"Hey, you okay, Sean?"
Justin's voice came from beside him.
In truth, Sean wasn't great—he already felt what was about to happen.
He quietly shifted seats, and then the whispers started:
"What's Seamus doing, Ron?"
"He's trying to turn water into wine in his goblet. The other day he managed weak tea, but after that…"
"After that?"
Abruptly, a billow of scalding black smoke whooshed up and swallowed Seamus whole.
Shards of glass and drops of water sprayed everywhere; the nearby students yelped and ducked.
Hermione stumbled back, eyes wide.
As the smoke thinned, Seamus came into view—
face black as soot as if he'd crawled out of a chimney, hair blown straight up and still wisping smoke. He hacked and coughed, stunned senseless by the blast.
For a heartbeat the table fell silent—then roared with laughter.
Ron thumped the table, spilling pumpkin juice; Harry snorted and hurried to hide his grin.
Only Justin rushed in, handing over a handkerchief. "You okay, Seamus?"
Just then the owls swept into the Hall as usual, blotting out the ceiling and delivering post—handily stealing everyone's attention.
Only Hermione eyed Sean, who had oh-so-timely moved away, and asked, suspicious: "You felt that magic surge, didn't you?"
…
Ever since Professor Snape gave Sean that curious potion, bottles kept turning up on Sean after he left the dungeon—one or sometimes two at a time. The labels sometimes read: Drink; sometimes nothing at all.
Bring one of those phials to class, though, and Snape's sarcasm would rattle off like a machine gun.
Progress on Swelling Solution came fast; Sean had it unlocked in under two days. At the same time, Snape taught him the deflating antidote as well, because:
"With your troll-like technique, you'll be needing it."
Whatever the tone, it was another potion learned. His panel now read:
[Title]: Potions Novice
[Scalp Tonic]: Apprentice (220/300)
[Swelling Solution]: Apprentice (1/300)
[Deflating Draught]: Locked (1/30)
[Advance]: Brew 3 Novice potions to unlock Novice title
Compared with potions' steady grind, DADA and Charms were flying.
Tuesday.
Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.
"Wh-wh-who can t-t-tell me the three types of tr-tr-trolls?" Professor Quirrell stammered, eyes skittering across Slytherins and Ravenclaws until Anthony stood.
"Mountain trolls, river trolls, and forest/sea trolls," he answered. "Mountain trolls are the largest, light gray, bald, with skin rougher than a rhino's and the strength of ten men. Their brains are about the size of a pea, so they're easily confused."
"V-very good, thank you."
While Quirrell fished for answers, Michael was thumbing through Sean's DADA notes.
"Classification of Dark Creatures—by region, by alphabet… matched counter-curses and defensive charms…" He cradled it like a grimoire. "Sean, how did you even think of this?!"
Comparing it with The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, he found Sean's spell entries more detailed than the book. "You didn't just use the course text… Merlin, this is as brilliant as that History of Magic notebook!"
Sean didn't respond; his desk was spread with Basics of Defensive Magic, Defence Against the Dark Arts: An Introduction, and more. Quirrell's teaching was so thin that Sean had rebuilt the framework himself.
He'd come in with a question from his previous life: Dark Arts and Charms both use incantations and wands—so why are they so sharply divided?
After digesting a stack of books, he had his answer. Dark Arts and Charms are fundamentally different; the Dark Arts split three ways:
Jinxes: lowest negativity—annoying but often whimsical. (e.g., Knockback Jinx, Babbling Curse variants, Disarming-adjacent jinxes)
Hexes: middling harm—real pain or impairment. (e.g., Bat-Bogey Hex, Knee-Reversal Hex, Toenail Growth Hex)
Curses: highest harm—severe or irreversible suffering. (e.g., Cruciatus, Imperius, Killing Curse)
What Professor Flitwick teaches is another category entirely: Charms.
With that, it all made sense: talent in the Dark Arts and talent in Charms don't necessarily translate.
When class ended, Michael clutched Sean's notebook while Terry and the others stared.
"Ahem—want a look? You can—"
Even Anthony raised a brow.
"—for a fee!"
Michael bolted, leaving a pack of indignant first-years chasing him. He muttered to himself, "These are Sean's Galleons. He doesn't care, but I can't cheapen it. I'll market it for him—heh, working nicely…"
He spun and rapped Terry on the head. "Honestly, Terry—didn't I say Sean let me share with you and Anthony? Forgot already?!"
…
Noon, Quidditch pitch.
After Charms practice, Sean swung onto his broom. Once off the ground, he wasn't the wobbly, breathless wizard anymore.
The old Comet 260 leapt like a silver fish; wind put color in his pale cheeks. He lay flat along the handle, a vine finding its trellis.
Dive, turn, pull up—
He followed Madam Hooch's drill to the letter.
Proficiency ticked up:
[You practiced flying to Expert standard. Proficiency +50]
[You practiced flying to Expert standard. Proficiency +50]
…
His frail body traced crisp, graceful arcs that lifted the corners of Madam Hooch's mouth. She said to a tall witch who'd just arrived:
"Mr. Green is a born Quidditch star—anyone can see it. Those old brooms—outdated and retired—are fine for the flailing lot. He's content enough, but you can see it: they don't deserve him."
The tall witch watched the little wizard tasting freedom again, and something gentler softened her eyes.
~~~
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