Chapter 45: Determination

Another day,

Shean emerged from the dungeon.

He carefully tidied up the traces left by his brewing, so meticulously that even after Justin scrutinized the area for a long time, he found nothing out of the ordinary.

A moment later, a flash of lightning streaked across the sky; it was easy to see that today would be another day of roaring thunder at Hogwarts.

It was raining outside the castle. Shean sat in the library reading, the magical crystal ball emitting a soft, warm glow. Madam Pince always made a habit of glancing at Shean before passing by.

If Hermione being in the library for six hours a day was considered diligent enough, then Shean—who opened the library doors with Madam Pince every morning and closed the heavy oak doors with her every evening—could be called a part-time librarian.

At the very least, Shean helped organize the books on this particular row of shelves. It wasn't because he was a selfless helper, but rather because after having skimmed through them all, tidying them up was an easy task.

Occasionally, Madam Pince would tell Shean which books contained substance and which were merely full of empty rhetoric. Shean was deeply grateful for this.

Madam Pince was not as unkind as the young wizards rumored. At the very least, when she saw the annotations in Shean's History of Magic notes, she would be willing to discuss them with him for a while, and she was even happy to share desserts with him—though never in the library, but rather during the early morning opening or the late-night closing.

The desserts from Justin had been circulating widely lately. It was unclear how he had managed to persuade the house-elves to enter the Hogwarts kitchens, but his craftsmanship was indeed top-tier. Perhaps Hufflepuffs were born with a natural magical talent for gourmet food; the desserts Justin had improved in *Conjuring a Grand Feast!* had recently been receiving rave reviews. Even Hermione would eat two daifuku in one go, her cheeks bulging. As for Shean, he was usually the first to try them.

...

Outside the window, the rain pattered against the fertile soil, and a layer of mist rose hazily over the Scottish Highlands. The nights here were always dim and cozy. As the damp breeze, carrying the scent of earth, brushed against Shean's cheek, his emerald eyes would always flash with a magical glow.

"You must be more firm. The arc of the left hand should be wider. Most importantly, believe—believe that you can do it... break free from gravity..."

Shean whispered softly, correcting Justin's Levitation Charm once again.

Due to his intense dedication, in just over a week, Shean's progress in charms had far surpassed that of the other young wizards. Even Hermione would pause to carefully contemplate his teaching. Shean never minded sharing his experience; he was happy to share bits of trivial knowledge about charms when practice ended and exhaustion set in.

The only thing that troubled Shean was that Professor Snape had been brewing potions far too frequently lately. Over the past few days, Snape and Shean had been in a strange state of existence: if you entered the dungeon and Snape wasn't there, Shean was; if Shean wasn't there, Snape was.

Through this game of hide-and-seek, Shean had unlocked more than two-thirds of his potion titles, yet he still felt a sense of urgency. He had been enrolled for a week and a half, and this progress was still too slow. Thus, he made a decision.

Even without exact news of Professor Snape's whereabouts, he would go to brew potions. At the very least, he had to complete the unlocking of his potion titles before this week ended; this was the guarantee that would allow Shean to go further on the path of Potions. In a magical world driven by talent, the differences between wizards with different aptitudes were always significant, and Shean understood this deeply.

...

The Ravenclaw Common Room.

Ever since the notice for flying lessons was posted, almost all the young wizards had been talking incessantly about Quidditch.

"Many people think the glorious era of the Chudley Cannons is over, but even more believe they will surely recreate yesterday's brilliance! You must realize, the Chudley Cannons have won the League Cup twenty-one times!" Michael was grandstanding, holding a poster in one hand and leaning on a chair with the other.

On the poster, the members of the Chudley Cannons wore bright orange robes decorated with a speeding cannonball and two black letters, "C."

"Oh, alright, Michael, then can you explain their slogan? Before 1972 it was 'We Shall Conquer All,' so how did it become 'Let's all cross our fingers and be optimistic'?" a tall, thin wizard suddenly spoke up with a laugh.

"That! That doesn't count!" Michael looked as if his sore spot had been poked. This was followed by remarks like "those were slogans made by management," "they have nothing to do with the team," and "you guys have no idea how glorious the Chudley Cannons were," making everyone laugh until their faces were red.

"How depressing..." In the end, even Michael couldn't help but sigh before spreading his hands helplessly.

The warm fireplace crackled with light. Shean happened to pass by, looking pale. Behind him was Anthony, who was pretending to read but whose eyes had never left Shean—he always trailed a half-step behind Shean.

"Oh! Shean, Anthony!"

The sharp-eyed Michael spotted the two of them and walked over enthusiastically, "accidentally" hooking an arm around Shean's. The group sat together on the chairs in the Ravenclaw common room. The velvet upholstery of the chairs was slightly worn from age, giving off a soft, mellow luster. Scattered throughout were star-patterned cushions and low stools with deep purple, ink blue, or bronze silk padding, placed casually on Persian or velvet rugs like scattered constellations.

The enthusiastic voices of the group blended with the heavy rain outside, and Shean took a moment to rest in the common room. The Ravenclaws were discussing various Quidditch teams in England and Ireland, having forgotten the Quidditch techniques they had been boasting about earlier. Shean slowly pulled out *The Magical Book of Quidditch*; it had to be said, the book was indeed very interesting.

For example: [The Falmouth Falcons are known for their aggressive playstyle; they possess the world-renowned Beaters, Kevin and Karl Broad. The team's slogan is: "Let us strive for victory, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads."]

It was quite intimidating, one could say.

Suddenly, Shean noticed the surrounding discussion had stopped. He looked up in confusion to find six or seven heads leaning in toward him.

"Shean, you managed to borrow *The Magical Book of Quidditch*?!" Michael's exclamation was the first to break the silence.

"Shean, can I have a look?" Michael asked somewhat bashfully.

The long-haired wizard Anthony let out an involuntary sigh of frustration. He cast a casual glance; Terry was still observing raindrops by the stained-glass window—he had been there for three hours. Anthony sighed again.

Shean nodded and generously placed the book on the table.

The young wizards immediately erupted into a commotion

"Let me see too, Michael!"

"Me, me, me! And me!"

Even the wizards who already owned the book couldn't resist joining the fray. How could a precious book from Madam Pince be the same as one you bought yourself...

"Oh—everyone, I think I should say, we have to be careful..."

Michael's voice was swallowed by the storm outside the window.

Shean thought of his plan for tomorrow. That's right, tomorrow, as long as Professor Snape wasn't in the dungeon—even if he didn't find the professor himself—as long as he ensured his safety, Shean would take the risk to brew potions.

He was only six proficiency points away from the end. The most difficult scholarship fragment was finally within reach.

(End of Chapter)