These past few weeks have felt stolen, like soone handed us a handful of extra days and told us not to tell anyone.
Quiet. Peaceful. Full.
Sean's schedule is packed solid: classes, notes, making stuff for the shop, plus extra lessons in alchemy, transfiguration, dark arts, and potions. Charms, Herbology, and Divination have slowed down a little, but he's still plugging away.
Transfiguration is his ho turf (he knows more about it than anything else), so he's happy to sink endless hours into it. The only problem is that Wolfsbane Potion and crafting Undetectable Extension bags have been eating up most of his ti.
Even though he's already familiar with the Wolfsbane process, it still took him a full week to get roughly ninety percent of the way there. With ritual magic helping, though, finishing it in a month isn't impossible.
The Extension bags are a whole different beast; he's starting from basically zero. His plan is to master the Undetectable Extension Charm first, and he's really hoping to run into Professor Flitwick in the staff room this weekend… and not at the Three Broomsticks.
While Sean's days are calm and productive, Hogwarts itself is exploding again.
It feels like a hundred rumors crash-landed in the castle at once.
Great Hall, breakfast.
"Hagrid? Hagrid's the Heir of Slytherin?" Ron choked on pumpkin juice. "If Hagrid's the Heir, then I'm… Snape's long-lost son!"
"It literally says it in the paper," Hermione said, frowning hard. "If you actually read the whole thing, you'd see Hagrid was sent to Azkaban once and Dumbledore bailed him out."
"But we all know it was Voldemort!" Harry hissed.
(The Daily Prophet is getting as bad as The Quibbler.)
Harry put his fork down. "The Prophet's lost it. It's basically The Singer-Who-Must-Not-Be-Nad now."
Hermione sniffed. "Everyone knows The Quibbler is rubbish."
From a few seats down the Ravenclaw table, Luna drifted over like a pale ghost.
"Excuse ," she said, and for once her voice wasn't dreamy at all. "My father edits that magazine."
Hermione turned scarlet. "I—oh—so of the articles are… interesting? I an, it's very…"
"Thank you," Luna said coolly, and drifted away.
Justin grinned. "This just got way more entertaining."
Hermione glared at him, Harry, and Ron, who were all biting back laughs. Neville finally cracked, snorted, then slapped both hands over his mouth in horror.
Harry and the others knew Tom Riddle was the real Heir, but they had no idea he'd frad Hagrid fifty years ago, so the whole thing was fascinating gossip to them.
Hermione, anwhile, had bigger fish to fry. She and Justin were whispering about sothing else entirely: Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had Herbology together today, and Hermione was dying to et this "Bruce" senior Sean kept ntioning.
Apparently the guy was a Hufflepuff legend, just… not in the Cedric Diggory way. More like "dependable but deeply weird."
After today's lesson, Justin said, they were all heading to the greenhouses to help Professor Sprout. Hermione's first official greenhouse volunteer session.
As they left the Hall, Justin said casually, "The Quibbler can be useful, Hermione. My mum always says words are a blade: sharp enough to cut through superstition or sharp enough to stab the truth. Depends whose hand is holding it."
Hermione blinked, then caught on like a Snitch.
"If we ever prove Lockhart's a fraud," Justin continued, guiding her gently, "how do we make sure the whole wizarding world hears about it?"
Afternoon.
Snow blanketed everything; the castle looked like soone had dumped icing sugar over the whole thing.
Sean walked the quiet corridors; most kids were still crowded in the Great Hall. The notice board was buried under giant new posters that covered everything else: second-hand spellbook sales, Filch's endless rule reminders, Quidditch practice schedules, Chocolate Frog card swaps, the twins' latest "Guinea Pig Needed" ad, Hogsade weekend sign-ups, lost-and-found notices… all gone.
Big bold headlines scread across the new posters, complete with official-looking seals and moving photographs:
THE HEIR OF THE CHAMBER? A Fifty-Year Secret Buried in Snow!
HAGRID: Villain or Victim?
ARMANDO DIPPET: Genius or Total Idiot?
Along with the articles, a brand-new biography of Armando Dippet had hit the shelves. By lunchti it was already flying off them.
Knowing Rita Skeeter's usual style (exaggerate everything, twist the rest), the book was probably ninety percent fiction. Didn't stop everyone from devouring it.
The juiciest rumor: the Chamber murders from fifty years ago were about to be completely overturned, and the real killer was soone nobody would ever guess.
Bonus: Armando Dippet was apparently a world-class moron who fell for the fake evidence hook, line, and sinker.
The Great Hall was pure chaos. Kids were so glued to the papers so of them forgot they had class.
None of that bothered Sean. Bai swooped in through a window, shaking snow off his wings, and dropped a letter.
Dear Mr. Hers,
Articles written exactly as you and Headmaster Dumbledore instructed.
Yours faithfully,
Rita
Sean glanced at the whiteout outside, tapped the letter with his wand, and watched it burn to ash that politely flew itself out the window.
Hagrid was finally getting cleared. That alone was worth celebrating.
The papers had pulled out all the stops hyping this story. The madness in the Great Hall? That was their handiwork.
As for the reporter… Rita had switched sides. Or, more accurately, she'd been strongly encouraged to switch sides, especially after Professor Terra had that very private chat with her.
Sean didn't particularly care, but he had to admit: Rita was useful.
December dragged on, snowy and cold as ever.
In Greenhouse Three, a bunch of Mandrakes threw a full-on noisy party to celebrate reaching maturity. Professor Sprout was practically glowing.
She bead even warr at the little crew who'd shown up to help, and then spotted a new face.
"A fresh sprout!" she cried happily. "Miss Granger, dear, welco!"
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