Following Valentine's Day ca a pleasantly quiet weekend.
That night, Sean encountered the Grey Lady once again. She was leaning against a stained-glass window near the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower, where a layer of pale frost clung to the silken curtains. As a cold draft whistled through the hall, Sean pulled his scarf tighter.
Just as he was about to pass her, he heard the voices of two Gryffindors scurrying back to their tower before the final bell.
"It's freezing! Thank rlin we're back inside—I'm going to have three mugs of steaming hot pear and polo juice!"
One of the Gryffindors shook a dusting of snow from his robes.
"I'm having four!" his friend countered, not to be outdone.
Sean mused on the nature of ghosts; they were supposedly indifferent to heat and cold, yet their presence always turned flas blue and lowered the temperature of a room. Why was that?
Lost in thought, he passed the window and descended to the fourth floor.
There, he saw a familiar sight: mbers of the Hogwarts Kneazle Society were queued up in a remarkably orderly line, waiting to offer their prayers. They had placed a Christmas tree next to the black cat statue, decorated with everything from shimring holly berries to tiny, enchanted golden owls that hooted softly at the passing students.
Hannah Abbott, the President, held a small leather-bound ledger, watching the proceedings with a satisfied air. Offering "prayers" to the guardian had beco a staple of Hogwarts social life; even students who weren't mbers of the club often stopped by out of pure curiosity.
"Hannah, do you really think the Castle Kneazle hears us?" Susan Bones asked, looking at the statue.
"Think about Harry. Think about Ginny..." Hannah said in a low, reverent voice. "I believe he only answers when the need is truly dire."
Susan looked as though she had just been given a Calming Draught. Without further hesitation, she stepped forward and placed a fresh pumpkin pasty at the base of the statue. The stone cat remained spotless, its neck now adorned with several small, hand-crafted charms.
Sean let out a soft sigh and disappeared into the crowd. He rembered that this club had started with only a handful of mbers. It was Ron Weasley who had inadvertently turned it into a cult.
Ever since the end of the Christmas holidays, Ron's "exclusive account" of the Chamber of Secrets had beco school legend.
"How did we find the diary? You lot really want to know?" Ron would ask a crowd of wide-eyed first-years. "It all goes back to the guardian. The legend is real—the Castle Kneazle is the very soul of Hogwarts. He sent Harry a vision, showed him the killer, and told him exactly where the Basilisk was hiding. Am I a mber? Hah—I'm practically the next President..."
And so, the Kneazle Society had entered a period of rapid expansion.
"Excuse ! Are you looking to join the Society?"
A tanned, capable-looking young wizard ran up to Sean, holding out a familiar-looking invitation.
"No, thank you," Sean said, shaking his head.
"Fair enough. Pleased to et you anyway, I'm Rolf. First-year," the boy said with a friendly grin.
"Rolf Scamander?" Sean asked, pausing.
"Oh! You know ? Er—no, you know my grandfather," Rolf laughed. "Yes, I'm going to be a Magizoologist just like him! And the first thing I'm going to do is track down the greatest magical beast of them all—the Castle Kneazle! Can you believe it? Hogwarts has a guardian like that... keep it under your hat, but Professor Dumbledore personally authorized the club's expansion!"
Rolf was quite the chatterbox.
"Don't bother looking. You won't find it," Sean said. Thinking of Master Newt, he felt a bit more talkative than usual.
"Hey! Respect the dream!" Rolf protested, looking wounded.
Sean watched him in silence until the boy scratched his head sheepishly.
"I know it's hard, obviously. But that doesn't an it's impossible. My grandfather always says: 'The wind can blow a sheet of paper, but it can't blow away a butterfly.' Do you know why? Because the power of life lies in its refusal to just go with the flow. If things were easy, they'd be boring, wouldn't they?"
Rolf seed to be the type who considered everyone a friend.
"Perhaps your searching will only disturb him," Sean suggested.
"Oh... right... I hadn't thought of that." Rolf looked montarily stunned. "Right. Well, you've actually got a point. But I still have to find him myself first. If I'm bothering him, I'll give him a proper apology. Do you think there's ti? Actually, forget it—I'll write to Grandad and ask him what he thinks!"
"Perhaps," Sean said, moving to end the conversation.
"Wait! Are you a first-year too? What's your na?" Rolf asked, his energy returning instantly.
"Sean Green."
"Mr. Green?!"
"Unless there's a second one..."
"Sean Green! rlin's beard, everyone says you're the cleverest wizard at Hogwarts! You must know sothing about the Kneazle..."
"I don't."
"I don't believe you! Please, just a hint..."
Having finally escaped the relentless enthusiasm of Rolf Scamander, Sean managed to slip into the Ravenclaw Common Room just as the bells chid for curfew.
As for Rolf, without a broom or a map, he was almost certainly going to be caught by a teacher. Professor Snape had been on a warpath lately, pouncing on any student found wandering the halls after dark.
Sean hadn't expected Newt's shy temperant to produce a grandson like Rolf. The boy acted more like a Gryffindor.
Ravenclaw Tower.
The stars were as bright as ever, and a light snow had begun to drift past the windows. The dormitory was silent. Sean sat on the edge of his bed, watching Snowy hop excitedly by the hearth.
As his gaze fell upon the Void Rune, the mist began to rise.
The Lands Between.
In his Wampus Cat form, Sean's speed was vastly superior to that of a Kneazle. He stretched his powerful limbs, and the clusters of kaleidoscopic mist beca re streaks of light as he sprinted past. Occasionally, a predatory cloud of vapor would lunge toward him, but he dodged them with feline grace.
He followed the silver thread connecting him to Isolt Sayre, racing through the shifting, hallucinatory landscape. This realm was usually a stagnant place of grey fog, but today it felt alive with movent.
The wind whistled in his ears. He didn't know how long he had been running—long enough for the artificial dawn to begin its slow ascent—when he finally spotted Isolt's silhouette in the distance.
Her eyes were no longer the pearly-white of a ghost, nor the cold grey of Helena Ravenclaw. Sean could clearly see the vibrant luster within her pupils.
"Madam Sayre," the Wampus said, slowing his pace as he approached.
"A rare occurrence indeed, dear Sean," Isolt said, blinking in surprise. Standing beside her was an elderly wizard Sean hadn't seen before. As Isolt spoke, the man stood quietly behind her, watching Sean with the curiosity of a child.
[End of Chapter 397]
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