"Merlin, why is that? Because it looks cool?"
Puzzlement shone in Justin's light-grey eyes.
A sudden gust rattled the lantern he'd hung on the wall. He poked Sean and Hermione, pulling them from their reverie. Hermione frowned, cheeks puffed, ready to say something—then she saw Justin gaping, finger pointing out the window.
Along the three-walled rampart, a figure streaked toward the castle like lightning, slicing past the open fan-arched window in a howl of wind, broom tip gleaming in the sun.
"Because it is cool… now I get it," Justin breathed. The wind carried off his whisper, but the spark in his eyes was plain.
"Don't even think about it, Justin… first-years are strictly forbidden to fly brooms on their own. Haven't you read the school rules?" Hermione's gentle voice shattered the daydream.
"Eh?!" Justin froze like a half-carved post.
"Don't tell me you came to school without reading the rules." Hermione spared little awe for the upper-year on the broom; her focus was on the baffled badger. "Honestly—if you don't know the rules, how will you avoid breaking them?"
"I… don't know. I figured Hogwarts wouldn't be that strict…" He glanced instinctively at Sean. "Sean, did you read the rules?"
"Mm." Sean's nod made Justin's face fall completely. In fact, to make sure he could stay at Hogwarts, Sean could recite them backwards. Hermione was right: first-years may not ride a broom without permission—but with Madam Hooch's say-so, that's different. Few first-years manage it, but hope exists.
"Tch… here, hold this." Hermione dropped a brown, gold-trimmed book into Justin's arms—packed with precise notes. His eyes brightened. He clutched Hogwarts: A History and heard a tiny "idiot" under Hermione's breath.
"And wizards don't use brooms to show off…" she added, flipping Quidditch Through the Ages. Three heads bent close again.
[Experience through the ages has taught witches and wizards that if their Muggle neighbors knew everything about them, those Muggles would find ways to exploit their talents. So if witches and wizards wanted a flying device in their homes, it had to be discreet—easy to hide. What happened next is obvious.]
"So they chose brooms?" Justin hadn't expected that answer, but soon nodded. "If my neighbor were a wizard, I'd struggle not to pry, too."
Afternoon sun slanted through the fan-arched window, slicing the little room into warm bands of light and shadow. Dust motes drifted like a thousand tiny golden sprites—then jolted.
The doorframe thumped again. "Oh! Ernie—if he knocks the wall next to ours, it means he'll be waiting in the Hall," Justin said, coming back to himself. He tugged Sean's sleeve. "It's about Professor Snape. I asked Ernie and the others for help—Mother says there's strength in unity."
Sean nodded, thoughtful. The two said goodbye to Hermione and stepped out. Justin added, "Don't worry, Hermione—I won't tell anyone about this room. It's our secret! I promise…"
Hermione barely seemed to hear, engrossed in her reading—but after they left, her eyes glistened a little.
In the Great Hall, a short, stout blond boy sat restlessly, book in hand but eyes glued to the doors.
"All right, if Finch-Fletchley told me to wait here, he'll come. Worry about Friday's flying lesson instead," he muttered.
"Ernie!" Justin scanned the Hall and spotted him at the Hufflepuff table.
"Justin!" Ernie shot up. Justin led Sean over at a quick clip.
Sean knew that face. Ernie Macmillan—a ninth-generation pure-blood Hufflepuff, and as sincere as they come. He'd once suspected Harry of being Slytherin's Heir; after Hermione was petrified, he realized Harry was innocent and apologized publicly—and Harry accepted. What stuck most in Sean's mind, though, was the Battle of Hogwarts, when Professor McGonagall told Prefect Macmillan:
"Once you have my orders, organize your house and get them evacuated in an orderly fashion."
And Ernie answered, unusually solemn:
"What if we want to stay and fight?"
…
Ernie brought good news: Snape was buried in grading and had been in his office for a while. Sean immediately fetched his tools and ingredients and headed for the dungeon.
Why the dungeon? First-years aren't permitted to take cauldrons out. If they were, Hogwarts would be full of demolition experts. Potions isn't safe—like chemistry, you brew in the lab.
White steam rose in gauzy threads; Sean worked with laser focus. Soon the cauldron was bubbling, the dungeon filled only with quiet breathing and a simmer's burble.
By the time Snape left his office and entered the dungeon, Sean had finished—another +3 proficiency—and slipped away, satisfied.
Borage had been right: without enough will, the revised rite won't run. Sean's deep fatigue hadn't left since the last brew—bone-deep, just as Borage warned, lasting at least five days.
He didn't idle while he recovered. Put in a line?
He was playing hide-and-seek with Professor Snape.
~~~
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