Chapter 45: Resolve
Another day, another successful escape from the dungeon.
Sean meticulously cleaned away every trace of his brewing session. Even Justin, after a thorough inspection, couldn't find anything amiss. A short while later, lightning flashed across the sky; it was going to be another stormy day at Hogwarts.
Rain lashed against the castle walls. Sean sat reading in the library, the magical crystal balls casting a soft, warm glow. Madam Pince, the librarian, had fallen into the habit of giving him a brief nod as she passed his usual table near the back.
If Hermione's six hours a day in the library seemed diligent, then Sean, who arrived with Madam Pince at opening and left with her at closing, was practically an honorary librarian. He had even taken to tidying the shelves in his immediate vicinity. Not out of altruism, but because after skimming through most of the books, organizing them was a simple matter.
Occasionally, Madam Pince would offer him brief, whispered commentary – which books held genuine substance, and which were mere fluff. Sean was immensely grateful for her guidance. She wasn't nearly as perpetually grumpy as the students claimed. She would even engage him in brief discussions about his History of Magic annotations and sometimes share a biscuit with him – never in the library, of course, but during the quiet moments just before opening or after closing.
The biscuits often came from Justin, whose culinary creations were rapidly gaining popularity. No one knew quite how he'd charmed his way into the Hogwarts kitchens and befriended the house-elves, but his baking skills were undeniable. Perhaps Hufflepuffs possessed an innate talent for food-related magic. His modified recipes from Conjuring a Feast! were receiving rave reviews. Even Hermione had been seen devouring two of his éclairs at once, her cheeks puffed out like a squirrel's. Sean, naturally, was always the first taste-tester.
Outside the tall library windows, rain drummed against the glass, and the Scottish Highlands were veiled in a dreamy mist. The evenings here always felt cozy and warm. As the damp, earthy breeze drifted through an open casement, brushing against Sean's face, a familiar magical glint appeared in his emerald eyes.
"More determination," he murmured, guiding Justin's wand hand again. "Wider arc with your left hand. And most importantly, believe. Believe you can do it… release from gravity…"
Thanks to his relentless grinding, Sean's progress in Charms over the past week and a half had far outstripped his peers. Even Hermione would pause her own practice to carefully consider his explanations. Sean never minded sharing his insights, happy to impart his small discoveries during breaks when he was resting and recovering his magic.
His only real frustration was Professor Snape's increasingly frequent Potion-brewing sessions. The two of them had fallen into a strange pattern: if Snape wasn't in the dungeon, Sean was; if Sean wasn't there, Snape was.
Despite this elaborate game of hide-and-seek, Sean had managed to progress more than two-thirds of the way toward unlocking the Potions title. Yet, he still felt pressed for time. A week and a half had passed since the start of term, and his progress felt too slow. He made a decision.
He would brew potions tomorrow, regardless of whether he had confirmation of Snape's whereabouts. He had to unlock the Potions title before the week was out. It was essential if he hoped to advance further in the subject. In a magical world driven by talent, the difference between aptitude levels was stark, a fact Sean understood all too well.
In the Ravenclaw common room, ever since the notice about flying lessons had gone up, Quidditch had become the dominant topic of conversation.
"A lot of people think the Chudley Cannons' glory days are over," Michael proclaimed, holding up a poster and leaning dramatically on the back of a chair. "But even more people believe they're going to make a comeback! Don't forget, the Cannons won the League Cup twenty-one times!" The poster showed the team in their bright orange robes, emblazoned with a speeding cannonball and two black Cs.
"Oh, really, Michael?" a tall, lanky boy called out with a grin. "Then can you explain their team motto? Before 1972 it was 'We Shall Conquer,' but afterwards it changed to 'Let's all just keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best'?"
"That—That doesn't count!" Michael sputtered as if someone had stepped on his toe. He launched into a flustered defense involving "management decisions" and "not reflecting the team's spirit," which only made the surrounding students laugh harder.
"It's just sad…" Michael finally admitted with a sigh, throwing his hands up in defeat.
The fire roared cheerfully in the hearth. Sean happened to walk past just then, looking pale from the long climb up the tower. Anthony trailed a few steps behind him, pretending to read but clearly keeping an eye on him.
"Oh! Sean! Anthony!" Michael spotted them immediately and hurried over, casually slinging an arm around Sean's shoulders. They settled onto one of the plush, velvet armchairs near the fire, its fabric worn smooth and gleaming softly with age. Star-shaped cushions and low stools in shades of deep purple, midnight blue, and bronze silk were scattered across patterned rugs, like constellations on the floor.
The lively chatter mixed with the drumming of rain against the windows. Sean took a moment to catch his breath, listening to the Ravenclaws debate the merits of various British and Irish Quidditch teams, their earlier boasts about their own (non-existent) flying skills forgotten. He pulled out his copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. It really was a fascinating book.
For instance: [The Falmouth Falcons are known for their hard-hitting tactics, epitomized by their world-famous Beaters, Kevin and Karl Broadmoor. Their team motto is: 'Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads.']
Quite intimidating.
Suddenly, Sean realized the surrounding conversation had died down. He looked up, puzzled, to find six or seven faces peering intently at his book.
"Sean, you actually managed to check out Quidditch Through the Ages?!" Michael gasped, breaking the silence. "Can I have a look?" he added, looking slightly embarrassed.
Anthony sighed with the air of someone burdened by foolish friends. He glanced across the room; Terry was still standing by the window, mesmerized by the raindrops racing down the glass. He'd been there for three hours. Anthony sighed again.
Sean nodded and generously placed the book on the table in the center of the group.
A chorus of excited voices erupted.
"Let me see too, Michael!"
"Me next, me next!"
Even students who owned their own copies crowded around. Reading Madam Pince's closely guarded library copy felt different, somehow more special.
"Alright, alright, everyone, be careful with it…" Michael's voice was lost in the ensuing hubbub.
Sean's thoughts returned to his plan for tomorrow. Yes, as soon as he confirmed Snape wasn't in the dungeon – even if he couldn't verify the professor's exact location to guarantee absolute safety – he would risk it. He only needed six more proficiency points.
The most difficult piece of the scholarship puzzle was finally within reach.