"When working with slugs with tentacles, you must pay attention to the distribution of their mucus.
Try to choose the moments when they are secreting the most.
If you see them stretch their feelers out to probe the tabletop—
don't hesitate. That is the ideal moment to begin simmering.
And here is a small reminder:
Once the cauldron begins producing small bubbles, you may stop the brew…
Excellent work, Mr. Dickinson—handled perfectly.
Oh! Mr. Green, you may have simmered yours a little too long.
Remember? Stop as soon as those tiny bubbles appear…"
Inside the greenhouse, twelve steaming cauldrons bubbled energetically, filling the warm, humid air with a faint acrid scent.
The haze of vapor made the giant pumpkin-like plants sway gently, as though in a slow dance.
Professor Sprout had barely finished praising Bruce before she rushed toward Sean, gently guiding the runaway slug back onto the table.
She smiled warmly.
"Mr. Green, next time—please try not to let the slugs escape."
Sean was flustered. He was handling two cauldrons at once.
Bruce, on the other hand, looked effortlessly practiced.
As for Professor Sprout—
She was managing seven cauldrons simultaneously, and still had time to instruct them both.
"Mucus distribution… watch for bubbling… remember timing…"
Sean murmured the instructions under his breath while carefully adjusting heat and stirring rhythm.
As time passed, his movements grew steadier—still messy, but functional.
The potion shifted into a thick ink-green color. Sean gripped the ladle and inhaled sharply.
He cared deeply—both because of his unimpressive talent for potions,
and because of how expensive the materials were.
Slugs with tentacles cost one Galleon a jar in Diagon Alley.
In the wizarding world, potion ingredients were terrifyingly expensive.
Which meant one undeniable truth:
Potions must be a profitable trade.
Otherwise, who could afford to brew anything at all?
Professor Sprout leaned over the cauldron, examining Sean's result.
"Qualified processing, Mr. Green."
Sean exhaled slowly, tension fading from his shoulders.
She had said the materials could be used freely—but he hated the idea of wasting them.
Now that he had found a rhythm, it didn't take long for the three of them to finish the slug preparation.
The completed liquid was poured into glass vials, and they selected the most mucus-rich slugs to store inside a large container.
This careful sorting, Professor Sprout explained, would significantly increase the success rate for brewing Boil-Cure Potion in class.
The already-cooked samples would be kept as future demonstrations—
and help Professor Snape with some preliminary workload.
While examining porcupine quills, Professor Sprout shared something surprising.
"Yes, children—Herbology and Potions depend on each other.
Every harvest season, Severus always comes to the greenhouses."
Sean pictured Snape with a gardening shovel and almost laughed—but returned to choosing quills immediately.
"Porcupine quills should be about three inches long—
roughly the thickness of two slug tentacles…"
Leaving the greenhouse, Sean mentally reviewed every detail, writing them down neatly into his parchment.
At this point, all four components of the Boil-Cure Potion—
Dried nettles, porcupine quills, venomous snake fangs, and slugs with tentacles—
he now understood completely.
Which meant…
Step one of his plan was complete.
His eyes sparkled.
"I say, Sean—we're already outside the greenhouse. You don't need to take more notes now."
Bruce folded his arms, helplessly dragging Sean aside to prevent him from walking face-first into a suit of armor.
The lady in the portrait above them covered her mouth, laughing softly.
Across the hall, a knight stared at her, utterly enchanted.
The clock struck six.
Warm light washed through the stone hallway.
A gentle breeze carried the scent of grass and earth.
Bruce stopped, spotting two familiar figures ahead:
Leon holding a book, golden hair glowing in the sunset,
and Piste clutching a small potted plant, its tender leaves trembling in the breeze.
Both looked over.
Bruce grinned.
"These two idiots…"
He turned toward Sean to say goodbye—
—but before he could speak, something small and golden landed in his palm.
Candied pineapple.
"Snack exchange—Hufflepuff tradition, Senior Bruce."
Sean smiled, then strode away lightly, his steps almost floating.
Bruce blinked, stunned.
"…He really isn't a Hufflepuff?"
Leon shut his book.
"Maybe the Sorting Hat made a mistake."
Bruce carefully tucked the pineapple candy into his pocket, then suddenly slapped both Leon and Piste into a rough headlock, yanking them close.
"Gotcha!"
He shouted triumphantly.
"Idiot."
Leon staggered.
Piste scrambled to protect his plant, horrified.
Since borrowing an armful of library books yesterday, Sean's only problem had been time.
The Hogwarts Library closed strictly at eight.
After dinner, it was already half-past six.
So instead of the library, Sean returned to Ravenclaw Tower.
Their shared dormitory rooms even had study desks, complete with floating candles—
the same elegant candles from the Great Hall.
A perfect place to work.
Ravenclaw wisdom indeed, Sean thought.
"Sean! You're going back to the tower?"
Just outside the Great Hall, Sean crossed paths with Michael playing Wizard Gobstones—
but today he was competing in a rather intense Wizard Gomoku game.
"Mhm."
"Wait for me!"
Michael slammed down his final stone, whose massive club swung to knock his opponent's last piece clean off the board.
"Victory."
He gathered his pieces with smug grace, then sprinted after Sean.
Returning to Ravenclaw Tower, the staircase stretched endlessly upward.
Michael panted, dragging himself step by step.
"The welcoming message says Ravenclaw helps knowledge-seekers climb the steps of wisdom—
but it never mentioned the steps were this long!"
He stared into the dizzying distance of stone spiraling upward.
"Merlin's saggy underpants… I have to climb this for seven years?!"
Before he could continue complaining, a powerful gust rushed past—
a senior Ravenclaw swooping through the air on a broomstick, gliding straight into the tower entrance.
The younger Ravenclaws gasped in admiration.
"So cool…"
Michael stared dreamily after the upper-year student, eyes sparkling.
The stairs grew fewer, and the two finally neared the entrance.
Michael was still rambling excitedly about the Chudley Cannons' glorious history when he abruptly stopped—
because the boy beside him was swaying unsteadily.
"Sean!"
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