Dusk was drawing near.
In the underground classroom.
Twenty cauldrons stood between the wooden tables, with brass scales and jars of ingredients laid out on top. In all the swirling smoke, it was impossible to clearly see Professor Snape's face.
Harry was silently processing Flobberworms, collecting the pale green mucus that oozed from them.
The Flobberworm's slime was a useful ingredient: it could be used to brew herbicide, potions for curing scabies, sleeping draughts, and more—its applications were wide-ranging.
The reason Harry had been kept in detention was simple: Draco Malfoy had spent the entire lesson rolling puffer-fish eyes at him and Ron. Harry had rolled his eyes back once, and Snape had immediately assigned him to stay behind, without even giving him a chance to protest.
As for Sean—
Harry looked over at the boy, who seemed oddly distracted; Harry kept sneaking glances at him. He'd never seen Sean look like this.
Even when facing Voldemort and the basilisk, Sean had been calm, steady, reassuring. Harry had thought nothing in the world could shake him.
His own pace at collecting mucus slowed.
Normally, he wished he had eight hands. Right now, his hands and feet felt completely out of sync.
"Planning to spend the night here?"
A voice like a snake's hiss sounded behind him. Harry shivered, then hurriedly finished processing the slime. He cast one last look at the dungeon, then almost ran out as fast as he could.
If he was even a second too slow, he could end up with a week of detention.
In the dungeon, Snape stood beside a cauldron, coldly watching Harry go. The firelight carved sharp shadows along the hook of his nose.
Next to him, Sean had just finished brewing his potion. The flame under his cauldron went out, and his expression vanished into shadow.
Snape's own potion finished unusually quickly. It should have needed at least an hour of gentle simmering, but today it was ready in half that time.
Sean sighed silently. When you haven't yet figured something out—when you desperately want time to slow down—time never obliges. In fact, it always seems to speed up. It was a strange, cruel thing.
Snow and wind hammered against the dungeon windows with a heavy bang-bang rhythm. Sean's voice blended into that odd sound.
"Professor, do you know—"
Snape's head snapped to the side. He didn't even bother putting out the flame under his own cauldron before rasping, "What, has our Mister Green finally realized—he isn't mute?"
Sean met his eyes for a few seconds. Just as Snape's face almost never showed much expression, Sean's remained nearly unchanged as well.
"What do you know? All of it. Tell me."
Snape snorted, not having read anything from his expression.
"About the Chamber—"
Sean began carefully.
"You went in? No, more than that—what did you do? Speak!"
Snape froze for a heartbeat and then threw the crystal vial aside. His words came down like a storm, harsh and relentless.
The potion in his cauldron was never bottled; it burned on until it spoiled, and Snape didn't care in the slightest. His face was growing darker, his temper more volatile by the second.
The boy calmly laid out a story enough to chill the blood: from the moment he first heard that wandering, disembodied voice and slowly confirmed it was a basilisk slithering through the pipes; to realizing Moaning Myrtle had been the victim fifty years ago and that the Chamber entrance was most likely in her bathroom. Then, driven by a tangle of reasons that seemed foolish even to Sean now, he had gone down into the Chamber—
"You should be grateful you got out alive!"
Snape roared. "Now stay right here."
His eyes gleamed with a feral light—anger that could only be vented by killing the basilisk in the Chamber.
"Professor."
Sean spoke quietly.
"Say it—"
Snape paused. The grip on his wand loosened slightly. At least the idiot had finally learned to ask for help when he found danger—especially learned to ask him—
"The basilisk has already been dealt with."
Sean could only bite the bullet. Whenever it came to this part, he always wished he could just Transfigure himself into a crystal bottle and sit quietly in a corner.
"Dumbledore?"
Snape frowned.
Sean shook his head.
"McGonagall—"
Snape rasped.
Sean shook his head again.
"Sean Green!!"
Snape bellowed.
Sean knew it: his six-year-long detention was about to begin.
After a long time, the dungeon door creaked open, the sound thick and eerie. Once again, Sean had survived.
Snape stood in the doorway, his own memories burning painfully beneath his skin. "And when, exactly, did you grow a mouth?"
Once the worst of his fury had been forced down, he finally registered the subtle changes.
"Professor, last time… you told me to tell you."
The boy said quietly, as if he'd never forgotten.
Cold wind whistled at the dungeon entrance; on the wall, the relocated portrait of Sir Cadogan was noisily carrying on.
"Severus, did you see it? The spark in the grate? Seeping out bit by bit, crawling up into the hearth—the very image of a dead heart catching fire again.
"My lady, do you see? That's the greatest magic there is: you think you're sick of someone, yet you can endure them, and keep thinking of them—"
"Sir! Enough!"
Too late.
Winter always came early to Hogwarts.
Even tied to the wall and roasted, Sir Cadogan still wouldn't stop talking, as if he'd been saving it up for decades. "You imagine there's no summer here, Severus. In winter you'll find it's always living in someone's heart—and it's impossible to defeat."
Outside the dungeon.
Harry could faintly hear the roar from within. He hunched his shoulders, suddenly deeply worried.
What had happened to Snape?
And more importantly, Sean was still in there.
The nighttime corridors were silent. Harry stood watch at the dungeon door.
Whatever else happened, he thought, he at least needed to tell Sean that most of Snape's barbs were nonsense. He'd always known that.
Just then, Harry noticed twenty or so spiders crawling unhurriedly past, climbing back in through a crack in the window.
…
Long silver threads hung down like ropes. It looked like they'd used those strands to climb back up. Harry couldn't help but think of the Parseltongue voice he'd heard here; his mood sank.
He remembered Dumbledore's words:
"Harry, you can speak Parseltongue," Dumbledore had said calmly, "because Voldemort can. He is the last remaining descendant of Salazar Slytherin. If I'm not mistaken, the night he gave you that scar, he accidentally transferred some of his own powers to you. He didn't intend to do that—I'm quite sure—"
The Headmaster had only been answering Harry's question—why he could speak Parseltongue—but it had just left Harry feeling more troubled than ever.
He and Voldemort were… very similar.
When Sean came down the corridor, he saw Harry staring blankly at a cluster of spiders.
"Oh. Sean."
Seeing him, Harry snapped out of it and hurried over. "I just wanted to say, don't pay attention to Professor Snape. Most of what he says is—"
Sean halted for a moment. A muttered spell escaped his lips, soundless and instant. At the dungeon door, a pair of utterly dark, dangerous eyes were fixed right where they stood.