Out in the corridor.
Sean glanced curiously at Sir Cadogan, who—back turned—was still trying to mount his squat pony. Looked like nothing was amiss.
"Little Green, you always look a bit peaky," said Lady Violet, blinking kindly. "What is it today—Charms, Potions, or Transfiguration?"
"Transfiguration," Sean answered honestly.
He gave Sir Cadogan another look. Still nothing. Seemed Professor Snape was… lenient with portraits?
The moment Sean left, a barely-stifled laugh—female—floated out: "All right, my dear sir, Little Green's gone."
Only then did the knight slowly turn—his front utterly unlike his back.
His gleaming breastplate and belly guard were caved in at an unnatural angle; the nasal bar of his helm was bent left; the red ostrich plume that usually bobbed so proudly was sheared half off, drooping and dripping with mud.
His face was a disaster: left eye swollen to a slit, right eye bulging round; his mustache clotted into stiff spikes with some sticky slime, studded with suspicious mushroom crumbs.
"What are you staring at!" His voice was hoarse but booming as ever, glaring past the frame at passing first years. "Never seen the medals of victory?!"
But when those students edged around the side of the frame they couldn't help snort-laughing.
Sir Cadogan's back told a different tale—his silver-blue cloak was spotless, velvet smooth as new; the backplates shone well enough to reflect Hermione Granger's frown as she hurried past; even the tassel on his longsword had been carefully braided and swayed elegantly with his motions.
"Hahaha—sir, what an ordeal—" Lady Violet could hardly get her mouth to close.
"Vile troll! Many against one!" Cadogan growled, so low a first-year fell on his backside. "And the vile…" He looked left, right; seeing no one, he muttered a few more words under his breath.
…
With Snape's potions, Sean's Charms work was racing. Where he used to need ages to recover, now half an hour brought half his magic back.
"A-guah—men-tee!"
As his wand traced an arc, a stream of clear water followed the tip. It didn't last long, but the control meant proficiency ticked up.
[You practiced Aguamenti to Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
He checked the panel:
[Summoning Charm]: Apprentice (3/300)
[Aguamenti]: Novice (2/900)
[Wingardium Leviosa]: Novice (200/900)
He might push Summoning to Novice by tomorrow. The thought tugged a smile.
"Aguamenti!"
Hermione's firm voice—water bloomed at her wand tip too. "A wider arc really does help…"
She sketched the curve one-to-one in her notes; another quill—Sean's—jotted pronunciation tips.
Then she tilted her chin sky-high and looked over at Justin still practicing.
"My mum says every stream has its own course," Justin said warmly, unbothered by slow progress. "Guess what? They all end up in the sea."
Hermione flushed, turned away. "Fine—seems you can manage."
"No—Mother means all the world's rivers meet again. Hermione, would you help a stranded little stream?" He held his wand like a beggar's cup.
Hermione puffed her cheeks but moved closer. "Hmph—your stress is all wrong!"
…
Wednesday.
The Hall's enchanted ceiling faintly purple with dawn; thousands of candles afloat, shedding warm halos. The house tables were already lively: first-years in pajamas rubbing sleep from their eyes, nearly pouring pumpkin juice into their porridge; two Hufflepuff girls bent over Transfiguration notes, jam on their hair tips; Ravenclaw's table burst into laughter as someone made Hogwarts: A History tap-dance.
Owls stooped from the high vault like a rain of feathers, bearing parcels and papers like the Daily Prophet. Today, there were more than usual.
Even Sean's spot drew over ten owls. He figured owls must share gossip—no other way all the scroungers multiplied each week. So he fought and fed at once—wand flicking toast to pieces, nuts and meat to the tired messengers' beaks.
Hermione's post was especially heavy: books, fine quills, sweets. Her tone all morning was gentler, mostly writing letters.
No sign of Justin—he'd been in the kitchens for two days. When Hermione had needed to write urgently, he'd sent his owl to help—and accidentally learned a secret:
Tomorrow was the little witch's birthday.
He'd dug discreetly since—and practically moved into the kitchens to prepare.
As an aside, he'd asked, seemingly offhand, "Sean—oh, I mean—you?"
Sean was quiet a moment, then shook his head.
He didn't know. For orphans, the day they're found is their birthday—but the matron who found him had long since quit in frustration at the pay. The orphanage hadn't held birthdays in ages; knowing your birthdate felt like a luxury.
Sean didn't notice Justin go still.
In the Hall, owls visited every table. Hermione pulled a plush doll from one package, scolded, then tucked it carefully into her bag. At Sean's place, there was an unusual emptiness—no letters.
He didn't mind. He carved lamb, thought about sending the twins on an "adventure" to fetch a broom; with a few days' hard brewing, he might scrape together a hundred Galleons for a Nimbus 1500. Must budget the twins' fee…
As his thoughts wandered, a jaunty owl dropped a letter before him. When he offered lamb, it placed the envelope firmly in his hand.
He stared. An orphan—getting post? Bloody hell?
Then again, Hogwarts had enough "bloody hells" to go around.
He opened it:
[This is your letter, so come to me, child.
—Minerva McGonagall]
~~~
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