Sean's progress in Astronomy was crawling along just like his early days with Charms, but he didn't mind one bit.
What did keep him up at night was wondering what kind of perk he'd unlock once the Prophecy magic title finally clicked.
Prophecy. Even among all the branches of magic, it was one of the deepest, most mysterious—and tied straight to the idea of fate.
Another clear-skied night. Sean was just slipping out of the castle when he spotted Mr. Filch shuffling past with his cleaning broom.
The broom didn't seem all that happy in Filch's hands. Sure, it whisked away most of the grime, but it still left behind tiny flecks of dirt.
Filch had to bend down and pick those up himself every time.
A perfect example? The pack of muddy Hogwarts students who'd just tromped in from the grounds.
The cleaning broom handled the big puddles just fine, but it completely ignored the little individual specks.
Right in front of Sean, the group was cheerfully scattering more mud across the corridor while chattering away:
"Did you hear? Lavender—oh my gosh—the shop at 93 Diagon Alley is finally opening! This summer!"
The speaker was a Gryffindor with big, bright eyes, long black hair, and delicate features.
"Parvati, duh! I can't wait to buy some Spirit Cat Biscuits. Think they'll help us find the castle's spirit cat?
"Ohhh—it's the messenger of Christmas Eve, the guardian of good luck… the towering castle is his ears, the moving staircases are his breath…"
Lavender, tall and graceful, was whispering something almost reverent.
It sounded like a religious chant.
They wandered off…
That's when Sean remembered: the Weasleys had been begging him for days to ramp up production—time was running out.
That's why.
He shelved the thought and turned to the now-much-relaxed caretaker.
"Mr. Filch, mind if I take a look at the cleaning broom?"
"Green—delighted to see you—of course, look all you like—"
Filch handed over his prized possession without hesitation.
Sean tapped his wand to the handle. A few seconds later, he knew exactly what was wrong.
Objects made for wizards and objects made for Squibs are never the same.
A wizard's will could dominate the broom completely—it'd obey like a well-trained dog.
But Filch? He didn't have enough magic in him to command the whole thing. He could only use it in broad, clumsy strokes.
Sean finally understood why his own cleaning-broom project was stuck at Skilled level: the runic arrays weren't precise enough.
While he frowned in thought, a loud voice boomed beside him.
"Great Green—Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes is opening!"
Fred shouted.
"This summer!"
George added, eyes sparkling.
"We're all going—the three of us. No one gets left behind!"
Fred announced.
"You're the majority shareholder, how could you not be there?"
George winked.
Sean didn't even get a word in before the twins hoisted him—and the broom—onto their shoulders.
It took Sean a second to process being carried like a trophy.
"Do you know how much gold we've made? Merlin's beard—it's a tongue-swallowing number!"
Fred whooped.
"You're coming with us, Great Green. Even if you've got a world-saving quest, you're not escaping—"
George spun his hand in a superhero pose.
"Ow—what the—?"
Fred yelped as the broom poked him in the ribs. He finally noticed it.
"Not bad. Really not bad. But way too rough…"
George inspected it too, then said:
"Weird. Super weird… Looks like a genius used top-tier rituals and premium materials to brute-force it, but I'd bet my wand he's studied runes less than three years…"
The twins were instantly lost in the broom:
"Mind-blowing craftsmanship—but why is the base work so sloppy?"
Fred asked George.
"Zero finesse in micro-magic control—only a prodigy who's moving too fast would mess that up."
George turned to Sean.
"Great Green, where'd you snag this oddity? Alchemical conference?"
Sean had too much to say and ended up silent for a beat.
"Fred, George—just call me Sean. I made it."
Fred let out an "AHA!" and threw up his left hand:
"Knew it!"
"Same brain!"
George high-fived him.
"We'll upgrade it for you—but you've gotta come to the Burrow!"
Fred dashed off.
"Trust me, you'll pick up killer tricks from Mum. Precision control is the heart of household magic!"
George yelled over his shoulder while running.
The Burrow, huh?
Sean thought about it, then headed outside the castle.
Days blurred by.
Maybe the exam stress was getting to everyone—Hogwarts was drowning in rumors again.
First: Professor Quirrell missed Defense Against the Dark Arts. After he left, students realized it didn't even matter if there was a professor.
Except Justin's Green Notes for DADA were selling like hotcakes—until Snape started subbing the class.
Suddenly, kids who didn't care at all what happened to Quirrell were ready to dig him out of the castle with their bare hands.
Little wizards spent their days anxious, grilling anyone for info. Once Ron accidentally let slip that Quirrell was in the hospital wing, Sean started finding all kinds of "get well" cards on the professor's table.
Every single one: Please get better soon—we can't handle four high-pressure classes a week.
Snape, meanwhile, looked physically worse every day but mentally sharper than ever.
Cue even more rumors.
Like: Snape attacked Quirrell because he wanted the Defense job.
No one knew who started it, but the next day the rumor-spreader lost ten points for stirring potions with their left hand.
At the same time, another rumor was sweeping the school like wildfire.