The Potions Club's name was stark and unadorned, its purpose clear—excellence in potion-making, nothing less. It mirrored Snape's exacting nature, devoid of flourish.
At 8:20 p.m., Sean arrived at the deepest dungeon chamber, ten minutes early.
The heavy door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room, its air thick with the scent of herbs and simmering brews. Four students already sat at tables, each equipped with a crucible and shelves brimming with potion ingredients.
Two boys, two girls.
Sean recognized one instantly—Loretta Burke, the seventh-year Slytherin Head Girl.
"We noticed new tables and chairs today, so we guessed the professor had chosen a new member," said a cheerful boy with distinctive, sharp features, a Hufflepuff.
Sean knew him as Gareth Warrick, a fourth-year whose family served in the Department of International Magical Cooperation.
Gareth's low profile belied his talent, yet here he was, handpicked by Snape. "We speculated who it might be, but we didn't expect you."
"I know you," Gareth continued, gripping Sean's hand with a grin. "Few at Hogwarts don't know you. Nice to meet you, Sean. I'm Gareth Warrick—call me Gareth."
"Well then, Gareth. Nice to meet you," Sean replied, warming to his enthusiasm.
Gareth gestured to the others. "This is Loretta Burke, our Head Girl. She's seventh-year Slytherin, swamped with exams, so she sticks to the club mostly."
Loretta nodded, her expression reserved but polite.
"This is Basil Icke," Gareth went on, pointing to a quiet third-year Ravenclaw, who gave a curt nod. "He's not much for words, but he's solid."
Before Gareth could introduce the last member, a girl with long, golden curls strode forward, extending her hand. "I'm Jennifer Foley. Maybe you can call me cousin."
"Cousin?" Sean echoed, eyeing her. "Foley?"
Jennifer smiled, unruffled.
"Don't worry, I'm not like Oliver. His grudge comes from my father's side. My mother's more… open-minded. Your parents aren't close, but they're not strangers either. If you'd rather, treat me as just another student."
Sean shook her hand, his guard up.
Oliver Foley, a sixth-year Slytherin, had been cold, likely due to family tensions. Jennifer, probably fifth-year, seemed genuine, but Sean reserved judgment. Time would reveal her intentions. For now, he'd keep her at arm's length.
"Jennifer, nice to meet you," he said neutrally.
She nodded, unfazed, and returned to her seat after a brief chat.
Sean took his place at the fifth table, the club's newest addition.
The roster—one Hufflepuff, one Ravenclaw, three Slytherins—spoke volumes about Snape's bias. Gryffindor's absence wasn't surprising, given Snape's disdain, but Sean doubted no Gryffindor in seven years had potion talent.
Snape's favoritism for Slytherin was clear.
At precisely 8:30, the door swung open.
Snape strode in, his black robes billowing like a storm cloud. The door shut itself with a thud, sealing the room like a vault.
The dungeon's torchlight cast harsh shadows, amplifying Snape's imposing presence.
He glanced at Sean at the fifth table but said nothing.
"Today, we discuss modifying standard potion procedures," he began, voice low and commanding. "Start with your brewing habits....."
Sean threw himself into the session, absorbing Snape's insights and the members' tips.
His quill scratched furiously, capturing every technique—stirring angles, ingredient prep, timing tweaks. The others didn't mind; they'd all started this way, scribbling to keep up.
Clubs were brutal for newcomers.
The pace was relentless, designed for growth, not coddling. New members faced a grueling first month, sink or swim. Survive, and you belonged.
Falter, and you'd leave, often shaken. Sean felt the pressure, but his passion for potions fueled him.
Unseen, Snape watched him closely. Perhaps it was Sean's first-year invitation—unheard of in the club's history. Perhaps it was his raw talent.
Or perhaps it was Sean's view of potions as art, echoing a memory Snape cherished. Though he never addressed Sean directly, his gaze lingered, assessing.
".....Very good, this session is concluded," Snape said at last. "The next is Friday night. Be punctual."
The others rose, gathering their notes. As Sean prepared to leave, Snape passed his table, silently placing a folded note beside his crucible.
The gesture was so swift, Sean froze, startled.
He pocketed the note, heart racing, and slipped out with the others, the dungeon's chill clinging to his robes.
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Sean resisted the urge to open Snape's note immediately.
The dungeon's weight lingered as he returned to the Slytherin dorm, its green-lit corridors hushed in the late hour. Only after washing up, the cool water grounding him, did he settle at his desk.
He unfolded the parchment, its edges worn from Snape's precise folds, and scanned the list: twelve potion-related books, titles like Arcane Infusions and Elixirs of the Ages.
Surprise hit first, then gratitude.
Snape's cold, tragic demeanor had defined him in Sean's mind—yet this act revealed a rare humanity.
In the Potions Club, Sean had faltered, overwhelmed by the elite members' pace.
His first-year skill, impressive among peers, paled beside theirs.
For a fleeting moment, he'd considered withdrawing, daunted by their expertise.
This list, though, was a lifeline—a roadmap to bridge the gap.
Snape hadn't just invited him; he'd invested in his potential, offering a shortcut to mastery.
Sean memorized the titles, tucking the note into his desk drawer.
As he climbed into bed, the castle's quiet enveloped him, his mind already plotting library visits.
The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with chatter and clinking cutlery.
Sean sat with Blaise, spooning oatmeal, when Blaise leaned in, eyes glinting. "Sean, have you heard? It seems that Malfoy is going to duel with Harry Potter."
"Duel?" Sean's ears pricked at the word, his mind flashing to his own victory over Jason.
He swallowed his oatmeal, turning to Blaise. "Malfoy wants to duel with Harry?"
Sean and Harry rarely spoke now, their paths diverging with Slytherin-Gryffindor tensions.
At most, they exchanged nods in class or brief chats, Harry wary of Sean's house and its dark reputation.
Sean, with an adult's soul in a boy's body, didn't dwell on the distance. Friendship with Harry was a fleeting gift, not a necessity.
Still, Harry was a friend, and Malfoy's challenge raised alarms.
Sean knew Malfoy—spoiled, cunning, but no duelist. A trap seemed more his style, especially given vague memories of Harry's misadventure in a similar duel.
"Did Harry agree?" Sean asked, his tone sharp.
"I heard he did," Blaise said, shrugging. "Didn't catch the details."
"Thanks," Sean said, wiping his mouth. He glanced at the Gryffindor table, where Harry and Ron were rising to leave. "Blaise, hold my books. I'm going over there."
Blaise grabbed his wrist, voice low. "Sean, are you going to warn Harry?"
Sean nodded, meeting his gaze.
Blaise frowned. "I know you're close with him, but Slytherin and Gryffindor don't mix. Even if you're genuine, he might not trust you."
Sean understood "I'm prepared," he said calmly. "I'm just doing what a friend would. Whether he listens or not won't change me."
Blaise studied him, then nodded. "If you're sure, I won't stop you. Just… don't let other Slytherins see."
Sean knew Blaise meant their housemates, ever-watchful for disloyalty.
He stood, weaving through the bustling hall, and caught Harry outside. "Harry!"
Harry turned, surprise softening his face.
Despite their drift, he still saw Sean as a friend, even if Gryffindor's pride kept him distant. "Sean, what's up?"
Sean's duel with Jason had reached Gryffindor, earning Harry's respect—and likely spurring his own acceptance of Malfoy's challenge. Sean pulled Harry and Ron into a shadowed corridor corner. "Harry, I heard you're dueling Malfoy?"
"Yeah, I agreed," Harry said, nodding firmly.
"Listen," Sean whispered, urgency creeping in. "Malfoy's not the type to duel fair. This smells like a trap. If I were you, I'd skip it tonight—you could walk into something nasty."
Ron's eyes widened, glancing between Sean and Harry, but he stayed silent, tense.
Harry's brow furrowed. He paused, then shook his head. "Sean, it's not that I don't trust you, but if there's even a chance Malfoy shows, I have to go. I won't be a coward."
"I'm not saying be a coward," Sean pressed. "Malfoy won't show. He's likely set you up. If you go, you're playing his game."
"I'll take the consequences, thanks, Sean," Harry said stiffly, turning to leave.
Ron shot Sean a conflicted look, then hurried after Harry.
Sean sighed, watching them go.
He'd done his part as a friend, but Harry's pride was unyielding. The rift between them, widened by house loyalties, felt final.
Being Harry's friend was a burden Sean hadn't sought, an accident from their early days. If this ended their bond, so be it—both could move on.
He returned to the hall, the weight of his choice settling, but his focus already shifting to the potion books awaiting him.