As Sean was passing by—
Malfoy and Harry were rolling together in the snow, while Ron, Crabbe, and Goyle were grappling, trading punches and kicks and yelping in pain.
Sean quietly summoned two snowmen and had them pull the brawlers apart.
Malfoy shivered, avoided Sean's eye, gave a faint sniff, and stalked off with Goyle and Crabbe.
Harry, meanwhile, felt even more like a baboon—this time without even a wand.
Sean watched Harry and Ron for a moment. They kept their heads down, feeling sheepish for reasons they couldn't name.
They didn't look seriously hurt and didn't need the hospital wing… so Sean walked on.
To Harry and Ron, though, it looked like Sean was disappointed.
They were wizards, after all. Long before the Green Compendium existed, Sean had given them his notes—their contents far more detailed than the Compendium's.
And what had they done? One trained for the Quidditch Sean didn't even like; the other got obsessed with Wizard's Chess—neither had learned any proper spells.
"Harry… do we have any chance left?" Ron couldn't even manage a smile this time.
He'd always wanted to join the secret group. Think about it: all six of them had faced the troll; the other four kept getting better. Never mind Justin's excellence in Herbology and Charms— even Neville had earned eleven points for Gryffindor.
Everybody's opinion of Ron had shifted.
"I think… not," Harry said.
"Harry, Ron—good morning—"
Justin couldn't take it anymore. He bounded out of the snowy yard, eyes bright. "If you want to know the answer, why not ask him yourselves?"
…
As Sean walked the corridor, he half expected Fred or George to pop out somewhere, but no luck.
Unwilling to wait, he headed outside the castle. From keeping an eye on Harry here and there, he knew Gryffindor had practice that afternoon.
Up at a third-floor stained-glass window, Professor McGonagall watched the boy walking alone, footprints trailing in the snow. Behind her lurked a few sneaking Ravenclaws.
"Little wizard! Foolish little wizard!"
Mr. Owl's sudden appearance made them all stumble and scuttle off. He glanced at Roger and his mates, an oddly human hint of hurt and confusion in his eyes.
That day, the Ravenclaw door knocker seemed "out of order," pelting students with several hard riddles and leaving them to shiver outside for ages.
At the Quidditch pitch, Sean reached the locker-room door.
Two tongues of red flame sprang up from the snow.
"Saw you heading to the pitch—" Fred burst out of the drift, badge in hand.
"So we knew the alchemy field had found another genius!" George beamed.
"Fred—damn it! Where's my prefect badge?!" Out of the locker room stalked Percy Weasley: immaculate clothes, thoroughly irritable tone. A rule-stickler who liked to bark at infractions; Ron called him a swot, vain and inflexible. He hugged a copy of How Prefects Get Power, which made Fred curl his lip. Raising his voice, Fred said:
"I'm George, Percy! Didn't How Prefects Get Power teach you to tell? What a pity—"
He dragged out the last word and winked at Sean.
"Fine—George! Tell me where my badge is!"
Percy bellowed.
"That was a joke—I'm Fred, actually!"
"Give it!"
And off Percy charged, chasing Fred in circles.
George and Sean watched a beat. Then George fished a badge from his pocket. "I don't get it—why does a prefect's badge need so much polishing… West side, Fred!"
Fred instantly changed direction.
"Oh, right—about that floating quill—"
He didn't finish. Sean had already produced his finished alchemical piece.
"I knew you had our knack—passed! With flying colors!" George winked and slipped the floating quill into his bag—right alongside the prefect badge.
"Didn't think you'd nail it in two weeks. You're a natural for alchemy! Now— you've got a notebook or journal, right? Write in it now if you like—not quite the ideal alchemist's attitude, but you don't even know what alchemy is yet!
"Anyway, Professor Tayra will be very interested. We just need to stage a few 'coincidences'…"
Sean handed over his notes. George clapped his shoulder with a "we're the same breed" look.
"Professor Tayra—who's that?" Sean asked.
"Oh! Great question! Professor Tayra sits on the International Alchemy Association council—and she's the most mysterious professor in the school. No one sees her except sixth- and seventh-years. Importantly—Fred! To your right!"
George shouted, warning Fred as Percy lunged back around the changing room.
Percy stormed toward them. "Not good—time to go, Green!" George sprinted off, calling over his shoulder, "Don't worry—we'll find you, Great Green!"
"Great Green?" Percy was livid, but the phrase piqued his interest. He stopped and looked Sean over.
"Oh—Mr. Green," Percy said, trying to be affable. This Green was no ordinary boy: passed the flight test, authored the smash-hit Green Notes—Percy had read them. Even he had to admit the History of Magic section was very well written. All in all, whether Sean became a Quidditch star or a professorial figure, Percy could spare a smile.
"Hello, Mr. Weasley," Sean replied politely.
"Oh, call me Prefect Percy," he said, genial as could be.
Outside, the oak door stood ajar, warm light and murmurs seeping from the changing room. At the edge of the snow, Fred slung an arm around George.
"I'm going to lose my lunch—'call me Percy, Prefect Percy'…" Fred pulled a face.
Unusually, George didn't quip back. Fred tilted his head; George was staring at a notebook, spellbound.
"The Great Green Notes?!" Fred feigned a gasp—George didn't react.
Fred immediately sobered.
"Ah… two days' work, just barely made a floating quill… So odd, George—is this English?"