"Very good, very good, one point to Slytherin!"
Sean lowered his magic wand, and the feather floating in front of him slowly drifted down.
In Charms class, Sean was the first to successfully and stably perform the Levitation Charm, controlling the feather to float gently before him. This earned Slytherin one point from the Charms Professor and Head of Ravenclaw House, Professor Flitwick. This, Sean noted, was the more typical rate of awarding points for a professor.
Previously, Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape had both taken Sean's unique situation into consideration, perhaps bending the rules slightly and awarding more points than usual. Of course, their decisions were also justified by Sean's genuinely excellent performance in their classes.
For instance, in Transfiguration class, aside from Sean, only a few other students, including Hermione Granger, had managed to slightly alter the shape of their matches towards something resembling a needle. The vast majority of the young wizards had made no visible progress at all.
As Snape had pointed out before, under normal circumstances, the awarding of points would not be so frequent, nor would the amounts be so generous. Professor Flitwick, for example, held no particular animosity toward Sean, but he also didn't appear to be particularly impressed by him either. Therefore, even in the face of Sean's excellent execution of the Levitation Charm, he simply awarded the standard one point.
In contrast, in History of Magic, Herbology, Astronomy, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, Sean didn't particularly stand out. In fact, it was difficult to even get noticed, let alone excel. The rare opportunities for adding points were almost invariably seized by the diligent and knowledgeable young wizards from Ravenclaw. The only subject where there was still a reasonable possibility of competing for points was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but the Professor for that subject was, in Sean's opinion, a two-faced slacker with ulterior motives. Sean had no desire to attract his attention, so he deliberately kept as low a profile as possible in that class.
Flying class.
It was the last of the core classes that the first-year students were scheduled to attend.
Sean and the rest of the Slytherin first-years stood on the grassy lawn behind Hogwarts, gazing down at the battered, antiquated brooms that had been retrieved from the depths of the school's broom shed. As he examined his assigned broom, Sean couldn't help but feel a growing sense of concern about the overall financial state of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
He raised his foot and gave the broom lying next to him a gentle, almost apologetic, kick.
Sean sighed inwardly.
Whether this broom was even capable of flight was, at this point, a very open question. Was it really safe, or even responsible, to entrust these rickety, unreliable contraptions to young wizards who had absolutely no prior experience with flying?
I'll be perfectly satisfied, Sean thought somewhat grimly, as long as this thing doesn't turn me into the first person in Hogwarts history to be thrown to their death by their own broom during a flying class.
As Sean continued his silent, internal complaints, the flying instructor, Madam Hooch, strode purposefully onto the lawn and began to explain the proper techniques for handling and controlling a flying broom. The subsequent progress of the lesson was, unfortunately, not much different from what Sean remembered from his vague recollections of the books and movies. Most of the young wizards struggled to maintain control over their assigned brooms. However, as always, there were a few individuals who displayed a natural aptitude for flying, demonstrating impressive skill and control almost as soon as they touched a broom.
Harry Potter, of course, was one of those individuals.
And, predictably, so was Draco Malfoy.
"Up!"
"Up!"
"Up!"
Sean looked down at the broom lying inertly at his feet, stubbornly refusing to lift off the ground. It was, in effect, performing a series of rather pathetic, repetitive push-ups. The corner of Sean's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly as he fought back a rising tide of frustration. Since arriving at Hogwarts, he had, for the most part, managed to maintain a position near the top of almost every class. Even in subjects where he didn't excel, he had still ranked among the leaders. He had anticipated challenges in Transfiguration, and he had known that navigating Snape's Potions class would require considerable effort. But he had never, not even in his darkest imaginings, foreseen that he would encounter such a profound and utterly humiliating Waterloo in flying class.
Over on the other side of the training area, Ron Weasley had actually managed to successfully summon his broom to his hand, the battered bristles tickling his chin. Even Hermione Granger, whom Sean would not have expected to possess a natural talent for physical pursuits, had shakily taken her broom into her hand, managing to hold it upright with a concentrated effort. At this point in the lesson, the only students whose brooms were still lying stubbornly on the ground, performing those endless, mocking push-ups, were he, Goyle, and Crabbe!
Madam Hooch slowly strode to stand in front of Sean, her expression a mixture of professional concern and thinly veiled exasperation. She looked down at the broom, then back up at Sean, and sighed with what appeared to be genuine helplessness.
Seeing this, Sean quietly asked Madam Hooch, "Professor, is it possible that this broom is simply… broken?"
Looking at Sean, Madam Hooch said in a low voice, her tone carefully neutral, "When you encounter such difficulties, Mr. Bulstrode, you should first attempt to find the source of the problem within yourself. I admit that these school brooms are rather… aged, but they were all thoroughly inspected by me before being brought out for this lesson. I can assure you that they are all, in their own way, qualified to fly."
She paused, then gestured with her hand. "Now, try again. Focus your will, visualize the broom rising, and then command it with confidence."
She demonstrated, her voice clear and authoritative. "Up!"
As Madam Hooch uttered the command, the broom lying at Sean's feet instantly shot into her hand, the maneuver executed with a speed and grace that only served to highlight Sean's own ineptitude. The corner of Sean's mouth twitched again. If a flying broom had any form of intelligence, Sean thought darkly, he would challenge it to a duel ten times out of ten. He wouldn't be satisfied until he somehow managed to extract a flying skill from the infernal object!
Sighing, Madam Hooch then thrust the rebellious broom back into Sean's hands and continued the lesson, demonstrating the proper methods for mounting the broom and taking off safely. The outcome, unfortunately, was much the same as Sean recalled from the books. Young Neville Longbottom lost control of his broom during takeoff, soaring uncontrollably before crashing to the ground and breaking his arm in the process. Madam Hooch, shaking her head, led Neville away towards the hospital wing, effectively ending the flying lesson for everyone else.
Speaking of the hospital wing, Sean suddenly recalled that Millicent Bulstrode had been confined to a bed there for the past three days. The lingering effects of the exploding potion seemed to be more troublesome and persistent than even the injuries Neville had sustained today. Sean had heard rumors that it would take at least three to five more days for Millicent to fully recover, which was why he hadn't attended Flying class today.
Watching Madam Hooch disappear with Neville, Sean quietly observed Malfoy's actions. He picked up Neville's discarded Remembrall, a glass ball that contained swirling smoke, and began to openly taunt Harry with it. Sean then watched as Harry, spurred by Malfoy's goading, displayed an astonishing, almost instinctive, flying ability, soaring through the air to retrieve the lost object. It had to be said, Sean mused, that genetics was a truly unsolvable puzzle. James Potter had possessed an impressive talent for flying, and his son's inherited talent was, if anything, even more pronounced.
He lowered his gaze and looked down at the recalcitrant flying broom in his hand, its wooden bristles now seeming to mock him. With a muttered curse, Sean threw the useless object onto the ground. Flying, he decided, was simply not his forte. And there was absolutely no need to waste any more time and effort on an activity for which he was clearly unsuited.
Back in the hospital wing, Millicent watched as Madam Hooch escorted the injured Neville to a nearby bed. He didn't say a word, simply observing Madam Hooch as she left, her expression troubled. Just as Madam Hooch was hurrying back to the Flying class, a second-year boy, whom Millicent vaguely recognised, brushed past her in the doorway, offered a quick nod of greeting, and walked into the ward.
Approaching Millicent's bedside, the second-year student offered a fawning smile. "Millicent, I heard you were looking for me. What's the matter?"
Millicent looked up at the other boy, his expression cold and assessing. Although the other boy was one year his senior, his family's fortunes had been in steep decline in recent years. To all intents and purposes, they had become little more than vassals of the Bulstrode family. Whenever this boy encountered Millicent at family gatherings, he invariably wore a servile, ingratiating expression. And even here at Hogwarts, he had apparently rushed to Millicent's side the moment he heard he had been summoned.
"Jensen," Millicent said, his voice flat and demanding, "I want you to teach that professor's son, Sean, a lesson."
Millicent did not mince words, nor did he bother with any pretence of politeness. He simply stated his request in the most direct terms possible.
Hearing this, Jensen's forced smile faltered slightly, and his expression took on a worried cast. He hesitated, then asked, "Millicent, didn't the seventh-year prefects make a formal announcement at the start of term? That we, the upperclassmen, are not permitted to cause any trouble for Sean Bulstrode before he manages to earn back all the points he lost? I wouldn't want to get into any trouble with them."
Millicent's eyes narrowed slightly. "Upperclassmen… Seventh-year, sixth-year, fifth-year, and even fourth-year students might reasonably be considered to be 'upperclassmen'," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "But second-year and third-year students? I hardly think that term applies to them, do you?"
"This…" Jensen stammered, clearly realising that Millicent was deliberately twisting his words to serve his own purposes. But before he could formulate a coherent response, Millicent cut him off once more. "Jensen, you need to carefully consider your current position. Will you choose to follow the instructions of the seventh-year prefects, or will you choose to listen to me? I would think you should know which path is the most… prudent, wouldn't you?"
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