Chapter 106

The benefit of a constantly burning fireplace is that the three returning young wizards can dry off their damp clothes at any time.

Damp, chilly air clung to the back of the classroom, but the closer one got to the fireplace, the stronger the scent became—a blend of warm wool and the crisp fragrance of burning pine.

Three small figures huddled there, holding steaming mugs of tea within the glow and warmth.

Justin pulled out a camera—the soft click echoed alongside Hermione’s irritated voice.

“Wizard Sean—again?—hurry up and take it!”

Hermione always appeared alongside the fireplace, cheeks puffed as she handed him a towel, opening her mouth to say something, then sighing and swallowing her words.

“And you! You’re filthy!”

Seeing the mud spots on Justin’s boots, Hermione waved her wand, cleaned the floor, then tossed a fresh towel into his hands.

Neville had been watching Wizard Sean practice Transfiguration, but now he stood shivering beside him, too afraid to speak.

Then two towels were placed in his arms—he’d gotten wetter than the others.

Around the fireplace, light and heat danced across the faces of the four—Justin handed Hermione some seeds, while Neville stared dreamily at a pot of newly sprouted, plump bubble pods.

Due to their diligent work in the greenhouse, Professor Sprout not only awarded them points but also gave them a generous supply of seeds; now greenery filled many corners of the classroom, turning it more and more into a cozy secret base.

But Wizard Sean’s gains weren’t limited to that. After Professor Snape mocked him while introducing various potion ingredients, Wizard Sean deliberately studied the processing methods while handling materials in the greenhouse—

For example, with Sunlight Lily roots, Wizard Sean knew they needed to be ground into powder, so he paid special attention to the grinding process;

For example, with Abyssinian Wrinkled Fig, Wizard Sean knew it required shelling, so he focused intently on how and when to remove the husk.

The connection between Herbology and Potions was as strong as that between Ancient Runes and Alchemy.

For weeks, Wizard Sean spent countless hours memorizing the entire texts of *Simple Introduction to Ancient Runes* and *The Magical Phonetics Chart*.

The effort was no less daunting than mastering two of Professor McGonagall’s rare books.

How did Wizard Sean know this?

Of course, because he had completed both demanding tasks simultaneously.

Still, what he looked forward to most was tonight’s potion brewing—he was just ten proficiency points away from unlocking a new Potion Mastery title.

After drying his thick robe, Wizard Sean hung it in the classroom closet; wearing it near the fireplace or cauldrons was still too hot.

After all, this was a robe designed to withstand downpours—Professor Sprout had layered it with countless enchantments to ensure the young wizards’ health.

The rain had not yet ceased; by evening, the air had turned bitterly cold.

The mountains surrounding the school were gray and snow-covered, the Black Lake’s surface as cold and hard as quenched steel.

At this hour, the Great Hall’s fireplace was always crowded with Ravenclaws and Gryffindors.

Probably because both houses’ common rooms were unusually high up—unlike those timid little Hufflepuffs huddled near the dining hall—so during breaks, the Great Hall was always filled mostly with students from these two houses.

At the long table.

Ron sat upright, playing wizard’s chess; with a single command, his “Knight” smashed the opponent’s “King” in the head.

“Unfair! Rematch! My pieces won’t obey!”

Seamus flushed crimson, unable to believe what his pieces had done—his King had actually shouted, “The King cannot be insulted!” and walked straight into the next square where the opponent’s Knight could capture him, then was unquestionably split in two by the Knight’s “divide and conquer.”

“You’ve got a lot to learn!”

Ron swiftly packed up the chess set, thinking about who to challenge next.

Wizard’s Chess was a wildly popular game in the magical world; some believed mastering the rules was enough to win, but that was far from true.

Because the pieces were alive—playing was like commanding an army; each piece had its own opinions, so you had to understand their temperaments perfectly to avoid any trouble during play.

Ron excelled at this, which was why he always won.

“Ron—strange, normally at this hour you’d be scratching your head over homework, but today…”

Dean watched Ron dominate the board, puzzled.

“Oh—this?”

Ron seemed to have been waiting for this question; he rummaged in his bag and pulled out several carefully preserved notebooks.

“Green’s Notes! Merlin! Where did you get them…”

A circle of young wizards leaned forward, gasping in astonishment.

“Of course—from Wizard Sean… oh no, that’s a secret…”

Ron cut himself off, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Wizard Sean Green? Even the Slytherins say he’s not to be trifled with…”

Dean immediately cooled his eager curiosity.

“No—”

Ron’s face hardened,

“No description can replace Wizard Sean. If you have the courage, go find out for yourselves.”

Then his face flushed red, his eyes fierce and unwavering:

“I won’t tolerate a single rumor about Wizard Sean!”

Wizard Sean, passing by, silently quickened his pace.

He sounded… like some kind of cult leader.

The corridor leading to the dungeons.

A stream of robed older wizards poured out of the dungeons, quickly filling the corridor.

Wizard Sean pressed himself against the wall, listening to their hushed murmurs—some were cursing Professor Snape, most merely nodded in silent agreement.

At the dungeon entrance, Wizard Sean rarely saw a figure shrouded in shadow, holding a ledger, coldly watching the corridor.

The hushed murmurs seemed to reach no part of him; he simply stared at Wizard Sean, his gaze lingering for a moment on Wizard Sean’s trembling frame and crumpled scarf.

Inside the dungeons.

Steam rose from the cauldron, instantly dispelling some of Wizard Sean’s chill.

He efficiently prepared the ingredients for the Swelling Potion, his technique identical to Professor Sprout’s. Even under Professor Snape’s scrutiny, his work met the threshold of excellence—though he only mastered a few ingredients, it was enough.

Professor Snape watched silently from the shadows, his hand holding the parchment with the guiding method, stacked atop two old notes.

As his memory replayed the corridor’s murmurs, he seemed to hear the hushed mockery again—he never thought he’d care, yet now it stirred faint ripples in his mind.

So as Wizard Sean focused on stirring the cauldron, he suddenly spoke:

“Hmph—I suppose you’re using the outdated stirring method from *The Book of Potions*; even a troll wouldn’t use such a technique anymore—you should know, Wizard Sean Green, that not everything written is true! If your eyes aren’t just decorations, you’d see the revisions in your notes!”