"Slytherin—there are rumors he came from the bogs of eastern Ireland, though this has never been fully proven.
Now, if you think it through, you can work out where Lady Ravenclaw was from."
Sean paused, waiting.
"England, Wales, Ireland…" As Justin frowned in concentration, Hermione's eyes grew brighter with every word.
"Scotland! The four founders of Hogwarts come from the four parts of the British Isles: Scotland, Wales, England, and Ireland!"
"Correct," Sean affirmed. "Remember the Sorting Hat's song—'Fair Ravenclaw, from glen.'"
He quoted the line. "Glen is defined as 'the Scottish term for a Highland valley.'"
"Sean, you must be a walking storybook!" Justin breathed, and Hermione tipped up her chin and nodded.
"Mm," Sean said, then picked up his wand and walked to the back of the room where a pile of books lay scattered, their pages brittle and yellowed.
"S—cour—g—ify—"
With a smooth S-curve of his wand, the dust-caked volumes came up clean.
[You practiced the Scouring Charm once at Novice standard. Proficiency +3]
[Novice-level Scouring Charm unlocked]
[A new title in the Charms domain has been unlocked. Please check]
Sean didn't rush to look. He gathered the books and shelved them, then swept his gaze over the classroom.
Desks and chairs that had been webbed with cobwebs were clean again, neatly set in rows by Justin and Hermione. The giant bookcase still leaned, but every book had been returned, inside and out wiped down by Sean. In another corner the odd instruments had been stacked and sorted by the three of them.
All in all, it finally looked like a classroom in use, not a relic from a thousand years ago.
He opened his panel:
[Title: Charms Initiate]
[Slightly increases perception of charms; greatly improves Charms talent]
Greatly?
With rising hope, Sean read on:
[Wizard Sean — Charms Talent: Blue (boosted by Charms Initiate; original talent: White). Note: average wizard is Green]
So… I'm barely a half–charms prodigy now? he thought.
Talent matters—a lot. The gap between White and Blue is like that between an ordinary snake and a basilisk. He'd wanted to learn the four DADA spells for a while, but results had been poor. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 didn't list them; The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection was maddeningly vague. It looked like something you needed a professor for—and relying on Quirrell was about as useful as hoping Snape would throw open the dungeon doors for him.
So Sean tried self-study.
And in a short time—following a kind of wordless instinct—he unlocked Red Sparks and Green Sparks.
Just ten tries.
Only ten.
It left the onlooking first-year wondering whether his former White-tier talent hadn't been a kind of defect in the wizarding world.
As for those two spells—Red and Green Sparks—they look feeble, but on the ground they do two jobs: first, signal for help (Sean remembered them used in Task Three of the Triwizard Tournament); second, low-tier offense in a scrap. In first year Ron had said: with only a few days' lessons, Harry and Malfoy could do little more than "shoot sparks" at each other—the very Red and Green Sparks in question.
When Sean stepped into the corridor, he still caught Mrs. Norris's distant yowl now and then—and:
"Sir Cadogan, pay your forfeit—you'll go into the Drunken Monks group portrait and fetch me a bottle of first-rate firewhisky—"
A lady's voice rang from the wall. Sean looked up. A plump witch in a white gown beamed from one frame, addressing the portrait beside her—where a squat, grass-stained knight with an overlong sword sighed:
"Merlin's beard—my dear Green, how can you not care even for Quidditch? Always hiding in the library, and so late back! Look—there goes another bottle out of my allotment!"
Sean needed no more to know Sir Cadogan and Lady Violet had a bet again. It happened often. Hung forever on the walls with nothing to do, portraits naturally took their fun where they could—placing secret wagers on Hogwarts students.
Like wizards betting which raindrop hits the sill first, the portraits quietly ran "races" with the students—most commonly, seeing who reached a destination first via the moving staircases (with a neutral portrait following as judge).
Sean didn't answer Sir Cadogan; the knight would chatter at him all the way to the common room. Telling him his name last time had been mistake enough—Cadogan had wrung five or six jokes out of a single name:
"Sean Green decided to be a painter—but failed. Know why? He'd only ever—
Seen Green! Hahahaha—"
Sean Green did not find it funny. He discreetly shifted the Drunken Monks group portrait to a more hidden spot.
…
Night passed quickly. Hogwarts would welcome a new week, and Monday—first of all—was the only day that could really rattle Sean's nerves. Likely the tensest day for every Ravenclaw first-year.
Because this morning was their second Potions class.
He'd reviewed the rite three more times the night before and pored over his Cure for Boils notes. In fact, he'd only just finished his Potions essay yesterday—so that today his understanding would be in top form.
In the hush, the dungeon doors BANGed open. Professor Snape's billowing black robes made his sallow face look even gloomier. Elegant as his movements were, the first-years still felt the oppressive weight of his presence.
"—Ravenclaw allied with Hufflepuff, hmm—" His voice was low and cutting. "A week has passed. If I find certain people still stubbornly maintaining—an astonishing deficit of both intellect and manual competence—"
He didn't finish before the first-years below were already shaking, several going pale.