After circling the pitch a few times on the broom, Sean hovered politely before Madam Hooch.
"Madam Hooch, may I go a little higher?"
"For troublemakers, the answer is no. But…" She lifted her hand and an equally weathered broom snapped into her grip. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
The wind whistled. Sean hung ten feet up, every Quaffle dent in the turf visible below. The southwest stands—where the Snitch often flitted—glowed softly on their gilt rails in the morning light. Trimmed grass flowed beneath; a few first-years peered up, gasping at the student flying with Madam Hooch beside him.
With her permission, Sean leaned into the long-missed freedom and climbed. The broom trembled under his control—but obeyed. At fifty feet the outline of Hogwarts opened: turrets needled through ground fog; the Black Lake mirrored the sky in dark glass; the Forbidden Forest rolled like a sea of ink-green.
[You practiced Flying once at Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
[You practiced Flying once at Expert standard. Proficiency +50]
…
[A new title in the Flying domain has been unlocked]
Madam Hooch followed at an easy pace. Perhaps too long away from the Quidditch circuit, she'd forgotten what top flyers' talent looks like. Sean climbed high and she didn't mind—simply shared tips, delighted to find a pupil worth the effort.
Under her guidance, the fatigue bled away, and Sean's green eyes deepened on the horizon.
Magic is born in a witch or wizard; beyond that, descriptions go vague. The one certainty: its total, or "level," grows as the wizard grows.
So when you're spent and spells won't come—are you truly out of magic?
If so, then where do emotion and focus lever up stronger magic?
He found his answer skimming low over the grass. Just as a person cannot recruit every microfibre of muscle at once, a wizard cannot recruit all their magic. Flying wakes the dormant part—slowly, but meaningfully. So do Charms drills, Transfiguration practice, and even brewing—at different speeds.
In a warm-lit office, a quill paused above a stack of essays. Minerva McGonagall felt a breeze and glanced up. One look—there was a first-year flying clean as a lark, robes snapping.
"Quidditch…" Her mouth tilted up—then she jerked to the window, peering again. Yes—a first-year. And Green, no less. The seed she'd brought from barren soil—that sickly seed—flying?
"Thank you, Madam Hooch," Sean said, dropping to the grass at last, limbs jelly-limp, sweat pouring. He still saved a breath for a Scouring Charm—returning a spotless broom to Hooch, who landed as cleanly as she flew.
"Fancy Quidditch?" she asked, more satisfied now. Disciplined, restrained, gifted—so rare, these days.
Sean blinked. His idea of the sport came from books:
[The first Quidditch World Cup was held in 1473. Records list "fouls," such as transfiguring a Chaser into a skunk, attempting to cleave the Keeper's head with a broadsword, and releasing a hundred vampire bats from beneath the Transylvanian captain's robes.]
He shook his head.
"Even as a Seeker?" Hooch sounded surprised.
[The Seeker's lure is obvious—the best flyers on the pitch—but "Take out the Seeker" is Rule One in Brutus Scrimgeour's Beater's Bible.]
Sean shook harder. Some "bible"…
"I'd say you could make the national side. Every team has a fine mascot and—"
She stopped short.
[The Banchory Bangers once tried to use a Hebridean Black dragon as their team mascot.]
Sean was shaking his head like a propeller now. Compared with a Hebridean Black, he'd be the mascot.
Let the dragon be the Seeker, he thought—and bolted from the pitch, light-footed, eager to test what he'd guessed about magical "levels." He never noticed the tall witch in deep-green robes watching him go.
In the classroom, Hermione and Justin whispered. Proving once more: when the topic is someone everyone cares about, ending the conversation is the hardest magic of all.
Sean focused on Aguamenti. Two spells had to reach Novice…
"…eight, nine… that's one more!" he murmured, pleased. He couldn't swear the awakening was permanent, but it mattered—and he'd never seen any book describe it.
"Maybe I just haven't read enough," he told himself, ever cautious.
He opened the panel again:
[Aguamenti: Apprentice (45/300)]
Slow and steady growth.
[Title: Junior Flyer]
[Slightly increases perception of broom magic; greatly improves flying talent]
"Greatly improves flying talent?" He scrolled.
[Wizard Sean — Flying Talent: Gold]
No change? Then "greatly" must be measured against normal standards—or perhaps it rose within Gold's ceiling.
While resting, he cracked Advanced Potion-Making. Flying to conquer Ravenclaw Tower's stairs; Charms for the scholarship; Potions for the long view:
Galleons.
Money fuels magic. As a first-year orphan, he didn't have many options—especially after Snape's offhand hints and long thought. The goal was clear.