"Brilliant, Sean!"
Two figures darted past the cluster of Gryffindors and reached Sean before Madam Hooch could even react. Sean was still gripping a Quaffle; Madam Hooch hadn't yet had time to hand him the flight permit.
"Oh—Sean, what'll you have? Honey–lemon tea? Pumpkin juice? Hot cocoa?"
Justin had both hands full—three different steaming drinks. Sean still hadn't seen how they appeared, but he was sure a house-elf had popped up nearby.
"Here, wipe off."
Hermione thrust a towel at him, a little flustered—his forehead was beaded with sweat.
"Mm."
Sean took the towel just as Madam Hooch approached with a smile.
"Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw?" she said, placing a red-stamped permit in his hand. "Enjoy your time in the air—but be careful."
Sean nodded.
Justin and Hermione immediately craned in.
"Merlin! Is that the flight permit no one's gotten in seven years?"
Justin practically tried to bury his face in the parchment, forgetting the "march in and grill him" plan he and Hermione had just agreed on.
Sean let him cradle the precious slip and simply took a sip of hot cocoa. Warmth chased off the chill; the sweetness made his eyes narrow with contentment.
"Tasty."
"Cool—"
Justin finished reading the permit line by line. Hermione shot him a look.
"Sean hasn't even read it yet."
"Huh?!"
Unlike Madam Hooch, who watched the three with amused interest, the Gryffindor Quidditch team beside her was not so pleased.
"Flight permit, Fred—remember? The captain didn't get one in his first year either," George said, blinking.
"'Course I remember. Heard he sulked for a month," Fred replied, all regretful tone.
"Shut it, you two!"
Wood's anger was about to set the pitch on fire.
Harry, meanwhile, stared at Sean for a good long while. Before Hogwarts, everyone had told Harry he was a hero. He tried not to let it go to his head, but it still left him a bit giddy.
Soon enough, though, talk around school had drifted toward Sean—someone who'd truly make great strides in magic; nearly every professor said so. He studied quietly at Hogwarts, skipped parties, didn't care for games; few people even saw him. Now and then, in the Great Hall, you'd only overhear Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall:
"Mr. Green? Yes, Professor McGonagall—he's learned nonverbal spells."
Nonverbal casting—Harry vaguely recalled—that was sixth-year material.
And yet, somehow, you couldn't bring yourself to resent Sean. Everyone had seen him pale-faced in class practicing spells, icing himself, bubbles coming out of his ears from mishaps, still reading nonstop in the Hall.
If anyone did get jealous and tried to give him trouble, the kids living off his "budget" History of Magic notes wouldn't stand for it:
"If you mess with Mr. Green and keep him from finishing the Green Notes—Merlin help you!"
In short, he was a hard-working prodigy—the sort that made you lose the will to catch up. Supposedly even Slytherins didn't bad-mouth him lightly; the last one who tried was still in detention.
"Harry—oh—there's an important task for you."
Wood's words snapped Harry back. Important task—Wood had said that about several things already; Harry assumed it'd be the same as before.
He didn't expect: "Go find out whether this… Green has joined Ravenclaw's Quidditch team. If he has, we'll need to change plans." Wood frowned, voice grave. "Of course, you're still the core of Gryffindor's plan. Together, we'll win the Cup!"
It came so suddenly that Harry nodded before he'd even processed it—then his eyes flew wide.
Elsewhere—
Sean smoothed the flight permit open. It clearly held a bit of magic. Following Madam Hooch's instructions, he set it on his broom; the broom seemed to take on a special bond. He could sense it—very likely a Linking Charm, and more besides.
It made him sigh—Hogwarts really was "the safest," in a sense.
In the changing room.
Sean changed quickly, but was blocked on his way out.
"You can feel the enchantments on it?"
A red-haired figure popped out.
Sean nodded—when another voice chimed in:
"Then you'll be blown away by the mysteries of alchemical craft!"
Another redhead stepped around behind to box Sean in.
"It's the best subject at Hogwarts—"
"—pity you only get it in sixth year."
"Unless you're at Beauxbatons—"
"—where they teach delightful alchemy to lower years!"
"Master Nicolas Flamel came out of Beauxbatons—"
"I'm sure you've heard of him."
"But you definitely don't know the half of it."
Together, in perfect sync: "He's lived over six hundred years!"
Sean had recognized Fred and George at once; their patter had already stoked his interest in alchemy.
"So, Prefects Weasley—how do I get started?"
"You tell us how much you sensed on the broom," Fred said, setting his own broom down—where it hovered in midair by itself.
"This is the first time we've met someone like us," George arched a brow. "Alchemy doesn't tolerate mediocrity."
Sean thought a moment, then fished a notebook from his bag. From his very first broom ride he'd been recording his impressions. The night before his flight test, he'd nearly taken the Nimbus 2000 apart. He didn't know the underlying theory, but he knew how the broom behaved, so he'd sketched a rough "anatomy," annotated with practical effects and guesses at the charm combinations.
He handed over the notes and watched Fred's interest flare into bright-eyed excitement. Fred glanced from Sean to the pages.
"George, you've got to see this—"
"You're an alchemy prodigy!" George boomed.
"Just like us!" Fred added, chin high.