Many Slytherin students, hailing from pure-blood families, grew up with house-elves tending their homes. Accustomed to such service, they rarely handled tasks themselves. By their first year, they'd mastered summoning Hogwarts' house-elves—a skill other houses could learn but seldom treated as routine, unlike Slytherins, for whom it was second nature.
In Sean's dorm, he, Samuel, and Irina sat around a low table, sipping black tea delivered by a house-elf. The tea's faint steam curled in the dim, green-tinted light of the Slytherin common room. Their conversation skirted the recent duel and talk of alliances, yet every word carried the weight of Slytherin's unspoken deals.
"It's getting late, so we won't stay any longer," Samuel said, setting down his cup. "If you have any problems in the future, you can come to us. If we can help you, we won't refuse."
"Thank you very much," Sean replied, his tone measured.
"You're welcome. That's what Slytherins do. We help each other," Irina added, her gaze sharp. "One day we will ask for your help, and I'm sure you won't refuse us then."
"Of course!" Sean nodded, sealing the pact. From that moment, their bond was forged. At Hogwarts, and perhaps beyond, Samuel and Irina would offer Sean support. In return, as his influence grew, he'd owe them favors. This was Slytherin's way—mutual benefit, veiled in courtesy.
After escorting Samuel and Irina out, Sean noticed Blaise had vanished. Shrugging, he returned to his room, locked the door, and activated his system. The interface flickered in his mind, revealing his reward from defeating Jason.
[Win the duel and randomly select an ability of the duel opponent.]
[Drawing…]
[Drawing completed, obtained: Protego, Basic Mastery]
Protego! Not the rudimentary spell, but a version with basic mastery—impressive for a second-year like Jason. Sean realized another quirk of his system: it didn't always grant novice-level abilities. The strength of the extracted spell scaled with the opponent's skill. Stronger foes yielded stronger rewards, but defeating them required Sean to be formidable himself. Weaken an opponent first, and the system still granted their full potential—a loophole to exploit.
Protego's value had been clear in the duel. Jason's shield had deflected Sean's "Petrificus Totalus." With Protego, Sean could adopt safer, more calculated strategies in future fights, boosting his odds of victory.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," Sean called, knowing it was Blaise.
Blaise sauntered in, a faint lipstick smudge on his cheek. Sean sighed. "Found that second-year girl in this short time?"
"Who said it was her?" Blaise grinned.
Sean blinked, eyeing him. "Seriously? Another one?"
"Third-year this time. Met her before dinner when you were off. Very… enthusiastic," Blaise said, smirking.
Sean shook his head, amused. Blaise's charm was relentless. "What about the second-year?"
"We went on one date. Wasn't right, so we split," Blaise said casually.
Sean sensed an off note. "What happened? Don't lie."
Blaise slumped into a chair, scratching his head. "She was close with Jason. Thought he'd win, so she spilled the duel plan to me. After he lost, she blamed me for tipping you off. Dumped me."
Sean stared, stunned. "I owe you this time."
Blaise swatted Sean's hand away. "Owe me? I wasn't that into her. Would've ended anyway." He paused, grinning. "But if you feel bad, let me borrow your homework. Been too busy with girls to write essays."
Sean laughed, mock-scolding him, then handed over his notes. Blaise, ever the Slytherin, wouldn't copy outright—just use them as a guide.
Post-duel, Sean's standing in Slytherin shifted subtly. No one dared challenge him over lost points anymore. Some even nodded in greeting, a grudging respect. In Slytherin, strength, like blood, was currency.
Weeks passed. Miles Bulstrode, who'd orchestrated Jason's challenge, kept a low profile, as if uninvolved.
In Potions, Sean presented his burn ointment. Snape lifted the vial, its sheen glinting in the dungeon's torchlight. He sniffed it, dabbed a drop on his hand, and observed. A rare, fleeting smile—barely a twitch—crossed his face, startling Harry and Ron nearby.
"A very perfect burn ointment," Snape said, nodding at Sean. "This is the finest potion you've brewed in my class. Evidently, Mr. Zabini's… idleness didn't hinder you."
He paused, then added, "One point for Slytherin."
Returning the vial, Snape strode to the podium, dismissing the class. As Sean packed up with Blaise, Snape's voice cut through. "Sean, come with me."
Without waiting, Snape swept out, robes billowing. Sean exchanged a glance with Blaise, then hurried after him, entering Snape's office—a shadowy dungeon chamber lined with jars of strange ingredients.
Damp and shadowed, Snape's office struck Sean first with its chill.
Then, awe took over. Shelves loomed to the ceiling, crammed with drawers—hundreds, perhaps thousands—each labeled with potion ingredients and vials of finished brews.
Dragon's blood, unicorn bone meal, Veritaserum, even Felix Felicis gleamed in the torchlight, their worth staggering.
The dungeon air hummed with latent magic, a testament to Snape's mastery.
Snape set his books and graded homework on a desk by a window, where emerald lake water cast a ghostly green glow, bathing the room in Slytherin's signature hue.
Shadows danced across parchments, a perfect echo of the house's aesthetic.
"Professor, you asked me to come here. What's the matter?" Sean asked, his voice steady despite the office's weighty presence.
Snape didn't answer at once. He stood by the desk, his dark eyes fixed on Sean.
After a pause, he spoke, his tone deliberate. "Sean, what do you think potions are?"
"Potions are magic without a wand. They are—"
Snape's hand shot up, cutting him off. His voice turned colder.
"I asked what you think potions are, not my classroom definition. This isn't a lesson. I want your answer. What are potions to you?"
Sean met Snape's gaze, then looked away, frowning in thought.
The dungeon's silence pressed in, broken only by the faint gurgle of the lake beyond the window. Snape, usually impatient, waited, his stillness unnerving.
Minutes ticked by. Sean's mind churned, sifting through his experiences.
Finally, he looked up, meeting Snape's unyielding eyes. "Potions, like wands, are essential for wizards," he began, sensing Snape's frown. "But to me, they're an art of ingredients and time. I love brewing—the way ordinary materials transform into extraordinary elixirs through my hands.
It's like painting a magical portrait, stroke by stroke, until the canvas sings with power."
Sean meant it. Potions were more than a path to strength, though he craved power to navigate the wizarding world's looming dangers. In the cauldron's simmer, he found peace, a refuge from pressures and plots. Each stir, each measured drop, was a moment of control, a quiet joy akin to crafting art.
Snape's eyes flickered, his thoughts drifting to a distant memory—a girl with crimson hair and emerald eyes, her voice soft: I love potions… how they change over time, like art.
"Lily," he whispered in his mind, guilt and longing entwining.
"The art of matter and time…" Snape murmured, his voice barely audible. For a fleeting moment, a gentle smile—soft, unguarded—curved his lips, a sight so alien Sean nearly doubted his eyes.
Then it vanished, replaced by Snape's usual cold mask.
"Good answer. I like it very much," Snape said, turning to scribble a note. He handed it to Sean, listing a time and place. "If you wish to advance in Potions, be at this address then."
Sean glanced at the note, his pulse quickening. He'd heard whispers of exclusive clubs at Hogwarts, where gifted students honed their skills under a professor's guidance. Horace Slughorn's Slug Club was one, favoring talent or connections. Snape's version, it seemed, was rarer, reserved for true prodigies. Sean hadn't expected an invitation so soon—not until third year, at least.
He tucked the note away carefully. "Professor, I will be there on time."
Snape nodded. "If you've nothing else, you may leave."
"Goodbye, Professor!" Sean gave a slight bow and left, the dungeon's chill clinging to him as he stepped into the corridor.
Emerging from the dungeon, Sean exhaled, tension easing. Blaise waited at the exit, leaning against the stone wall. Sean grinned, clapping his shoulder, and they headed to the Great Hall, the castle's warmth a stark contrast to Snape's lair.
Hogwarts life, stripped of magic, wasn't unlike a Muggle university—classes, friendships, rivalries. But the stakes were higher, the lessons laced with power.
Later, after a late Astronomy lesson atop the tower, Sean descended with his classmates, the night sky still vivid in his mind.
Astronomy classes, held post-dinner, often ended near midnight. Most first-years, yawning, trudged to their common rooms.
A few bookish types might hit the library, but Slytherins, Sean included, typically returned to their dungeon.
Tonight, though, Sean had a different destination. "Blaise, I'm heading out," he said, pausing in the dungeon corridor.
Blaise yawned. "Won't wait up. Straight to bed for me."
"Okay, see you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
As Blaise shuffled toward the Slytherin common room, Sean turned, striding into a deeper, less-traveled dungeon passage, the note's instructions guiding his steps.