Transfiguration office.
Though Professor McGonagall was furious, she was even more concerned about whether Sean was hurt.
Then, with the coldest expression, she set a stack of dragon-anatomy notes into his hands and, after a brief word with Professor Flitwick, sentenced Sean to two weeks' detention—serving it with her.
Sean kept nodding. The professor sighed, as if thinking of something, and gently nudged him out of the office.
At the door.
Sean was immediately surrounded.
Hermione gave him a tight hug, then Harry, then Ron.
"You shouldn't have done that."
Hermione's voice broke; her eyes were still a little red.
Harry and Ron said nothing, but meant the same.
Sean glanced at Justin—arms folded, smiling—and said:
"It was Justin's idea."
Hermione and the others didn't buy it—everyone knew Justin's ideas tended to follow Sean's lead.
Knowing he wouldn't be allowed to leave without saying something, Sean spoke slowly:
"Mm. Because we're friends."
While they were still stunned, he slipped away.
…
With points docked from all four houses, there was little left to snipe about—only a bit of curiosity: why had Green broken rules at all?
The explanation spread quietly out of Ravenclaw; no one knew exactly what was said, but everyone who heard it stopped gossiping.
In that odd, prickling atmosphere—
Sean was about to set off for the Alchemy Congress.
He stepped out of the alchemy office with a thrum of excitement—his ritual was complete!
He lacked nothing now!
It was only a hatchling, but someday he'd make a true Dragon Biscuit.
And a hatchling dragon corps was still a dragon corps.
Poison fangs and fireballs aren't known to argue with logic.
In the corridor,
the invitation trembled faintly in the candlelight as Sean read:
"Beneath aether's glow, magic flows like silver thread.
Alchemists wander among ancient runes, yet none can name the path.
Thus, we come—for magic's future—
The International Congress of Alchemy,
on the morrow,
awaits—
the future you carry."
The cardstock warmed in his palm, turning into something like a pact.
Feeling it curiously a moment, he sensed a distant place now faintly linked to him.
He turned to head back to the Hope Nook to pack—only to find Harry, pressed to a cracked door, intent on listening.
These days Harry had been cramming.
The five of them were always together, revising deep into the night—memorizing complex potion recipes, spells and counters, the dates of landmark magical inventions and goblin rebellions…
Sean had thought nothing could shake their shared resolve to ace their exams.
As he drew nearer, he heard sobs from within the classroom—Professor Quirrell.
"I—I can't do it… can't… please…"
He sounded threatened by someone.
Right by the door, Harry's brow furrowed.
Snape was pinning Quirrell with his stare—possibly threatening him.
But Quirrell had not given in—he was refusing Snape's demand.
Hearing him, Harry knew what desperate people might do when cornered.
Quirrell's danger had spiked; Harry rushed off, two steps at a time.
He whipped out the map Sean had given him, touched a spot—
At once, Harry's name flared red across every copy—and with it, everyone else's name lit red as well.
Above Harry's name hovered: "EMERGENCY ROUND TABLE."
Yes: he'd used the map to convene the Round Table.
Behind him, Sean quietly set down his faintly trembling map.
Quirrell strode from the room, rearranging his scarf, face bloodless, on the verge of tears—striding out of Sean's sightline.
Quirrell. Sean didn't know whether Voldemort fully controlled him yet.
But seeing the ever-unremoved turban, Sean knew at least for now Quirrell had not gone to Dumbledore.
Before the Forbidden Forest, before the unicorn's cry—perhaps there was still time to pull it back…
Quirrell, hurrying, reached the shadows at the end of the corridor.
He trembled; on his desk in Defense Against the Dark Arts lay a Squirrel Biscuit—its note "Happy Easter" worn down until only "REVIVE" remained.
He sat where no light reached, cringing over papers to grade.
Before long, he scrawled a huge "O" by the name Sean Green, whisked it aside—then stared at "Harry Potter."
He could hardly speak most days—but inside, his thoughts roiled.
The troll—he brought it in, to sow chaos. A passable pretext.
What kind of troll could truly sow chaos in a castle guarded by the greatest white wizard?
And he, a Defense professor, had fainted at the troll—absurd…
As absurd as now.
…Snape pressing step by step; the Dark Lord—Great Master—bidding him drink unicorn blood.
He had thought he had no choice.
And yet now—some sliver of another path.
What should he do?
Dumbledore had looked past his unspoken plea; would he… make the same mistake again?
Unicorns—purest of creatures…
Quirrell seemed to decide; leaving, he bumped into an unready, "passing" Harry.
His hand touched Harry's—and nothing happened.
…
The "Second Round Table" opened breathlessly with Harry's report.
They confirmed Quirrell's rising risk, but still had no handle to grip.
And at this juncture—Sean would be leaving, Dumbledore would be leaving, and worse—Harry's detention was set to begin.
The weather soured before their eyes; the enchanted ceiling grew dimmer and heavier; rain clattered against the high windows.
The whole castle felt poised in a gale.
In that gale, they stood silent, reluctant and uneasy, watching Sean walk out of the Hope Nook.
With him gone, even the wind sounded louder—howling, sending the Chittering-Fern into nervous squeaks.
Harry uncurled his fist; on the slip of paper, in bold hand:
"Your detention begins tonight at eleven o'clock. Report to the caretaker in the entrance hall.
—Professor McGonagall."