"Great Sean!"
Fred, wearing a hat stitched with red and green stripes, gave Sean an exaggerated bow.
"So, have you decided you're coming to the Burrow with us?"
George stuck his head out from behind a portrait beside Sean.
Sean was quiet for a moment—Professor McGonagall had agreed very quickly, and was even planning to take him to Diagon Alley over the summer to pick out some gifts.
She'd said the Weasleys were a very good family, and that they'd produced several excellent Gryffindors.
But Professor Snape…
The professor was almost literally worked to death.
In the most literal sense, he barely had enough time to teach classes. When Sean went down to the dungeons to brew potions, Snape had a Ravenclaw who was advanced in Potions watch him.
Luckily, he seemed to enjoy the title of "Defence Against the Dark Arts professor," and even with his gaunt face, he hadn't docked Gryffindor a single extra point.
Especially from Harry, who could barely breathe.
He used to only have to worry about two Potions lessons a week; now he had to survive four Defence lessons as well. He spent all day complaining with Ron about Snape's "vile behaviour."
And yet, under Snape's teaching, his Defence Against the Dark Arts had improved a great deal.
Which made Harry's feelings about Snape even stranger—he didn't feel like a good teacher, but in some ways, he clearly was.
His material, while not as structured, fun, or logically clean as Green's Notes, was far more extensive and went to depths Green's Notes couldn't reach.
It was also because the professor was so busy that Sean hadn't found a chance to ask him anything.
And one more thing—up to now, Snape still seemed unaware of what had happened under the trapdoor. He'd only spoken with Dumbledore, and the Headmaster appeared not to have mentioned the students' role.
Outside the caretaker's office.
"Sorry, I can't decide that right now."
Sean lowered his head slightly.
"Great Sean—your followers are willing to wait a hundred years."
Fred said in a mock–devout tone.
Sean looked at the two of them without replying. Fred just gave a cheeky laugh, and together they turned to examine the caretaker's doorknob.
"Strange doorknob. Think we can replicate it, George?"
Fred tapped the knob. It snapped and snarled furiously, but Fred kept his hand just outside its range.
Sean's expression went a bit odd, and a moment later he heard Fred yelp in pain:
"Who upgraded this thing again?! It bit through my hand…"
"Nice, now you've got a hole in one hand. Get another one and—"
George said cheerfully.
Before leaving, Sean suddenly realised it had been a long time since the Weasley twins had waged war of wits with Mr. Filch.
Outside, the night sky above the castle was crystal clear—a perfect night for observing.
Deep in the Forbidden Forest again, the dense canopy overhead blocked out almost all light. Sean felt eyes on him from the darkness.
His guess was quickly confirmed when Fang bounded over and rubbed against his legs.
Then Hagrid appeared with a thestral—Wuwu—at his side, bucket of meat in hand. He liked to give Wuwu an extra feed at this time of day.
As the forest's first male thestral, Wuwu naturally received a little extra attention from the gamekeeper.
"Sean—looks like a fine night, that is!"
Hagrid didn't understand a word of that mysterious astronomical nonsense, but if something good was happening for a friend, he'd be happy right along with them.
"See you later, Hagrid."
Sean nodded and headed off.
His centaur teacher was already waiting in the clearing, eyes fixed on the sky.
Not far away, young centaurs pounded around as several tribal elders gathered to teach them.
"Clouds are covering the paths of the planets. Be patient."
Firenze said.
Sean fell silent and waited beside him.
From not too far off came the noisy clatter of the younger centaurs. Firenze's voice stayed calm as he spoke:
"The centaur herds have always refused to interfere with the track of the stars. We believe everything is predestined. We have followed that rule for a very long time.
Foreseeing the future made us proud. We stopped caring about other lives on this land. But someday, when the other resisting lives are all gone, the centaur herds will meet a crisis of their own."
His blue eyes shone.
"Sean, in the sectors of the sky not blocked by cloud, Jupiter shines so bright. Our meeting is no accident.
We are both ones who live apart from our own kind…"
Centaurs always spoke in that mysterious, hazy way—just like their method of reading the signs of the stars.
Sean leaned back against a big stone and looked up at the vast sky.
"Tonight you'll learn how to judge the brightness of the planets."
The centaur teacher said.
Soon Sean understood why star–reading could be unreliable.
The brightness of a planet, seen from Earth, was affected by countless factors: clouds, season, the brightness of other planets…
So relying purely on what your eyes saw made "brightness" a very shaky measure.
The centaur's solution was:
"With experience—and instinct."
Sean translated that, in his head, as: raw talent.
[You practice divination magic at apprentice level, proficiency +1]
This was his third successful attempt.
It seemed he did have a tiny bit of talent.
"I think you've found the guiding star set for you."
Firenze nodded as he watched Sean.
Then they lit sage and dittany; smoke coiled upward as a wind ran through the forest, shaking the branches of the beech trees and twisting the smoke into strange shapes.
So they had to wait again for the wind to die down. During that lull, the centaur teacher told Sean that in different seasons and different sectors of the sky, centaurs chose different herbs to burn.
The kind and condition of the herbs also influenced how they read the stars.
As they lit the herbs and watched the heavens, Sean suddenly wondered if this, too, was a kind of ritual magic—an ancient and profound one.
…
Though his divination progress was slow, whenever the moon was dim and the stars shone bright, Sean would head into the forest to stargaze.
Bane, a slightly older centaur, would occasionally turn up to snatch away the curious younglings, pausing only to snort disapprovingly at Firenze.
Firenze wasn't very popular among his own people — in fact, he was borderline ostracized — but though he sighed about it, he remained firm in his choice.
And so exam week arrived.
The weather was stiflingly hot, and the big exam hall was even stuffier. The professors handed out brand–new quills specially for exams, all charmed against cheating.
Though the tests seemed a chaotic pile of subjects, they actually fell neatly into two types: theory and practical.
In the morning came the first practical exam:
Charms.
~~~
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