Chapter 70

Wizard Sean was silently recalling the contents of his notes.

Professor Sprout had taught him not only how to process ginger root but also how to handle wood sorrel, shrub wormwood, and aloe vera juice.

These were all herbal ingredients used in swelling-reducing potions, and because of this, Wizard Sean felt confident about brewing tonight’s potion.

Combined with the modified ritual and will-guidance, he could at least produce a [Skilled]-grade swelling-reducing potion.

Yes, just learning made you skilled.

This made his steps lighter.

Until—

“Hogsmeade weekend is still a month away… oh, actually, I only realized on my second trip to Hogsmeade Village that this is the only place in Britain without Muggles—”

A familiar voice said.

“Mm-hmm.”

Wizard Sean saw it was Leon, the senior, responding.

“What are you planning to buy from Honeydukes this time?”

Leon raised an eyebrow.

“If you dare go in there to buy broom cleaner again, you can go in alone.”

“Heh-heh—”

Wizard Sean guessed who it was.

“There’s everything there… Pepper Imps—eat one and smoke comes out of your mouth—chocolate balls filled with strawberry cream and regular cream, [18] sugar quills, just like when you sneak-suck them in class while Professor McGonagall isn’t looking, then get thrown out—”

There were quills made of sugar, just like the ones you sucked on in class when Professor McGonagall wasn’t looking, until you got thrown out…

Leon looked down at Bruce, the senior.

"But the moment you walk in, you ask for broom cleaner, and when they won’t give it to you, you secretly sprinkle itching powder on others—"

Hearing this, Wizard Sean’s eyes widened slightly.

“Alright, alright, but I did give out the antidote, and I did get beaten with brooms—uh—today’s weather is nice… oh, Wizard Sean!”

Bruce turned as if he had eyes in the back of his head and waved at Wizard Sean.

Leon silently retracted the unspoken words: “What about the beatings Leon and Piste got?”

Wizard Sean politely greeted the three seniors.

At that moment, the bell rang. Wizard Sean was about to head to the Great Hall for dinner when he heard Bruce’s cheerful voice:

“Oh, while you were gone, we spent hours cleaning up after the little witches and wizards’ disasters—

I often wonder if they’re natural-born pranksters, otherwise how could they be even more chaotic than I was?”

Bruce blinked his eyes.

Behind him, Leon and Piste nodded in deep agreement, though no one knew exactly what they agreed with.

“It’s made me realize one thing—you’ve returned at just the right time.”

Bruce pulled out three chocolate, raspberry, and chopped nut ice creams from nowhere,

shoved them into Wizard Sean’s hands, and whispered:

“You won’t believe it—I won a bet on you.

The Hufflepuff Handbook says sharing joy is a vital part of sharing—”

So Wizard Sean, feeling oddly confused, carried the three chocolate, raspberry, and chopped nut ice creams into the Great Hall.

He always felt Bruce was hiding something from him, but given Bruce’s logic—buying broom cleaner from Honeydukes and sprinkling itching powder on others if refused—

Wizard Sean couldn’t guess what he was up to.

Perhaps, as Leon had once remarked:

“When danger strikes, you can fully trust Bruce. But when there’s no danger, you’d better stay far away from him.”

In the Great Hall.

Hermione was still writing a letter, her face alternating between worry and joy.

More candies and notebooks had appeared beside her—evidently new deliveries from the messengers.

“Wizard Sean, uh, I mean—”

She suddenly turned her head, and a chocolate, raspberry, and chopped nut ice cream was shoved into her hand.

“Delicious.”

Wizard Sean said, then slipped another one to Justin, who had been in the kitchen so long he was half-dazed.

Hermione stared at the delicious ice cream on the table, then seemed to exhale in relief:

“Last time, I noticed you had no notebooks…”

Hermione blurted it out, and immediately, Wizard Sean’s roast chicken was buried under a mountain of notebooks.

The hearth in the Great Hall always burned with warm light, and Wizard Sean heard Hermione’s fragmented voice:

“You brought too little—I happened to have extras…”

Then she buried herself in her letters and refused to look at Wizard Sean.

Wizard Sean froze for a few seconds—he saw that all blank pages marked “For Hermione Granger” had been torn out.

It looked like she had prepared them for a long time.

So when Justin quietly asked him in class what else Hermione might like, Wizard Sean thought for a long time.

“Complete sets of notes from all seven core subjects at Hogwarts.”

Wizard Sean said.

“M-Merlin—”

Justin covered his forehead in an “I knew it” expression.

Then, belatedly:

“Alright, I can’t believe I’m about to say this—you’re right, Wizard Sean.”

So Wizard Sean stayed in the classroom for a while, mainly helping Justin arrange things and package the notes neatly.

Justin repeatedly assured Wizard Sean that Hermione wouldn’t enter the classroom today; Wizard Sean had no idea what Justin had done.

Meanwhile, in the corridor.

Harry was quietly letting Hedwig slip a letter describing the “Gringotts theft incident” among the messengers to Hermione.

…

The dungeons.

Wizard Sean, brimming with enthusiasm, turned the corner with his bag full of notes.

Just as he hadn’t expected the broom to come from Professor McGonagall, he hadn’t expected the shortage of notebooks to come from Hermione.

Speaking of letters, he pulled from the innermost part of his bag a yellowed sheet of paper.

It had been secretly passed to him by the old woman who often visited the orphanage; two weeks after receiving this letter, he learned of her passing.

The letter was thick, as if made of an extremely durable material.

[Dear Wizard Sean:

Life always improves suddenly at some moment—that’s my little secret.

Keep doing something, no matter how small—the gears of fate will turn slowly.

My dear child, believe this.

Always loving you—Milan]

(A dried violet pressed in one corner of the paper)

He carefully tucked the letter away and entered the dungeons.

The dungeons were cold and dim, candles casting flickering shadows across the room.

In the corner, glass jars piled up, each containing strange biological organs slowly rotating in viscous liquid.

Professor Snape’s black robe swept across the dusty stone floor like bat wings unfurling.

When he saw that familiar technique again, his gaze grew complex.

Wizard Sean placed his notebook aside; during every pause in brewing, he took moments to jot down his own notes on the potion steps.

He had grown accustomed to constant revision and improvement.

Until the wind flipped the notebook to a page filled with writing.

Professor Snape appeared utterly uninterested in Wizard Sean’s brewing, yet his cold gaze had already swept over it instantly:

He saw only a few words: “The Firebolt 2000’s use.”