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Chapter 70: The Letter
🕑 Added 2025-10-31 02:11:26 +0000 UTCChapter 70: The Letter
Sean walked back from the greenhouses, mentally reviewing Professor Sprout's instructions for processing Galangal, Wood Sorrel, Wormwood, and Aloe juice – all ingredients for the Deflating Draught. He felt confident about tonight's brewing session. Combining his preparation knowledge with Borage's modified ritual and willpower technique, he aimed to produce an 'Adept' level Deflating Draught on his very first try.
His steps grew lighter at the thought. Until—
"Hogsmeade weekend is still a month away… Oh, you know, it wasn't until my second trip there that I realized it's the only entirely non-Muggle settlement in Britain—" a familiar voice chattered.
"Mm-hmm," came Leon's laconic reply.
"What are you planning to get at Honeydukes this time?" Leon asked, raising an eyebrow. "If you even think about buying broomstick polish there again, you're going in alone."
"Heh heh—" Sean recognized Bruce's sheepish chuckle.
"Honestly, they have everything… Pepper Imps – make you breathe fire! – Chocoballs filled with strawberry mousse and clotted cream, Sugar Quills you can suck on in class when McGonagall isn't looking… right before she throws you out…" Leon continued, looming over Bruce. "But you walk in and demand broomstick polish, and when they refuse, you secretly douse everyone with Itching Powder…"
Sean's eyes widened slightly.
"Alright, alright! But I gave them the antidote, didn't I? And I got whacked with a broom—ouch! Lovely weather today… Oh, Sean!" Bruce spun around as if he had eyes in the back of his head, waving cheerfully.
Leon silently swallowed the retort, "What about the whacking Pister and I got?"
Sean politely greeted the three older Hufflepuffs. Just then, the dinner bell rang. As Sean turned towards the Great Hall, Bruce's voice, laced with laughter, stopped him.
"Oh, the messes the first-years made while you were gone kept us busy! Sometimes I think they're training to be pranksters, even more chaotic than I was." Bruce winked. Leon and Pister exchanged weary nods. "Which made me realize—your timing is perfect."
Bruce somehow produced three servings of chocolate-raspberry ice cream swirled with crushed nuts and pressed them into Sean's hands. "You'll never guess," he whispered conspiratorially, "but I won a bet on you. Hufflepuff Handbook, Rule 7: Share the spoils of victory."
Slightly bewildered, Sean carried the three ice creams into the Great Hall. He had a nagging feeling Bruce was hiding something, but trying to decipher the logic of someone who bought broom polish at a sweet shop and resorted to Itching Powder when denied… it was beyond him. Perhaps Leon's earlier assessment was best: "In danger, you can trust Bruce completely. When there's no danger, you're better off keeping your distance."
Inside the Great Hall, Hermione was engrossed in writing letters, her expression shifting between worry and joy. A fresh pile of sweets and notebooks sat beside her, presumably new arrivals from the owl post.
"Sean, um, I mean…" She looked up suddenly as a bowl of chocolate-raspberry ice cream appeared in front of her.
"Delicious," Sean stated, handing the third bowl to Justin, who looked dazed from his long hours in the kitchens.
Hermione stared at the ice cream, then seemed to relax slightly. "Last time," she said quickly, her words tumbling out in a rush, "I noticed you were running out of notebooks…" Before Sean could react, his view of the roast chicken was obscured by a mountain of fresh notebooks piled on the table.
The firelight flickered warmly. "You brought so few," Hermione mumbled, her voice muffled as she buried her face back in her letter-writing, avoiding his gaze. "I happened to have extras…"
Sean paused, noticing that the pages bearing the inscription 'Property of Hermione Granger' had been neatly torn out. She must have been planning this for a while.
Later, in the hidden classroom, when Justin had secretly asked Sean what else Hermione might like for her birthday, Sean had thought long and hard before replying, "A complete set of mature, well-organized notes for all seven core subjects."
"Mer-lin's beard—" Justin had groaned, slapping his forehead. "Of course." A moment later, he'd added, "Alright. I can't believe I'm about to say this, but—you're right, Sean."
Sean spent a while helping Justin decorate the hidden room and wrap the gift-bound notebooks. Justin swore Hermione wouldn't come near the room today; Sean didn't ask how he'd arranged it.
Meanwhile, in another part of the castle, Harry Potter was quietly instructing Hedwig to slip a note about the Gringotts break-in amongst Hermione's birthday mail.
Dungeon.
Sean walked towards the familiar cold, carrying his now-full bag of notebooks. Just as he hadn't expected the broomstick from McGonagall, he hadn't expected the notebooks from Hermione. Speaking of letters… he carefully retrieved a yellowed piece of paper from the innermost pocket of his bag.
It was from the old woman who used to visit the orphanage, slipped to him in secret weeks before he learned of her passing. The paper felt thick, durable, made of some resilient material.
My Dearest Sean,
Life has a way of turning brighter in the most unexpected moments. That is my little secret.
Please keep doing something, anything, no matter how small. The gears of fate will slowly begin to turn.
You must believe this, my dear child.
Forever yours,
—Milan
(Pressed into the corner of the letter was a single, dried violet.)
He carefully refolded the letter and entered the dungeon. It was cold and dim, candlelight casting flickering shadows. Strange organs floated in jars, turning slowly in viscous liquid. Professor Snape's black robes swept across the dusty flagstones like unfolding bat wings. As Snape caught sight of Sean's familiar brewing technique, his expression grew complex.
Sean placed his notebook nearby. In the brief pauses between steps, he jotted down observations, constantly refining his process. The wind caught a page, flipping it open. Snape's gaze, seemingly indifferent, instantly darted towards it. He saw only a few words: Nimbus 2000 handling.
