Another day,
Sean stepped out of the dungeon.
He carefully erased every trace of his brewing; even after Justin inspected the spot for ages, he found nothing amiss.
Moments later, lightning split the sky—another thunderous day at Hogwarts.
Rain fell outside the castle while Sean read in the library, crystal globes casting a soft warm light. Madam Pince had a habit of glancing at Sean as she passed by.
If Hermione's six hours a day in the library were already industrious, then Sean—who opened the doors with Madam Pince and closed the oak doors with her—was practically a half-librarian. At least for this row of shelves, Sean always helped put the books back in order. Not out of charity—once you've skimmed them all, shelving is easy.
Sometimes Madam Pince would tell him which books had real substance and which were bluster. Sean was grateful for that. She wasn't as the rumors said—never kind to first-years. At least when she saw his annotated History notes, she'd gladly chat a while, and share a dessert—never in the library, of course, but at opening and closing time.
Those treats from Justin were all the rage lately. Who knew how he'd talked the house-elves into letting him into the kitchens—but his baking was first-rate. Perhaps Hufflepuffs are born with culinary magic; the desserts he adapted from Conjure Yourself a Feast! were drawing raves. Even Hermione would pop two daifuku in one go, cheeks puffed out. As for Sean—he usually got first bite.
…
Outside, rain whispered onto the rich soil; a mist rose over the Scottish Highlands. Nights here were always honey-gold and cozy; when the damp, earthy breeze brushed his cheek, his green eyes shimmered with a magical halo.
"Stronger conviction, a wider arc with the left hand—and most of all, believe. Believe you can do it… let go of gravity…" Sean murmured, correcting Justin's Levitation once more.
Thanks to relentless grind, in barely over a week Sean's Charms progress had left other first-years behind. Even Hermione sometimes stopped to weigh his tips. He never minded sharing: when practice ended and fatigue set in, he was happy to pass on "tiny" bits of know-how.
The one annoyance: Snape had been brewing far too often. Lately the two of them existed in a strange rhythm: if Snape wasn't in the dungeon, Sean was; if Sean wasn't, Snape was.
Through this hide-and-seek, Sean had unlocked more than two-thirds of his Potions title. Still, urgency gnawed at him. He'd been at school a week and a half—too slow. He made a decision: even without a firm read on Snape's movements, he'd go brew. Before week's end he would unlock the Potions title—that was the only way to go farther down that path.
The wizarding world runs on talent; the gaps are stark. Sean knew it all too well.
…
Ravenclaw common room. Ever since the Flying lesson notice went up, almost everyone was talking Quidditch.
"Many say the Chudley Cannons' glory days are over—but more believe they will rise again! They've won the League Cup twenty-one times!" Michael declaimed, poster in one hand, chair-back in the other. On the poster, the Cannons wore bright orange robes with a hurtling cannonball and the two black letters "C.C."
"Oh, right, Michael—then explain their team motto? Before 1972 it was 'We shall conquer,' and after that it became 'Let's cross our fingers and hope for the best'?" a tall, skinny boy teased.
"That—that doesn't count!" Michael yelped, stung, then launched into "that was management's slogan," "nothing to do with the team," and "you don't know the Cannons' glory," which had everyone in stitches.
"Pathetic…" Even Michael sighed at last, throwing up his hands.
The hearth burned warm. Sean, pale, drifted past—with Anthony "reading" behind him, eyes never leaving Sean. He was always a half-step late.
"Oh! Sean, Anthony!" Michael's sharp eyes snagged them; he hurried over, casually hooking an arm through Sean's. They settled into Ravenclaw's seats, velvet worn smooth with age. Star-chart cushions and low stools lay about, deep purple, midnight blue, or bronze silk piled on Persian and velvet rugs like scattered constellations.
Their lively chatter tangled with the rain's clatter outside. Sean let himself rest—and drew out Quidditch Through the Ages. It was a delightful read. For example: Falmouth Falcons, famed for ferocious play, with world-famous Beaters Kevin and Karl Broadmoor. Their motto: "Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads." Intimidating, to say the least.
Suddenly, the buzz faded. Sean looked up to find six or seven heads crowding in.
"Sean, you got Quidditch Through the Ages?!" Michael broke the silence first. "Can I—can I see?"
Anthony sighed, uncommitted; by the stained glass, Terry was still timing raindrops—three hours now. Anthony sighed again.
Sean nodded and generously laid the book on the table.
The first-years erupted:
"Pass it here, Michael!"
"Me—me—me—me!"
Even kids who owned a copy nudged in—Madam Pince's precious loan wasn't the same as their own.
"Oh—folks, careful…" Michael's voice blew away with the storm outside.
Sean's thoughts strayed to tomorrow's plan. Yes—if Snape wasn't in the dungeon, then even without confirming with the man himself, Sean would risk brewing—as long as it was safe. He needed just six more proficiency points. The hardest scholarship fragment would finally be complete.
~~~
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