the parlor of the tent.
Sean was surprised to find that behind a heavy velvet curtain, the space
expanded into a massive, open field—a private training ground established
through an Undetectable Extension Charm.
Snape's obsession with Sean's dueling proficiency was even greater than his
focus on Potions. It was as if he sensed an approaching shadow and was desperate
to pour every drop of his lethal expertise into the boy.
"Dueling etiquette," Snape commanded, moving to the far end of the field.
Minerva sat nearby, sipping her Earl Grey as she watched the two of them bow.
She offered a faint smile, enjoying the rare sense of domestic peace.
Half the day vanished in a flurry of sparks. Sean found himself losing more
often than winning. Snape's mastery over the Dark Arts was absolute, and his
Apparition was so seamless it bordered on the supernatural. In the confined
space of the training field, Sean struggled to counter the Professor's
high-speed offensive.
Of course, Sean was holding several cards back. He didn't use the Vine-Stone
Guardian, whose legendary-tier power would have leveled the tent; he didn't use
his Fairy Tale Biscuits, despite Snowy's mental urging to let her join the fray;
and he didn't use the mists of the Veil to bolster his Legilimency.
Relying primarily on Fiendfyre and his new Element Vitalization, Sean found
Snape to be a wall he couldn't quite climb. The Professor's instantaneous
movement made him nearly untouchable.
However, Sean did manage to claim a few victories. Even a master like Snape
couldn't perfectly account for a boy practicing Fiendfyre at a Legendary
standard. By combining a complex Transfiguration distraction with a sudden,
silent Apparition strike, Sean eventually managed to pin Snape's shadow,
leveling his wand at the Professor's throat.
"Adequate," Snape said. Despite the wand at his jugular, he didn't look annoyed.
In fact, a ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "Did he teach you that movement?"
He was clearly referring to the new DADA examiner back at the castle.
"Mmm," Sean nodded.
"Better than I expected." Snape instinctively raised a hand, looking as though
he might follow Minerva's earlier example and pat the boy's head, but he caught
himself. His hand froze in mid-air for a second before he tucked it back into
his robes. "Barely a passing grade."
"Severus, fetch the water," Minerva called from the parlor.
Snape picked up a bucket without a word, casting a pointed look at Sean. A
second later, he had a dark-haired shadow trailing behind him.
The campsite was a sea of tents, all connected by a central thoroughfare leading
toward the massive stadium. Adult wizards were emerging from their dwellings to
start lunch. Some were looking around furtively before using their wands to
ignite a fire; others were struggling with Muggle matches, wearing looks of deep
skepticism as if convinced the small sticks were a practical joke.
Three African wizards sat together in long white robes, speaking in low, serious
tones as they roasted a rabbit-like creature over a brilliant purple fire.
Nearby, a group of middle-aged American witches laughed and chatted beneath a
banner that read: Salem Witches' Institute.
Severus and Sean walked in silence, passing dozens of other wizards doing the
same. They saw couples holding hands, families laughing, and students glowing
with the excitement of the Cup. Snape watched them for a long time. Finally,
Sean felt a large, rough hand close around his own.
He looked up, but all he could see was Snape's sharp, cold jawline and his
expressionless face.
"How many buckets do we need, Professor?" Sean asked softly.
"Three," Snape replied.
"How much further?"
"Miles," Snape muttered.
Then, his eyes met Sean's bright, curious ones. He felt a sudden, inexplicable
urge to smile. He felt, for a moment, like he'd gone mad. Or perhaps, like he
had finally woken up.
It didn't matter. The road was long.
Deep words should be spoken softly, Sean thought. And long roads should be
walked slowly.
At the communal tap in the corner of the field, a small queue had formed.
As they joined the line, two men in front of them were engaged in a heated
argument. One was an ancient wizard wearing a long, floral woman's nightgown.
The other was clearly a Ministry official, holding a pair of pinstriped trousers
and looking like he was on the verge of tears.
"Just put them on, Archie, for mercy's sake!" the official pleaded. "You can't
go around like that. the Muggle at the gate is already starting to ask
questions—"
"I bought this in a Muggle shop!" the old wizard insisted stubbornly. "The
Muggles wear them!"
"Muggle women wear them, Archie! Not the men! Men wear these!" the official
shouted, waving the trousers in the air.
"I'm not wearing those," Archie snapped. "I like a healthy breeze 'round my
privates, thank you very much!"
A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. Sean remained silent, as did Snape.
They watched the scene, then caught each other's eyes.
For a split second, the corner of Sean's mouth turned up. Snape looked at him
and let out a soft, genuine laugh. Sean realized he had almost never seen the
Potions Master laugh; he had a sudden, bizarre impulse to record the moment for
history.
Perhaps it was the smallness of the tent or the warmth of the fire, but the
distance between them felt smaller than ever.
"The match is starting soon," Snape said, changing the subject.
Sean was surprised. He'd assumed Snape would loathe the event, given his vocal
hatred for Quidditch. He didn't realize that in this camp, some people came to
watch the game, while others came to watch the people watching the game.
"The match is starting... care for a wager, Severus? Honestly, I'm shocked to
see you here. And who is—Wait! Mr. Green?!"
A loud, boisterous voice interrupted them. Snape's brow furrowed in immediate
annoyance as he looked at the newcomer.
"Ludo," Snape drawled.
Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, was the most
colorful person Sean had ever seen. He was wearing long Quidditch robes with
thick yellow and black horizontal stripes, with an enormous wasp splashed across
his chest. He looked like a man who had once been a powerful athlete but was now
comfortably "rounding out." His nose was flattened, likely the result of a stray
Bludger, but his round blue eyes and rosy cheeks made him look like an oversized
schoolboy.
"Aha!" Bagman cheered, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He looked
like he was vibrating with excitement. "A pleasure to see you, Mr. Green!
Minister Fudge gave me strict orders to ensure you were well looked after, but I
couldn't find your tent all morning! And here you are..."
He seized Sean's hand and gave it a vigorous shake. Snape's expression of
disgust was now tangible.
"Wonderful to see you! And the weather! Perfect, isn't it? Couldn't ask for a
better day! Not a cloud in the sky for tonight... the preparations are flawless!
Aside from hunting for you, I've had nothing to do all morning!"
Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry officials hurried past. In the
distance, a plume of purple magical fire shot twenty feet into the air.
"Hello, Mr. Bagman," Sean said, his face a mask of polite indifference—a look he
had clearly perfected from Snape.
"You know where your seats are, I hope? And you as well, Severus? Right next to
the Minister's box. The best view in the house. Even Fudge doesn't have the
center-seat; we saved that for our guest of honor..."
"I assume you didn't seek us out just to discuss the seating arrangements,
Bagman," Snape interrupted coldly.
"Oh, right! Naturally! Care for a flutter? A small bet, perhaps? Mr. Green?
Severus?"
"Ireland to win. One Galleon," Sean said after a moment's thought.
"One... Galleon?" Bagman blinked. Rumor had it the "Hermes" fortune surpassed
most pure-blood estates. To bet a single coin was... unexpected. "The odds are
three-to-one, sir... surely..."
"A thousand Galleons on Ireland," Snape interrupted, cutting Bagman off.
"Done!"
Bagman's eyes lit up. He snatched the heavy bag Snape tossed him and handed Sean
a slip of parchment with a respectful bow before vanishing into the crowd.
Sean looked at Snape. "Professor... we might lose."
"I don't care," Snape replied.
There were very few things Severus Snape cared about. Gold was not on the list.
As the afternoon faded, a palpable cloud of excitement settled over the camp. By
dusk, the summer air seemed to vibrate with anticipation. As the night fell like
a curtain over the thousands of waiting wizards, the last traces of the "Muggle
masquerade" vanished.
The Ministry had apparently given up on enforcement. Signs of magic were
everywhere. Vendors were Apparating into the thoroughfare every few feet,
pushing carts filled with extraordinary trinkets.
There were glowing rosettes—green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria—that shrieked
the names of the players. There were tall green hats decorated with dancing
shamrocks, Bulgarian sashes with lions that actually roared, and flags that
played national anthems when waved. Tiny, flying models of Firebolts zipped
through the air, and collectible figurines of famous players strutted across the
palms of their owners with arrogant swagger.
"Go on, buy something," Minerva said, her eyes bright with excitement.
She bought a set of Irish rosettes and a flag without hesitation, then insisted
on buying Sean a miniature figurine of the Irish Seeker. Sean didn't really want
anything, and Snape looked even less interested, but seeing Minerva's joy
brought a rare smile to both their faces.
"Binoculars? Need a set?"
A wizard pushing a cart stopped in front of them. The cart was piled high with
what looked like brass binoculars, but they were covered in a bewildering array
of knobs and dials.
"Panoramic Omnioculars," the vendor pitched enthusiastically. "You can replay
the action... Slow it down... It even flashes a play-by-play analysis across the
lenses if you need it. A bargain at ten Galleons a set."
"Three," Snape said, tossing a handful of gold onto the cart.
"Thank you, Severus," Minerva said, taking the set. She looked like a child as
she insisted on hanging the strap around Sean's neck.
Suddenly, a low, booming gong echoed from the forest. Instantly, thousands of
red and green lanterns flared to life among the trees, illuminating the path to
the stadium.
"It's time," Minerva said. She took Sean's hand and gestured for Snape to take
the other.
They walked toward the stadium, surrounded by the roar of thousands of voices,
the sound of singing, and the contagious energy of a world at its peak.
"First-class tickets!" the Ministry witch at the entrance noted, checking their
slips. "Top Box! All the way to the top. Wait—"
She paused, squinting at the group.
"Mr. Green!" she gasped, her face lighting up.
"Hello," Sean said, looking muddled.
"Oh! Could I possibly have an autograph? I was at your book signing last
year—did you know Green's Notes is the best-selling volume in the country this
year? Truly remarkable work, sir!"
Sean stopped and produced a quill. Snape, a man who usually loathed wasting a
single second, didn't seem in a hurry. He watched the witch with a look of
approval, clearly satisfied that she had "excellent taste."
"May the path of magic open for you," the witch said, offering a respectful,
happy smile. She was quoting a line from the preface of his first book.
"May the path of magic open for you," Sean replied.
The match was about to begin.
☆☆☆
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