Another day.
Sean stepped out of the dungeon, carefully covering the traces of his potion-making. Even Justin, who scrutinized everything, didn't notice a thing.
Moments later, a flash of lightning lit up the sky.
It was clear that today was another stormy, thunderous day at Hogwarts.
Outside the castle, rain poured down. Sean sat in the library, engrossed in a book, the soft glow of a magical crystal ball casting a warm light around him. Madam Pince, as usual, glanced at Sean before passing by.
If Hermione spending six hours a day in the library was considered diligent, then Sean, who opened the library doors with Madam Pince in the morning and closed the oak doors with her at night, was practically a part-time librarian. At the very least, he made sure the books on his favorite shelf were always neatly organized.
It wasn't that Sean was particularly altruistic—it was just that after skimming through every book, tidying them up felt effortless.
Occasionally, Madam Pince would share her wisdom with Sean: which books were full of substance and which were just empty boasts. Sean was deeply grateful for her guidance.
Contrary to the rumors among the younger students, Madam Pince wasn't always stern and unapproachable.
At least when she saw Sean's detailed notes on A History of Magic, she'd happily discuss them with him. She even shared sweets with him—not in the library, of course, but during those quiet moments at dawn when they opened the doors or at night when they locked up.
Those sweets, courtesy of Justin, were becoming quite the talk of the castle. No one knew how he'd managed to charm the house-elves or sneak into the Hogwarts kitchens, but his baking skills were top-notch. Perhaps it was a Hufflepuff knack for culinary magic, but Justin's improved recipes from Charm Your Own Feast! were a hit.
Even Hermione couldn't resist, stuffing two mochi in her mouth at once, her cheeks puffing out comically.
As for Sean, he was usually the first to sample Justin's creations.
---
Outside, the rain pattered steadily onto the rich Scottish soil, cloaking the Highlands in a misty haze. The evenings here were always warm and golden, and as a damp breeze carrying the scent of earth brushed Sean's face, his emerald-green eyes seemed to glow with a spark of magic.
"You need to be more confident. Make the arc with your left hand bigger. Most importantly, believe you can do it… defy gravity…"
Sean spoke softly, correcting Justin's attempt at the Levitation Charm.
Thanks to his relentless practice, Sean's progress in Charms had far surpassed his peers in just over a week. Even Hermione would pause to carefully consider his advice.
Sean never minded sharing his insights.
He was happy to offer small tips about Charms after a tiring practice session.
The only thing bothering him was Professor Snape's recent obsession with brewing potions. Lately, Sean and Snape seemed to be playing a strange game of hide-and-seek in the dungeon. If Snape wasn't there, Sean was. If Sean wasn't there, Snape was.
Through this game of cat and mouse, Sean had unlocked over two-thirds of his Potions title.
Still, he felt a growing sense of urgency. A week and a half into term, his progress felt too slow. So, he made a decision.
Even without knowing Snape's whereabouts, Sean would brew potions.
Before the week was out, he had to complete his Potions title. It was his ticket to going further in the art of potion-making.
In the wizarding world, the difference between those with varying levels of talent was stark, and Sean knew it all too well.
---
Ravenclaw Common Room
Ever since the notice for Flying Lessons went up, nearly every young witch and wizard was buzzing about Quidditch.
"Plenty of people think the Chudley Cannons' glory days are over, but even more believe they'll reclaim their former brilliance! They've won the League Cup twenty-one times, you know!" Michael declared, one hand clutching a poster, the other gripping a chair as he rambled passionately.
The poster featured the Chudley Cannons in their bright orange robes, emblazoned with a speeding cannonball and two bold black "C"s.
"Oh, really, Michael? Then explain their slogan," a tall, lanky young wizard said with a laugh. "Before 1972, it was 'We Shall Conquer All.' So why's it now 'Let's All Cross Our Fingers and Hope for the Best'?"
"That… that doesn't count!" Michael sputtered, clearly stung.
What followed was a flurry of excuses—"It's just a slogan the management came up with," "It's got nothing to do with the team," "You lot don't even know the Cannons' greatness!"—which left everyone red-faced with laughter.
"What a downfall…" Michael muttered, finally sighing and throwing up his hands in defeat.
The warm glow of the fireplace illuminated the room as Sean passed through, his face pale. Behind him trailed Anthony, pretending to read a book but never taking his eyes off Sean, always a half-step behind.
"Oh! Sean, Anthony!" Michael's sharp eyes spotted them, and he bounded over with enthusiasm.
He casually slung an arm around Sean's shoulders, and the group settled into the Ravenclaw common room's chairs. The velvet upholstery, worn smooth by years of use, gleamed softly. Scattered around were star-patterned cushions and low stools covered in deep purple, navy, or bronze silk, haphazardly placed on Persian flying carpets or velvet rugs like a constellation of furniture.
The lively chatter of the Ravenclaws mingled with the sound of the rain lashing outside, and Sean took a moment to catch his breath in the cozy common room.
The Ravenclaws debated British and Irish Quidditch teams, completely forgetting the Quidditch techniques they'd been bragging about earlier. Sean pulled out Quidditch Through the Ages, a truly fascinating read.
For example: [The Falmouth Falcons are known for their fierce, no-holds-barred style, boasting world-famous Beaters Kevin and Karl Broad. Their slogan? "Let us win, but if we cannot, let us break a few heads."]
Intimidating, to say the least.
Suddenly, Sean noticed the chatter around him had stopped. He looked up to find six or seven heads leaning in close.
"Sean, you got Quidditch Through the Ages?!" Michael's exclamation broke the silence.
"Sean, can I take a look?" Michael asked, a bit sheepishly.
Anthony, the dark-haired wizard, let out a frustrated sigh. He glanced over at Terry, who was still by the stained-glass window, staring at raindrops for the past three hours.
Anthony sighed again.
Sean nodded and generously placed the book on the table.
The young witches and wizards erupted into excited chatter:
"Let me see too, Michael!"
"Me! Me! And me!"
Even those who owned their own copies couldn't resist joining in. A book borrowed from Madam Pince's precious collection was a different beast altogether.
"Alright, everyone, let's be careful…" Michael's voice was drowned out by the howling wind and rain outside.
Sean's thoughts drifted to tomorrow's plan.
Yes, tomorrow, if Snape wasn't in the dungeon—and even if Sean couldn't confirm the professor's absence—he'd take the risk and brew a potion.
He was just six points shy of full proficiency.
The final piece of his scholarship puzzle was almost within reach.