October brought not just a chill, but a week of relentless wind and rain.
On Sunday, the weather remained dreadful. Icy rain hamred against the windows, and the wind howled around the castle towers. Through the library window, Sean could see a massive figure bundled in a long moleskin overcoat and rabbit-fur gloves, de-icing the broomsticks in the shed near the Quidditch pitch. The foul weather had driven most students indoors, and for days, the Great Hall had been filled with small groups huddled around the fireplaces.
A group of four students from three different houses, however, was an unusual sight. Sean sat sipping a hot chocolate—Justin had added so much sugar it was almost tooth-achingly sweet. A thin woolen blanket was spread at his feet, piled high with books on Transfiguration and Ancient Runes.
Since delving into Advanced Transfiguration, Sean's practical wand-waving had decreased. Professor McGonagall had inundated him with obscure, difficult texts, so from her personal collection, unavailable in the library. Transforming one's own body or turning objects into pure magic was incredibly dangerous. McGonagall had strictly forbidden him from any reckless practice, repeatedly emphasizing the necessity of mastering the theory first.
He had spent days poring over the Transfiguration texts and morizing the sounds and shapes of the Ancient Runes. He was spending noticeably more ti in the Great Hall, which ant Justin's output of experintal baked goods had also increased.
Compared to the slow, deliberate progress in Transfiguration, his Charms proficiency was advancing rapidly. He had managed to get Finite Incantatem to the Novice level in no ti and was already halfway to Adept. Notably, Justin seed to have a high aptitude for this specific spell; his progress nearly matched Sean's. The most direct evidence of this was Neville, who now confidently practiced levitating small wooden blocks, knowing Justin could safely counter any mistakes.
Sean theorized that magical talent wasn't just branch-specific (like Charms vs. Transfiguration), but could even be spell-specific. Harry, for example, was diocre with the Levitation Charm but could cast a Disarming Charm powerful enough to contend with Voldemort's.
Speaking of Harry, Sean's increased ti in the Great Hall ant he frequently witnessed the escalating rivalry between Harry and Malfoy. Their 'vicious' exchanges usually consisted of: "You'd better watch out, Potter! First-years aren't allowed their own brooms! I'm telling McGonagall!" followed by Harry's cool retort, "I suppose I have Malfoy to thank for this one, then."
The overly sweet hot chocolate made Sean's eyes crinkle. He shook his head, tuning out the petty conflict. With Finite nearly mastered, he planned to ask Professor Flitwick to teach him the Disillusionnt Charm tomorrow.
He was pulled from his thoughts as Hermione suddenly shot up from her seat.
"So you think that's a reward for breaking the rules?" she marched over, glaring indignantly at the new broom in Harry's hands.
Justin scrambled to follow her, helpfully adding as he passed, "Hermione, I think Sean has one too..."
Hermione froze. She shot Justin a withering look. "That's different. Sean is ten tis more... more... responsible than Harry!"
Her outburst drew the attention of both Harry and Malfoy, who now found themselves staring at Hermione and, by extension, at Sean, who glanced up briefly from his book. Harry was instantly reminded of Wood's "important mission." Malfoy, on the other hand, rembered the wild rumors: "Sean Green? Oh, yeah! He can take on trolls single-handedly and wrestle werewolves…"
Both boys fell silent. The atmosphere beca awkward, until Professor Flitwick bustled over, squeaking, "I trust we aren't having a disagreent, children?"
"Professor, Potter's been sent a broomstick, against the rules!" Malfoy tattled imdiately.
"Oh?" Professor Flitwick's expression brightened considerably. "You've heard, then? Mr. Green passed his Flight Test!"
Why does it always co back to Green? Malfoy thought, his lip twitching. The conflict deflated, seemingly resolved by Flitwick, though not in any logical way. Harry himself looked baffled as Malfoy, uncharacteristically, stalked off without another word.
Sean, oblivious to the drama he had inadvertently helped quell, returned to his notes, consolidating the twenty-four runes he had morized. He then pulled Advanced Potion-Making from his bag.
Libatius Borage had beco quite "chatty" lately. One mont, his ethereal notes would appear: [My efforts have given the past a future.] The next: [Infinite horizons, endless truths... You must know, they are being born through your hands.] It felt like encouragent.
Sean's quill flew across the parchnt, docunting different thods for guiding potion reactions with precise, focused intent. From the lighting of the fla to the final simr, he recorded every action, every subtle change, analyzing the reasons behind them. He was, just as Borage had, creating a precise, replicable thodology.
He nad it: The Guidance thod.
Use the modified ritual to strengthen the wizard's belief, then use that conviction, combined with specific ntal scenarios, to guide the emotions to match the potion's intrinsic purpose.
He often lost track of ti while writing, staying in the Great Hall long after most students had left. As the sky outside turned a deep purple, he finally stretched, his neck stiff. He had successfully outlined the Guidance thod, at least in its roughest form. His green eyes shone with deep satisfaction. He glanced around the now-quiet hall. Justin was encouraging Neville to levitate chess pieces. Hermione was pretending not to watch, though her eyes kept darting over.
Just then, the Great Hall doors opened, and a small, drenched figure stumbled in. It was Harry, back from Quidditch practice in the middle of a downpour, his robes soaked and shoes caked with mud. The Gryffindor common room was a long way up; players often stopped in the Great Hall to dry off by the fire.
Harry couldn't believe Fred and George had been serious. Quidditch practice really was in all weather. Wood's words echoed in his ears, leaving him torn between excitent and dread: "Our na will be on that cup this year!"
"I wouldn't be surprised if you're even better than Charlie Weasley," Wood had gushed as they walked back, his exhaustion forgotten. "He would have played for England if he hadn't gone off to study dragons… But Harry, did you find out about… Green?"
(End of Chapter)
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