Wizards are naturally passionate about Quidditch—especially when only a few matches remain in the season.
Gryffindor had already beaten both Slytherin and Hufflepuff.
Ravenclaw had defeated Slytherin as well, which meant Hufflepuff vs. Ravenclaw would decide who faced Gryffindor in the final.
So Roger and Prefect Penelope were watching that last matchup with particular care.
"Prefect Penelope, I'll give it everything I've got," Roger said.
As a Chaser, his "everything" meant pushing the lead out past one hundred and fifty. That way, even if the other team's Seeker caught the Snitch, they'd still win.
Easier said than done—harder, in fact, than catching the Snitch in the first five minutes.
Penelope didn't reply. The Ravenclaw players, however, got noisier:
"All right, Prefect, yes, flight permits are hard to get. But surely the Ravenclaw team doesn't have to rely on a first-year, do we?"
The tall Ravenclaw grinned.
"Wood's 'gotten lost' and walked into our changing room three times in two months… I still don't know what he thinks he saw…"
Penelope pinched a copy of the pitch booking ledger she'd copied by hand.
Gryffindor's practice times had overlapped with Sean's flight test. Ever since, Wood had turned into an idiot who "accidentally" wandered into the Ravenclaw changing room, again and again.
Each time he came, Penelope's irritation—and anxiety—grew.
And Gryffindor already had Potter.
"Wood's a Quidditch fanatic, you know," the tall Ravenclaw said, now serious.
"You can't use normal logic to predict a fanatic."
"Being 'weak' doesn't stop you winning. Arrogance does. Underestimate your opponent and you'll get flattened."
Penelope sighed and left the hall.
…
The Great Hall was raucous. Some first-years were playing Wacky Wizard Chess at full volume; others were already arguing about this year's Quidditch Cup.
The Hope Nook crowd huddled together, swapping the latest on Professor Quirrell's movements.
They were now in agreement: Professor Snape was Hogwarts' shadow guardian, likely placed by Dumbledore himself.
Imagine it: the caustic, sharp-tongued professor had been protecting them quietly all along; and timid, stuttering Quirrell… was Voldemort's pawn.
If Sean hadn't confirmed it, no one would have believed it.
"I heard Malfoy's in detention again—apparently he and his two goons picked the wrong target this time…"
Ron was jubilant, baby-fat cheeks lit with "I have huge gossip" pride.
He clapped Neville on the shoulder:
"That's what you should do—stand up to him, Neville!"
Ron said, "He struts around like he owns the place. We've no reason to knuckle under and let him have his way."
Neville trembled and nodded; Ron shook his head, exasperated.
In the Hope Nook, everyone agreed Neville needed help—especially now they all shared a slice of responsibility. Helping each other had become the Hope Nook's theme.
(Though half the time "helping each other" meant: "let's all ask Sean.")
"Sean, I just have to say—Hagrid looks careless. You need to be more careful," Hermione said, remembering the day at the Forest's edge when they'd gaped at Sean riding a Hippogriff.
Harry and Ron had only felt jealous; Hermione had thought: that's how you die.
Sean had been quietly watching Ron's and Neville's back-and-forth; being called on, he only nodded gently.
In the Hope Nook they talked mostly about magic study. In the Great Hall, they swapped fun tidbits—and checked on each other. Justin thought the atmosphere wonderfully harmonious, always smiling and nudging the mood along.
Knives and forks chimed, oils sizzled—the Great Hall's soundtrack. Sometimes Sean felt the hall existed to let wizards catch their breath. Sitting shoulder to shoulder melted the distances between them.
Dusk fell; the mountains swallowed the sun.
The corridors were dim; that didn't slow the silent little black cat hopping from suit of armor to suit of armor.
Sean wanted to reach the dungeons early and put the office and ingredient cupboard in order.
Snape had likely "forgotten" the job he'd set him, but magic made it easy: one Levitation Charm, and the tidy-up would be quick—and it doubled as a review of each ingredient, and the potions they served.
A little study session.
His planner shrank to a pendant and hung from the cat's neck.
With Shrinking Charm, Transfiguration, and levitation runes worked into the leather, the planner and quill could be summoned, read, and used even in cat form—patching that pesky "can't talk as a cat" problem.
That was the nice thing about being an alchemist: there's no such thing as "can't be done," only "haven't learned the magic yet."
The planner drifted in the air. On the first line was a clear note:
[Finish the Bowtruckle Cookie Ritual].
That was his biggest task at the moment.
His last ritual's success? Mostly brute "I-have-a-hunch" willpower, absurdly strong.
Put simply—Sean used the Will-Strengthening method, and a new ritual "came to him."
Not easy to reproduce. First, he'd riffed on a perfectly apt potion ritual: Polyjuice. Second, his own Animagus form mattered. A cat turning into a Kneazle will always be easier than a wizard turning into a Bowtruckle.
Outside the dungeon.
The black cat hopped down the steps and flowed back into a small, black-robed boy.
It was a cold, crystal-clear evening; night was drawing its veil, and a pale, translucent moon hung over the castle.
Snape's irritability had climbed day by day. His black, sunken eyes were unfocused more often than not.
Especially since some idiot had moved that blasted knight portrait to his dungeon door.
It would take up position and declaim:
"He's gone to the Big Cat's house and you, Severus—damned coward—you don't even dare whisper your name. You keep lowering your expectations; you never think you deserve a thing—damned fool! To avoid an ending you refuse every beginning?"
~~~
Patreon(.)com/Bleam
— Currently You can Read 120 Chapters Ahead of Others!