After a tense standoff, the confrontation between the Gryffindors and Slytherins dispersed, the promise of a midnight duel hanging in the air. As Harry and Ron walked past Sean's table, their hushed conversation carried across the hall.
"What's a wizard's duel?" Harry asked. "And what did you an, you're my second?"
"Well, a second's there to take over if you die," Ron said nonchalantly. Seeing the colour drain from Harry's face, he quickly added, "But people only die in proper duels, with real wizards. The most you and Malfoy'll be able to do is send sparks at each other."
"What if I wave my wand and nothing happens?" Harry asked nervously.
"Throw it away and punch him on the nose," Ron advised firmly.
"Honestly!" Hermione hissed from beside Sean, her face flushed with anger. "Have they any idea how many points they'll lose?! I've worked so hard to earn points, and even then… we're still behind Ravenclaw, and they want to throw it all away!"
She jumped up and stord over towards the two Gryffindor boys. Justin, ever the protector, scrambled after her. "Oh, Sean, we'll be right back… Don't worry, I won't let Hermione get bullied."
Sean nodded absently, his attention currently focused more intently on the Yorkshire pudding before him. He figured Justin could handle Ron; he was a good head taller, which might make Ron think twice before saying anything too cutting.
He knew this midnight duel was the catalyst that would lead Harry to Fluffy, the three-headed dog, marking the true beginning of his adventures for the year. It had little to do with Sean directly, except that once Harry eventually dealt with Voldemort (or rather, Quirrell), Hogwarts would be a much safer place. For this school year, at least, Sean could continue his grinding in peace.
As the final day before the flying lessons dawned, the Ravenclaws' excitent reached a fever pitch.
After bidding a polite good evening to Madam Pince, Sean could still hear loud discussions about Quidditch echoing down the corridor. Madam Pince lingered for a mont, flipping through his History of Magic notes with genuine interest. The formidable librarian wasn't always ill-tempered; rather, it was the students' carelessness that provoked her ire. Anyone would be angry to find carefully organized books in disarray or freshly cleaned tables covered in graffiti. Sean had taken to discreetly casting a few Scouring Charms around his usual study area – a simple act that cost him little ti.
His History of Magic notes were now halfway complete, significantly improved by Madam Pince's insightful suggestions. Whenever he hit a roadblock, the surprisingly helpful librarian would subtly guide him towards relevant texts, saving him countless hours of searching.
He pushed open the heavy oak doors of the library one last ti that evening. A cool night breeze ruffled his hair. Sir Cadogan had sohow managed to squeeze himself into the portrait fra directly above the doorway, displacing the previous occupant, a sombre-looking wizard in dark robes.
"Aha! Seen Green!" the knight bellowed.
Sean ignored him and kept walking.
"Tomorrow!" Sir Cadogan called after him, scrambling down into a neighbouring portrait. "Tomorrow you take to the skies! And yet you spurn the wisdom of Scotland's greatest Chaser?" He scurried through several more fras, trampling through a picturesque field of golden wheat belonging to a lady in a straw hat, and narrowly dodging a procession of monks.
"Sir Cadogan," Sean said wearily, without stopping, "you lived during the ti of King Arthur. The first Quidditch World Cup was held in 1473."
"A minor technicality! The point is, you stopped to talk, did you not? Violet—three bottles of sherry!" Sir Cadogan crowed triumphantly.
"Alright, Sir Cadogan, you win this round," ca Lady Violet's amused voice from her portrait.
"Aha! Well, in honour of my winnings, I shall bestow upon you so advice!"
Sean eyed the notoriously unreliable knight skeptically.
Sir Cadogan promptly leaped onto his painted pony, which bucked him off, sending him flying across the canvas. He scrambled back up, undeterred. "I've watched five centuries of Quidditch, young Green! I know the ga better than that flying instructor of yours!"
"Very well, Sir," Sean said, instantly pulling out his notebook.
"Hmph. This is exclusive knowledge, mind you. I only share it with wizards I deem worthy. The last one was a Potter, co to think of it. Talented chap, that one…" Sir Cadogan paused, looking nostalgic. "Listen closely. When wizards first enchanted broomsticks, it wasn't because only brooms could fly. It was because they carved charms into the wood. You are not riding the broom; you are riding the charms! It is the magic that gives the broom flight. Once you understand this, you realise the truth: control yourself, and you control your flight."
It actually made a strange sort of sense. "Thank you, Sir Cadogan," Sean said sincerely.
"Hmph," the knight puffed out his chest, nearly falling off his pony again.
After Sean had walked on, Sir Cadogan muttered, "Young Green, do be a dear and leave the monks' portrait where it is this ti. Lady Violet chased with a painted broom for a full day after the last incident…"
The fire crackled warmly in the Ravenclaw common room hearth. Most students were gathered around, still talking animatedly about Quidditch. Sean thought about Sir Cadogan's words. Potter… talented… Whichever Potter the knight had ant, the na seed synonymous with Quidditch talent. Harry himself had used his flying skills to get past the Gringotts dragon, navigate the maze in the Triwizard Tournant, and snatch the golden egg from the Hungarian Horntail.
Does that an I…? No, wait. How could Sir Cadogan possibly know anything about my potential?
Friday arrived. The Hogwarts Quidditch pitch lay nestled at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, a magically enhanced arena. Three golden poles stood tall at each end of the five-hundred-foot-long oval pitch, marking the goal scoring area like so giant's ring-toss ga.
The goals themselves had a history. They were originally baskets atop the poles, later replaced by hoops between two poles. The change had been prompted by incidents like the one near Upper Barnton, where local wizards had taken to shrinking the baskets on the opposing team's side until they were too small to fit even a grape, while simultaneously enlarging their own hoops to the size of wicker cauldrons. The Departnt of Magical Gas and Sports had faced considerable backlash when enforcing the standardization, with furious protestors pelting Ministry officials with baskets during a heated town hall eting. Interestingly, much of the ensuing chaos had been deliberately instigated by goblins stirring up trouble.
Beneath the towering golden hoops, the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff first-years filed onto the pitch for their lesson.
"Sean," Justin whispered nervously, eyeing the row of old school brooms laid out on the grass. "Are those twigs really safe? Can you actually ride them?"
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