Potion brewing always took ages—some special ones, like Felix Felicis, supposedly simmered for half a year.
Factoring that in, Sean timed his escapade for right after first afternoon Transfiguration.
He'd prepped five sets of ingredients and packed his crystal phials—
Expensive vessels, each nestled in its own little box.
They'd set him back a full seven Galleons,
So the manager at Slug & Jiggers had kindly tossed in a box for every phial.
That long-bearded old wizard in the shop claimed these crystal ones stored potions twice as well as plain glass.
Sean figured he was pulling his leg.
Books said proper storage kept potions fresh even out in the open.
Ancient wizards even kept theirs in teapots—apothecaries back then loved the trick of pouring out different liquids from the same spout.
Muggle nobles would gawk and prattle on about it.
Truth was, potions only spoiled under certain conditions, like exposure to light.
As for whether spoiled potions caused trouble?
Just check tomorrow's headlines at the castle gates for any wanted posters.
...
Afternoon.
A pure white owl soared over Sean's head,
Hooting a grumpy little tune.
Stepping out of the castle, the sun bathed everything in a lazy warmth, as if determined to bake every young wizard through.
Sean had never seen a summer this dazzling—Hogwarts and the grounds gilded like a canvas.
The island itself resembled an oil painting, dotted with the golden castle.
If only Snape's classroom weren't in the dungeons, his mood might've been even brighter.
This afternoon, he felt like a treasure-hunting adventurer, slipping past Professor Snape's guard to claim his potion prize.
Mind buzzing with schemes, Sean strolled down a mossy stone path and pushed open the greenhouse door.
He'd promised to help the professor harvest Bubble-Bean Pods and transplant Bouncing Bulbs to Greenhouse One.
The air in Greenhouse One hung heavy with rich earth,
Fine mist beaded on the glass roof, trickling down in lazy rivulets.
Sprout wasn't alone today—a gaggle of young wizards clustered around her:
Round-faced Neville, Ernie carefully watering, and a short, plump boy Sean didn't recognize.
Professor Sprout stood by a crate piled with fresh dragon dung fertilizer, her gray-brown hair knotted in a tidy bun at the nape of her neck.
Under that thick, patched hat, her bright eyes scanned her students keenly.
Soon, she clapped her muddy-gloved hands and ambled over to Sean:
"Oh, every year at this time, the greenhouses sprout new life—it's always a thrill..."
She swung open the door to Greenhouse One.
"Come along, Mr. Green. We'll fetch those Bouncing Bulbs—the little rascals are probably itching to hop."
As she spoke, her hat usually bobbed in rhythm,
But not today. Sean eyed the black patch on it,
And for a flash, Snape's gloomy black eyes flickered in his mind.
Brewing potions on the sly— that wouldn't break any school rules, would it?
Sean wondered.
He snapped back to find himself locked in gaze with a pair of warm, steady eyes.
"My dear Mr. Green—now that's a rarity. Woolgathering, are you?"
She phrased it as a question, but no trace of doubt clouded her gaze.
"Right on time. Come, dear boy—something intriguing awaits."
...
Professor Sprout led Sean with gentle warmth toward another domed structure,
Ignoring his puzzled look.
They paused before the one labeled "Greenhouse Three."
Sean had never set foot inside—Michael said the plants here were more fascinating... and far deadlier.
Sprout unhooked a hefty key from her belt and unlocked the door.
A wave of humid fertilizer stench hit first, followed by a thorny green plant unfurling its tendrils.
Beside it, green, bean-like fruits bounced in a thicket—
Bouncing Bulbs, Sean recognized. But why the Devil's Snare all around?
And how had these territorial wonders not strangled them?
As he peered closer, Professor Sprout's rich, cheerful voice boomed over the greenhouse's rustles:
"Oh, Mr. Green—let me tell you a tale:
Bouncing Bulb seeds thrive in dim, damp spots—
Prime Devil's Snare territory.
About a third of our bulbs grow up alongside it.
Devil's Snare won't brook intruders in its patch,
But look—the bulbs flourish all the same..."
Having piqued his curiosity, the plump professor continued in a storyteller's low, resonant tone:
"Observe closely: those looming Venomous Tentacula beside them.
It's mutual deterrence that lets the bulb seeds germinate, sprout, and bounce free.
Nature's a wonder, you see—life finds a way."
She bent low, graceful despite her size,
Her eyes alight with sincere, heartfelt glow.
"Bulbs that shy from the snare stay safe, aye—but cower from it forever in some dry corner, letting the fruits wither? No, dear—that's no way to live."
Sean felt a jolt from the Bouncing Bulbs' saga. He looked up; the professor nodded slowly:
"You'll manage it, lad. Don't fear."
...
She knows what I'm up to.
As Sean emerged from the greenhouse, his heart settled into calm resolve, his robes dusted with soil.
He had no clue how she'd guessed,
But her quiet approval—her encouragement—meant it couldn't breach rules.
Even if it did, the fallout wouldn't be dire.
So,
After afternoon Transfiguration,
Amid Justin's admiring gaze and Hermione's baffled one, Sean vanished down the corridor's end.
The air grew chill and dim; those jars lining the walls, brimming with pickled beast specimens that sent shivers racing, loomed once more.
Sean held his breath, praying Professor Snape stayed away.
Professors were busy enough—let alone Slytherin's Head, Snape.
A quick peek in the classroom:
Empty. Sean exhaled long and low, then flew into action—ingredients arrayed on the workbench, cauldron lit.
The faster he moved, the more batches he could try.
He set out his notebook and quick-quill too—
Brew data was gold; logging trials, refining steps—that was proper learning.
White smoke curled lazily from the cauldron, candle flames dancing in Sean's emerald eyes.