"Slytherin, they say, came from the marshes of eastern Ireland, though that's never been fully confirmed.
Now, if you think about it carefully, you can figure out where Rowena Ravenclaw hailed from."
Sean paused, giving the moment a chance to sink in.
"England, Wales, Ireland…"
While Justin furrowed his brow in deep thought, Hermione's eyes lit up brighter with each word.
"Scotland!
The four founders of Hogwarts each came from a different part of the British Isles: Scotland, Wales, England, and Ireland!"
"Exactly," Sean said with a nod of approval.
"Remember the Sorting Hat's song? 'Fair Ravenclaw, from glen'?"
Sean recited the line with a flourish.
"Here, 'glen' refers to a term used in Scotland for a highland valley."
"Sean, you're like a walking library!" Justin exclaimed in awe, while Hermione gave a quick, approving nod, her chin raised.
Sean let out a small "hm" and picked up his wand, strolling to the back of the classroom where a pile of dusty, yellowed books lay scattered on the floor.
"Scourgify!"
With a smooth, S-shaped flick of his wand, Sean cast the spell, and the dust-covered books gleamed as if brand new.
[You've practiced the Cleaning Charm at a beginner level, Proficiency +3]
[Beginner-Level Cleaning Charm Unlocked]
[New Spell Domain Title Unlocked, Please Review]
Sean didn't rush to check the notification. Instead, he gathered the books and placed them neatly back on the shelf.
He glanced around the classroom.
The desks and chairs, once coated in cobwebs, now sparkled, neatly arranged by Justin and Hermione. The massive, slightly crooked bookshelf was fully restocked, every book cleaned inside and out by Sean's spell. In another corner, the trio had sorted and stacked a collection of oddly shaped magical instruments.
All in all, the room finally looked like a proper classroom in use, not some dusty relic from a thousand years ago.
Satisfied, Sean opened his status panel:
[Title: Spell Novice]
[Slightly increases spell perception and significantly boosts spell aptitude]
Significantly?
Sean's heart skipped a beat as he read on with anticipation.
[Wizard Sean, Spell Aptitude: Blue (Enhanced by Spell Novice Title, Original Aptitude: White). Note: Average wizard aptitude is Green]
Am I… half a spellcasting genius now? Sean thought, a grin tugging at his lips.
The difference between aptitudes was stark. A White aptitude compared to a Blue one was like comparing a common snake to a basilisk. Sean had long dreamed of mastering the four spells taught in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but progress had been slow. Standard Spells: Level One offered no guidance, and The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection was frustratingly vague. Those spells clearly required a professor's instruction.
Relying on Professor Quirrell? About as likely as Snape flinging open the dungeon doors and inviting him in for tea.
So, Sean turned to self-study.
To his surprise, in just a short time, guided by some mysterious intuition, he unlocked the Red Sparks and Green Sparks spells.
Ten tries.
Just ten tries.
It was enough to make a certain young wizard wonder if his former White aptitude had been some kind of magical defect.
Now, about those two spells—Red Sparks and Green Sparks. They seemed basic, almost trivial, but they had practical uses. First, they could serve as emergency signals. Sean recalled their use in the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. Second, in combat, they functioned as low-level offensive spells. Ron had once mentioned in Harry's first year that, after just a few lessons, Harry and Malfoy could do little more than shoot sparks at each other with their wands.
Those sparks? Red and Green.
As Sean left the classroom, he caught the faint sound of Mrs. Norris's meows echoing down the corridor, followed by—
"Sir Cadogan, a bet's a bet. Now go fetch me a bottle of fine liquor from the Drunken Monks' portrait!"
A woman's voice rang out from a nearby painting. Sean looked up to see a plump witch in a white gown, grinning smugly at the portrait beside her. In it stood a stout knight, his oversized sword in hand, grass stains on his knees.
Sir Cadogan let out a dramatic sigh. "Merlin's beard, Violet, how can you care so little about Quidditch? Always holed up in that library of yours, coming back this late! And now, look—another bottle gone from my stash!"
Sean smirked. Sir Cadogan and Madam Violet were at it again, placing bets as they often did. Hung on the walls with nothing but eternity ahead, the castle's portraits entertained themselves with whatever they could—often wagering on the Hogwarts students.
Like bored wizards betting on which raindrop would slide fastest down a window, the portraits ran their own competitions, often betting on which student would navigate the moving staircases the quickest. (A neutral portrait always trailed along to judge fairly.)
Sean ignored Sir Cadogan. Responding would only encourage the knight to follow him all the way to the common room, chattering nonstop. The last time Sean had let his name slip, he'd regretted it instantly. Cadogan had spun five or six jokes out of it:
"Sean Green tried to become a painter, but he failed. Know why? Because he's only ever seen green! Ha!"
Sean Green (Sean Green) did not find it funny. In retaliation, he'd temporarily moved the Drunken Monks' portrait to a more obscure spot.
---
The night passed quickly.
A new week loomed over Hogwarts, and Monday, the first day, was the only one that truly rattled Sean's nerves.
Perhaps it rattled all Ravenclaw first-years.
Because that morning, they faced their second Potions class.
Sean had spent the previous evening reviewing the ritual three times and double-checking his notes on the Cure for Boils potion. To prepare for today's brewing, he'd even rushed to finish his Potions essay, hoping to sharpen his understanding to an exceptional level.
In the quiet of the dungeon, the heavy door swung open with a resounding BANG.
Professor Snape swept in, his black robes billowing, his sallow face looking even more severe than usual. Though his movements were graceful, the overwhelming aura he exuded sent a chill through the young witches and wizards.
"Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff," he sneered, his voice low and commanding. "A week has passed, and if I find that some of you are still clinging to your astonishing deficits in intelligence and practical skill…"
He didn't finish the sentence, but the students were already trembling, some pale as ghosts.
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