Chapter 328: Winter Night
As evening approached.
The Potions Dungeon.
Twenty cauldrons stood between the heavy wooden desks, the surfaces of which were cluttered with brass scales and jars of various ingredients. Professor Snape's face was obscured by the thick, swirling vapours that filled the room.
Harry was silently processing a pile of Flobberworms, tasked with collecting their thick, greenish mucus. This mucus was a staple in the Wizarding World, used in everything from Herbicide to Cure for Boils and Sleeping Draughts.
The reason for Harry's detention was painfully simple: Draco Malfoy had spent the entire lesson rolling his eyes at Harry and Ron using a pair of pufferfish eyes. When Harry had finally retaliated with a glare of his own, Snape had pounced, assigning him detention before Harry could even open his mouth to protest.
As for Sean...
Harry kept stealing curious glances at the young wizard. Sean looked unusually distracted—a look Harry had never seen on him before. Even when facing Voldemort or the Basilisk, Sean had remained calm and grounded. Harry had begun to believe that nothing in this world could rattle Sean Green.
Harry's hands slowed as he worked. Usually, he'd have worked with frantic speed just to get out of Snape's presence, but today, his coordination felt off.
"Do you intend to spend the night here, Potter?"
A voice like the hiss of a venomous snake broke the silence. Harry jumped, nearly knocking over his jar. He finished collecting the last of the mucus with trembling fingers, cast one final look around the dark dungeon, and bolted for the door.
One second too slow, and he'd likely earn another week of cleaning cauldrons.
Inside the dungeon, Snape stared coldly at the door Harry had just vanished through, the firelight casting sharp, predatory shadows across his hooked nose. Beside him, Sean had already finished his brewing. As the fire beneath Sean's cauldron died out, his expression became unreadable in the dim light.
Snape's own brewing had finished remarkably fast. Traditionally, this particular draught required a full hour of simmering over a low flame, yet today it was ready in half the time.
Sean let out a silent sigh. It was a strange law of nature: when you were unprepared and wished for time to slow down, it inevitably accelerated its pace.
The dungeon windows rattled under the assault of the wind and snow. Sean's voice rose, blending with the rhythmic thumping of the storm.
"Professor, you should know—"
Snape whirled around. His cauldron was still steaming as he asked in a raspy, dangerous whisper, "So, has our Mr. Green finally realized... that he is not, in fact, a mute?"
Sean met Snape's gaze for several long seconds. Just as Snape's face was a mask of rigid control, Sean's remained perfectly still.
"What do you know? Everything. Tell me," Snape demanded with a cold snort.
"Regarding the Chamber of Secrets..." Sean began carefully.
"You entered it? No... more than that... what did you do?! Speak!"
Snape froze for a heartbeat before slamming a crystal phial onto the table. His voice came like a thunderstorm. He didn't even notice his cauldron of potion was beginning to boil over and spoil; his face grew darker and more volatile with every word.
Sean recounted the harrowing details: the discovery of the spectral voices in the pipes; the realization that Moaning Myrtle was the victim from fifty years ago; the location of the entrance in her bathroom; and finally, entering the Chamber itself.
"You should be grateful you escaped with your life—" Snape roared. "Now, stay right where you are."
A murderous light flickered in Snape's eyes. This was a rage that could only be sated by personally destroying the monster within the walls.
"Professor," Sean said softly.
"What?!"
Snape paused, his hand gripping his wand so tightly his knuckles were white. He seemed almost relieved that the boy had finally learned to seek help when in over his head.
"The Basilisk has been dealt with," Sean said, bracing himself. At that moment, he truly wished he could transfigure himself into a glass jar and hide in the corner of a shelf.
"Dumbledore?" Snape's brow furrowed.
Sean shook his head.
"McGonagall...?" Snape's voice was raspy.
Sean shook his head again.
"SEAN GREEN!!" Snape bellowed.
Sean closed his eyes. He knew right then that his six-year sentence of detentions had officially begun.
A long time passed before the dungeon door creaked open with a dismal groan. Sean had, once again, survived.
Snape stood in the doorway, his memories flaring like a raw wound. "Since when," he hissed, "did you grow a tongue?"
Once the initial explosion of fury had passed, Snape had noticed the subtle shifts in the boy's demeanor.
"Last time, Professor... you told me to tell you," Sean said quietly. He sounded as though he had committed the instruction to memory long ago.
The cold wind whistled through the corridor. On the wall nearby, the portrait of Sir Cadogan—which had been moved here recently—was making a tremendous racket.
"Severus! Look at the flames in the grate, man! See them seeping from the ash, crawling into the hearth... does it not remind you of something, Severus? A heart rekindling from the cold embers.
"Ah, my Lady, look! This is the greatest magic of all. You believe you detest him, yet you tolerate him, and you worry for him without end..."
"Shut up, Sir Cadogan!" Snape snarled.
But it was too late. The winter of Hogwarts had arrived early. Sir Cadogan, even while being "threatened" by the Potions Master, refused to yield. He had decades of observations stored up.
"You think there is no summer here, Severus? In the winter, you shall learn that it always remains in a man's heart... and it is invincible."
Outside the Dungeons.
Harry had heard the distant, booming roars of Snape's shouting and was hovering near the corner, his heart full of dread.
What on earth is wrong with Snape? he wondered. Sean is still in there!
The nighttime corridor was silent as Harry kept his vigil. He decided that, whatever happened, he had to tell Sean that Snape's insults were mostly just nonsense—he'd known that for years.
As he waited, Harry noticed about twenty spiders crawling along the wall, heading back into the castle through a small crack in the window frame. They moved in single file down long threads of silver silk.
The sight made Harry think of the Parseltongue he had heard in these very halls, and his mood plummeted. He recalled Professor Dumbledore's words:
"You can speak Parseltongue, Harry," Dumbledore had said calmly, "because Lord Voldemort—who is the last remaining ancestor of Salazar Slytherin—can speak Parseltongue. Unless I am much mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar. It was not something he intended to do, I am quite sure..."
Dumbledore had merely been answering the question Harry had posed—the mystery of why he could speak the language of serpents—yet the explanation had only served to deepen Harry's sense of unease. He and Voldemort... they were far too similar for comfort.
As Sean made his way through the corridor, he found Harry standing motionless, staring blankly at a cluster of spiders scuttling along the stone.
"Oh, Sean."
Seeing him, Harry seemed to snap out of his trance and walked over. "Look, I've got to say... don't let Professor Snape get to you. Half the things that come out of his mouth are just—"
Sean paused, his eyes flicking toward the shadows. A Silencing Charm left his wand, cast non-verbally with practiced ease. Just behind them, framed in the doorway of the dungeons, a pair of exceptionally dark, brooding eyes was staring them down with cold intensity.
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