The Knight Bus was moving so fast that Harry was flung backward onto the bed.
He scrambled upright and stared out the pitch-black window, watching as they tore down an entirely different street at breakneck speed.
Stan wiped his eyes and grinned at Harry's stunned face.
"We were right here before Mr. Green flagged us down," he said. "Where was that again, Ern? Somewhere in Wales?"
"Mm," Ern grunted.
"How come Muggles can't hear the bus?" Harry asked.
"Them?" Stan scoffed. "They don't listen properly, do they? Don't look properly either. They never notice a thing."
"Best wake up Madam Marsh, Stan," Ern said. "We'll be in Abergavenny soon."
Stan squeezed past Harry's bed and climbed the narrow wooden staircase to the upper deck.
Harry kept staring out the window, a nervous knot tightening in his stomach. When he looked forward, he saw Sean sitting gracefully, quietly working on his Chronicle of Wizarding Magic.
Harry didn't fully understand what the book was about, but he already knew that the moment it hit the shelves at Green's Bookshop, he'd be buying at least three copies. Signed edition if he could swing it.
Pretty much everyone in the wizarding world agreed on one thing: Green's Bookshop sold the best series of books anywhere.
Pure-blood, half-blood, Muggle-born—it didn't matter. You could learn the past, present, and even glimpses of the future of magic from those pages.
And whether you were naturally gifted or completely ordinary, you could actually learn magic from them.
Harry found it hard to imagine how someone like Sean—whose talent sat on the same level as Dumbledore's—could possibly understand the struggles that average, less gifted wizards faced with magic… and explain them so completely.
Of course, one of the Green's Notes had once said:
I have faced the same difficulties wizards face. I have pondered the same questions they ponder…
Harry hadn't fully believed it at the time, but when Sean said it, somehow it felt different.
I write these books so that any witch or wizard just stepping into the vast ocean of magic can clearly see their own course. The first duty of wizarding knowledge is to be passed on. Wisdom that cannot be inherited is not true wisdom.
The changes I make may be small. History itself may simply be ashes… but there is still warmth deep within those ashes.
Thinking about it like that, Sean suddenly seemed both right there and somehow far away—like he existed inside the books themselves.
The Sean in those books was the best teacher Harry had ever known: patient, endlessly knowledgeable, never giving up.
If you didn't understand something, he'd teach it again.
If you still didn't get it, he'd teach it once more.
And if you still couldn't grasp it, he wouldn't scold you. He'd simply turn the page and write:
Of course, the above method has its shortcomings—that's the author's fault. Let's try a simpler approach.
Was Sean the best teacher in person?
Harry wasn't sure.
But were Green's Notes the best books in the world?
That was beyond question.
The Knight Bus kept racing on.
In Sean's mind, Stan's words kept echoing.
At first his notes had only been a way to organize his own thoughts. Later they became a tool to help the lost and struggling young wizards at Hogwarts—and a way to earn a few extra Galleons on the side.
Now those carefully organized notes were actually beginning to change the entire wizarding world.
Tiny details once ignored by naturally talented wizards were being brought into the light. Vague concepts now had clear, concrete explanations. Previously unclear branches of magic had defined stages of mastery.
Would ordinary wizards, the ones who once thought they weren't special, suddenly rediscover their passion for magic?
Sean didn't know.
But he had met Stan.
And that was enough. If the notes had helped even one wizard, then they had value. Nothing felt more worthwhile than that.
He smiled faintly as Stan came back downstairs, followed by a green-faced witch in a traveling cloak.
"This way, Madam Marsh," Stan said cheerfully.
Ern slammed on the brakes. Every bed slid forward about a foot.
Madam Marsh clapped a handkerchief over her mouth and staggered down the steps.
Stan tossed her bag out after her and slammed the door shut.
With another deafening BANG, they shot off down a narrow country lane, trees leaping aside to make way.
"Mr. Green," Stan said, approaching shyly.
"Mr. Shunpike," Sean replied seriously, "do you think any part of the Standard Spellcasting section needs changing?"
"Oh—no, it's perfect! How could it need changing?" Stan said quickly, thumping his chest.
"Please tell me what you really think," Sean said. His green eyes seemed to see straight through people.
Stan finally admitted in a low voice, "I still can't manage the higher-level spells… none of them have reached Expert rank. Of course, that's just because I'm not very talented, Mr. Green…"
"That's not your fault," Sean said suddenly. "The section on non-verbal casting hasn't been written yet."
The atmosphere grew awkward. Stan stared at the young wizard, words clearly stuck in his throat, before muttering something and hurrying away like he was escaping.
To give his racing mind something to do, Stan unfolded a copy of the Daily Prophet, biting his tongue in concentration as he read.
On the front page was a large moving photograph of a gaunt man with long, tangled hair. He slowly blinked up at Stan.
Harry leaned over curiously.
The face looked strangely familiar.
"It's him!" Harry exclaimed. "He was on the Muggle news too!"
Stan flipped back to the front page and read in a gloomy voice:
"Sirius Black, of course he's in the Muggle news, Neville. Where've you been hiding?"
Seeing Harry's blank look, Stan gave a superior little chuckle, tore off the front page, and handed it over.
"You should read the papers more, Neville."
Harry held the newspaper up to the candlelight and read:
BLACK STILL AT LARGE
The Ministry of Magic confirmed today that Sirius Black remains at large. He is believed to be the most dangerous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban.
"We are doing everything in our power to recapture Black," said Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge this morning. "We ask the wizarding community to remain calm."
Some members of the International Confederation of Wizards have criticized Fudge for informing the Muggle Prime Minister.
"Honestly, what else could I do?" Fudge said irritably. "Black is a dangerous fugitive. He poses a threat to both wizards and Muggles alike.
I have assured the Prime Minister that Black's true identity will not be revealed to the public. Frankly—even if it were, who would believe him?"
Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand Muggles use to kill each other), while the wizarding world knows that twelve years ago Black used a single curse to murder thirteen people, and fears another massacre may occur.
Harry stared into Sirius Black's sunken, brooding eyes—the only part of his haggard face that still seemed truly alive.
He had never met a vampire, but he had seen pictures of them in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Black's skin was deathly white. He looked exactly like one.
"Sean," Harry asked uneasily, "we're not going to run into him, are we?"
Sean didn't answer. He seemed absorbed in his book.
"Looks pretty scary, doesn't he?" Stan asked, watching Harry read.
"He killed thirteen people? With one curse?" Harry said, nervously handing the paper back.
---
note:
The book has officially entered Volume 4—The Watchers of the Stars.
The pace will pick up a bit from here as we smoothly head into the Goblet of Fire.
The plot for the Triwizard Tournament is fully planned out, and there will be proper, logical reasons for Sean Green's character and actions during that arc.