Sean could understand why that requirement existed.
On the pitch, a broom is called a wizard's teammate. An old, outdated broom is a huge drag—dangerous, even—for a first-year who's only just learned to fly.
Because brooms are handmade, their ceilings and floors vary wildly. Expensive models like the Nimbus 2000 don't just have a unique braking system; they also carry pricey patents on the Braking Charm for rapid starts and stops, and the intricate alchemy inside supports full 360-degree turns.
As for Sean's broom—if he dared force it to try that, it would come apart midair. The Comet Trading Company's own manual said as much:
[As you can see, this is a training broom. It costs thirty Galleons. What exactly do you expect it to do?]
Sean thought the company heads, Randolph Keitch and Basil Horton, weren't wrong.
Maybe for most first-years this wasn't a real problem. A Nimbus 1500 isn't insanely expensive; the Quality Quidditch Supplies shop in Diagon Alley even delivers to Hogwarts. One letter, and most parents are happy to oblige.
But Sean… if anyone mailed him anything, that would be the day hell froze over.
It meant his plan to fly up to Ravenclaw Tower was on hold until he could leave the school.
Noon soaked the Quidditch pitch in almost decadent sunlight; the sky was a flawless blue, thin clouds smeared like white paint. Sean hesitated, then asked one last question before leaving:
"Madam Hooch, if we can't leave the school, then—?"
"Oh, Mr. Green, I don't think that'll be a problem for you," she said, tossing him a towel to blot the drip from the shed roof. "Train hard. And that's the last thing you need to worry about."
She strode off with her broom, leaving Sean puzzled in place.
In a corridor, a knight in a painting was glug-glug-glugging firewhisky, cheeks flushed scarlet. He had an overlong sword and grass-stains on both knees. Perhaps too much to drink—he boomed:
"Hogwarts' headmasters, one and all… Oh, Violet, mark me: Phineas Nigellus Black was a pompous fool! Armando Dippet—a talentless dullard who couldn't judge a soul! Dumbledore is very fine indeed, but a knight cannot lie—he is a…"
The dangerous words jolted Sean. Sir Cadogan drunk and this bold?
Not just him—wizards seemed to possess a strange rashness.
"Sir, if you finish that sentence, I suspect tomorrow only one of you or the sun will rise," Sean suggested kindly.
"Oh—young Green…" The warning sobered him a shade; his face was still red, but his voice dropped. "I mean—Dumbledore is a headmaster who satisfies… everyone… at once."
"Sir Cadogan, is that really so?" Lady Violet, in her white underdress, blinked, unconvinced.
Sean slipped past the bickering frames and quietly shifted the drunken monks' painting he'd hung here two days ago. The knight had given him good flying tips; it would be a grim joke if Sean's thanks got him erased after fifteen centuries.
…
The castle felt more familiar by the day; Sean could almost walk into the Great Hall with his eyes closed. You could smell the sweet, inviting roast pumpkin before you reached it. Today's mains were pork chops and Hungarian goulash—plus a parade of puddings whose recipes he didn't need to guess.
Mail arrived.
A hundred-odd owls swooped into the Hall, startling a few first-years. They wheeled over the tables, dropping letters and parcels into waiting laps—igniting waves of curiosity. Sean never received any, but he didn't mind feeding the exhausted messengers; students busy with mail always forgot them.
A few owls perched by him. He quietly cut off a small piece of toast and watched the intelligent creatures eat. In a moment the white owls would wing back to the Owlery to sleep among the roosts.
And that scene was noted from the staff table by a tall witch.
"Animals always find the kind children, don't they, Minerva? Sometimes beasts choose better than we do," said the wizard at the center—long silver hair and beard, half-moon spectacles, humor and deep kindness in his eyes. He might have meant the owls… and more.
The elder "cat-witch" said nothing, watching the students share their joy over letters—even a box of sweets drew a friendly riot. Seamus would have cried if his mates hadn't left him a few.
The boy surrounded by owls simply watched, quiet; the noise around him never seemed to include him.
Leaving the Hall, Sean faced a new charm—the Summoning Charm.
One of the oldest spells in wizarding society, it's been in use for centuries. Consequently, its explanations are tangled and overlong—layers of Masters' interpretations muddled together. Far from clarifying, they made it worse—long, complex, and easy to get lost in. Much like Hermione's twisty explanation in class.
Sean's knack was to distill precision from the fog—a little went a long way for him. In the classroom, he took a quill from his bag and used it to practice. Only… he might not have looked closely enough…
"Focus; hold the object's properties in mind… Accio—Quill!"
The quill trembled—then did nothing.
"Palm up on the lift, when you cast," a voice cut his thoughts.
Hermione pushed the door open, arms full of books. "Accio—Quill!"
She swished—and the quill still didn't budge.
So the pondering became a duet.
They leafed through different texts until Justin slipped in. "Oh! Sean, Hermione… are you practicing on lollipop quills?"