October brought more than just a chill—it came with a solid week of gale and downpour.
It was Sunday, and the weather was as foul as ever: icy rain drummed on the windows while wind howled around the castle. From a corridor window, Sean spotted a huge figure outside, bundled in a long moleskin coat and rabbit-fur gloves, de-icing the brooms in the Quidditch shed.
The nasty weather kept most students lingering in the Great Hall, huddling at hearths in little clusters day after day. A foursome made up of three different Houses—like Sean's group—was rarer. Sean cupped a hot cocoa in his hands; Justin had dumped in so many sugar cubes it was almost tooth-achingly sweet. At Sean's feet lay stacks of books—on Transfiguration and Ancient Runes—resting on a thin fleece blanket.
Ever since he'd started touching advanced Transfiguration, Sean had hardly waved his wand in practice. Professor McGonagall had stuffed him with dense, difficult books—some not even in the library, from her private collection.
Transforming a wizard's body, or turning an object into magic itself—both were extremely difficult and dangerous. McGonagall, meticulous as ever, insisted he master the advanced theory first rather than practice recklessly—she'd repeated that many times.
So for days, Sean pored over those Transfiguration texts and the pronunciation and characters of Ancient Runes. He spent noticeably more time in the Great Hall, and a certain little badger's dessert lineup had grown by several kinds.
Compared to Transfiguration's slow—but necessary—progress, Charms moved quickly. Sean didn't need long to grind Finite up to Beginner; only half the proficiency to go before Adept. Worth noting: Justin seemed naturally gifted at it—his progress nearly matched Sean's. The most obvious proof was that Neville now dared use a small wooden board to practice the Levitation Charm.
Sean guessed that talent varies not just by magical branch but by specific spells—like Harry's Levitation versus Expelliarmus: he lagged far behind Hermione in the former, yet could trade blows with Voldemort using the latter.
Speaking of Harry, maybe because Sean was reading in the Hall more often, he frequently saw Harry and Malfoy pecking at each other. Their barbs included (but weren't limited to): "Just you wait for detention, Potter—first-years aren't allowed brooms, and I'm telling a professor!" and "Heh—funny you mention it, I only got a broom thanks to Mr. Malfoy."
The cocoa was so sweet Sean squinted with pleasure. He shook his head and ignored the Hall's usual scuffles. With Finite at Beginner, he planned to visit the staffroom tomorrow to learn Disillusionment from Professor Flitwick.
He didn't expect Hermione to suddenly stride forward like an arrow loosed from a bow. "So you think that's a reward for breaking school rules?" she said, glaring at the broom in Harry's hand.
Justin hurried after her and, while Hermione was heated, blurted, "Hermione, Sean kind of has one too…"
Hermione froze, then shot Justin a glare. "That's different… Sean's ten times better than Harry…"
Harry and Malfoy both turned their attention to Hermione—and to Sean, who'd cast them a glance. Harry suddenly remembered Wood's assignment; Malfoy remembered, "Sean? Ha! He can solo a troll and beat a werewolf bare-handed…" The two of them fell silent. The air went awkward—until Professor Flitwick walked over.
"I do hope we're not arguing, children?" he piped.
"Someone's broken the rules and smuggled in a broom, Professor," Malfoy blurted.
"Oh?" Flitwick's eyes warmed at once. "So you've heard Mr. Green passed his flight test?"
Why did it circle back to Green again… Malfoy's mouth twitched. The scuffle seemed to be defused by Flitwick—or perhaps not. Even Harry could hardly believe it when Malfoy slunk off without another word.
Sean had no idea he'd just ended a confrontation. After running through the twenty-four runes he'd memorized, he fished Advanced Potions Guide and the matching notebook from his bag.
Master Libatius Borage had been chatty lately: sometimes the book flashed, ["My effort lets the past have a future"]; sometimes, ["Endless horizons, endless truth… you should know they're being born in your hands."] It looked like encouragement.
Sean's quill went scratch-scratch as he recorded ways to fuse potions under different, finely tuned will-guidance. From lighting the cauldron to the rolling boil, he logged every change and analyzed why—leaving an exact, replicable method, just as Master Borage had done.
He named it the Guiding Method: use the refined ritual to strengthen a wizard's resolve, then, through powerful conviction and a specific scenario, steer the wizard's emotions to match the potion's needs.
Sean had a habit of writing until he forgot the time, so he stayed in the Hall a long while—until dusk. The hearth still roared. After a long bout of summarizing and thinking, he lifted his stiff head. Whew—before heading to the dungeons for the evening, he'd managed to get a rough draft of the Guiding Method down.
Deep joy glinted in his green eyes as he swept a casual look across the Hall—Justin was encouraging Neville to Levitate chess pieces; Hermione pretended indifference but couldn't stop sneaking glances.
At the doors, Sean spotted a boy drenched to the bone. Another stormy twilight—Harry had come back from practice soaked through, shoes caked with mud. Gryffindor Tower was too far; he'd catch cold climbing all the way up. Quidditch players were used to warming themselves in the Great Hall, at least drying clothes by a hearth in the corner.
Outside it was dark and still pouring. Harry hadn't expected the Weasley twins to be so right—Quidditch practice really didn't stop for any weather. Thinking of Wood's words, he didn't know whether to be thrilled or dismayed:
"This year our name will be carved on the Quidditch Cup!"
As they trudged back to the castle, Wood had said, brimming with excitement, "If you fly better than Charlie Weasley, I won't be surprised. If he hadn't gone into dragon research, he'd be on the England team… By the way, Harry—did you find out about that… Green?"
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