Potion-brewing was always a long and demanding process.
Some complex brews—Felix Felicis, for example—were said to require six months to complete.
Keeping that in mind, Sean scheduled his attempt for the break after the first afternoon Transfiguration lesson.
He prepared five sets of ingredients and packed away a crystal phial—an expensive container resting snugly inside a small, velvet-lined box.
He'd spent seven Galleons on the set, and the bearded old wizard at Slugg & Jiggers Apothecary had insisted that these crystal phials preserved potions twice as effectively as ordinary glass flasks.
Sean was fairly sure that was marketing nonsense.
Books stated clearly that as long as potions were properly stored, they wouldn't spoil—even if kept in the open air.
In ancient times, wizards even used ordinary kettles to store their potions, delighting in the trick of pouring different liquids from the same spout—
to the endless bewilderment of Muggle nobility.
Of course, the trick only worked because certain potions deteriorated when exposed to light.
And if a potion truly did spoil dangerously,
the quickest way to tell would be checking the Hogwarts gates the next morning:
if the Ministry had posted a Wanted notice, something had gone very wrong.
Afternoon
A snowy-white owl swept across the sky above Sean, hooting irritably.
Sunlight poured down like warm honey, bright enough to soak straight through the skin of every young witch and wizard crossing the courtyard.
Sean had never seen such a dazzling summer—Hogwarts castle gleamed like gold, sitting atop its island like a masterpiece of oil paint.
If only Professor Snape's classroom weren't buried deep in the dungeons, his mood might have been even better.
This afternoon, he felt like a treasure-hunter—
an adventurer sneaking past a dragon to steal the hoard beneath its nose, hoping to brew his potion before Snape noticed.
Carrying his thoughts and his neatly packed kit, Sean followed the stone path to the greenhouses and pushed open the oak door.
He had promised Professor Sprout that he would help gather Bouncing Bulb pods and relocate Jumping Bulb tubers to Greenhouse One.
The humid scent of soil filled the warm space, droplets collecting on the glass roof and sliding down in shining rivulets.
But Sprout wasn't alone.
Clustered around her were several students—round-faced Neville, careful Ernie Macmillan, and a plump boy Sean didn't recognize.
Professor Sprout stood beside a crate piled high with fresh compost, her greying-brown hair tied in a small, sturdy knot, a patched hat perched crookedly on top.
Her bright eyes swept keenly over her group.
Then she dusted off her gloved hands and made her way toward Sean.
"Oh, this time of year always brings brand-new seedlings—what a delightful sight!"
She opened the door to Greenhouse One, nodding warmly for Sean to follow.
"Come along, Mr. Green, our little rascals have been waiting long enough."
The brim of her patched hat usually bobbed cheerfully when she talked.
But today, it remained still—and when Sean glanced at the dark stitching, he was suddenly reminded of Snape's cold, black eyes.
Brewing in secret… that shouldn't break any school rules, right?
he wondered.
When he returned to focus, Sprout was already watching him with steady, gentle eyes.
"My dear Mr. Green—how rare. You seem lost in thought?"
There was no confusion in her gaze.
No doubt.
Only warmth.
"Perfect timing," she said softly. "Come, something quite interesting is waiting for you."
She led him to another domed greenhouse, stopping beneath a sign carved with Greenhouse Three.
Sean had never entered this one.
Michael once said it held plants that were more fascinating—and far more dangerous.
Sprout unlocked the heavy door with a large brass key.
A wave of wet fertilizer scent washed over them.
A dense tangle of spiked green vines sprawled across the space, their tendrils writhing lazily. Nearby, small bean-sized green bulbs bounced restlessly inside a fenced patch.
Sean recognized them—Bouncing Bulbs.
But something puzzled him:
Why were they surrounded by Devil's Snare-like toxin tendrils?
And why weren't the territorial vines attacking them?
Before he could voice the question, Sprout's voice echoed through the warm greenhouse, rich and storytelling:
"Oh, Mr. Green, let me tell you something fascinating.
Bouncing Bulb seeds grow best in dark, damp spaces—
exactly the kind of place where Venomous Tendrils thrive.
Roughly a third of the bulbs in this greenhouse grow beside them."
She pointed toward a cluster of long, jagged leaves.
"The tendrils allow no plant to invade their territory.
Yet look—these bulbs still flourish."
Sean leaned closer, intrigued.
Sprout lowered her voice, speaking like a storyteller before a fire:
"If you observe carefully, you'll see the Fanged Geraniums standing guard nearby.
The mutual threat between these two plants creates the only safe space for the Bouncing Bulb seeds to grow, break free—and leap away."
She knelt beside the plants, her expression warm and sincere.
"Nature is extraordinary. Life always finds a way.
Seeds that hide forever in safe, dry corners will wither into nothing.
But those brave enough to grow where danger waits—
they thrive."
Sean stood stunned, moved by both the lesson and the strange completeness of the metaphor.
Sprout met his gaze, smiling gently.
"You will succeed. Don't be afraid, dear boy."
She knows.
When Sean stepped out of the greenhouse again, calm had settled in his chest like steady weight.
He still didn't know how the professor had guessed—but if she encouraged him rather than stopped him, it meant what he planned wasn't truly forbidden.
And even if it was… it wouldn't be the kind of trouble that destroyed lives.
So—
After Transfiguration class ended, under Justin's bright-eyed admiration and Hermione's puzzled stare, Sean slipped quietly down the hallway and vanished around the corner.
The air cooled sharply as he descended.
The dungeon walls glistened faintly, lined with glass jars holding pale floating creatures—eerie and still.
Sean drew a slow breath, praying Snape would not be present today.
Thankfully, Hogwarts professors were always busier than they appeared—
and Snape, Head of Slytherin, busiest of all.
One quick glance into the classroom revealed it empty.
Sean exhaled hard, relief washing through him.
He set out his ingredients, lit the cauldron flame, and moved swiftly—
the more attempts he could fit in, the faster he'd learn.
Notebook open, quill floating at the ready, he prepared to record everything.
Precision was everything in potions—experimentation, reflection, constant iteration.
White steam curled upward in slow spirals,
and the glow of the candles burned gold within Sean's emerald eyes.
Advance Chapters available on Patreon
patreon.com/ZoroTL442