It wasn't just Gryffindor heading out for flying practice. From a distance, Sean spotted a group of Hufflepuffs, chatting and laughing as they strolled into the Quidditch pitch.
As Sean passed by, he noticed the brooms and books they were carrying. The guy on the far left, a Hufflepuff with a goofy grin, was clutching The Beater's Bible. "Take out the Seeker" was the book's golden rule number one.
In the middle, a mild-mannered senior was casually flipping through He Flew Like a Madman, pointing out some tactic about a pincers movement to score—two Chasers storm the scoring area, knock the Keeper aside, and leave a hoop wide open for the third Chaser to swoop in.
That got a big laugh from the group.
Sean wasn't sure if Quidditch was making the Hufflepuffs a bit wild or if wizards just had some natural rowdiness in them. Either way, he quietly put some distance between himself and the Quidditch crew before heading off.
The Quidditch pitch was cloaked in a thin, pearly mist that morning. The stands were empty, save for a few early-rising owls preening their feathers on the high perches. Dewdrops clung to the goalposts, occasionally dripping down and splashing into mushroom-shaped puddles on the soft grass.
Wrapped in a thick Ravenclaw scarf, Sean tucked his copy of Intermediate Transfiguration into his bag. The polished mahogany handle of his Nimbus 2000 gleamed, catching the sunlight in a hazy golden-red glow.
The sound of the wind sweeping across the pitch was almost hypnotic, carrying a serene calm. In the distance, a few hoots echoed from the owlery, and a letter-carrying owl flapped lazily toward the castle.
Sean was already nearing Hogwarts.
In a room where a fireplace roared fiercely, Minerva McGonagall's stern gaze softened into something deep and warm.
"He really does deserve a rest," she murmured. "It's what he's earned."
"Little wizard! Let me ask you a question!"
Mr. Owl, wings flapping, fixed his stare on Sean as he approached from the Great Hall. Sean knew whether he answered or not, Mr. Owl would let him through, but he always took the owl's questions seriously.
Still—
Glancing at Neville, who was shivering in the chilly breeze, Sean let out a quiet sigh.
"Sean—it's too hard—I can't answer it—"
Neville, clearly unaware of Mr. Owl's deal, looked like he was on the verge of tears.
"Here."
Sean silently handed over his steaming mug of pumpkin juice.
"I'm pretty sure Justin already told you about this, Neville. So why don't you head inside?"
After a sip of the hot pumpkin juice, Neville's trembling eased a bit.
"It's—too rude—I can't—cause trouble," Neville stammered.
He'll get used to it, Sean thought. Just like Justin did.
"A tricky question! A mysterious question! Little wizard! Clever little wizard! Why do you think 'lard' shows up in the names of Hogwarts and the nearby village?"
Mr. Owl had never stumped Sean, but he never tired of trying.
"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure! Forget that, and Ravenclaw's door will up and run away!" Mr. Owl had once declared.
"Hogwarts was founded around the tenth century," Sean answered. "Back then, boars were considered sacred animals, prized by the nobility and big shots in Western kingdoms for hunting. They also symbolized spiritual strength and were tied to Druid priests."
This time, Mr. Owl didn't make a fuss. With a practiced bow, he stepped aside, and the sky-blue door appeared.
Neville's eyes widened as Mr. Owl bowed. Wasn't this guy supposed to flap his wings, flash his claws, and throw a fit?
"Morning, Sean," Justin called, watering a dirigible plum.
Ever since Neville joined them, bringing along a bunch of potted plants, Justin had picked up a few from Professor Sprout too. The dirigible plum, with its orange-radish-like fruit that hung upside down from the bush, was one of them.
Sean recalled that Xenophilius Lovegood and a few others believed dirigible plums could make you more open to weird stuff.
The fireplace crackled, chasing away the chill in the corridor. Neville, still shivering, sank into a soft wooden chair by the fire, letting the warmth seep into him.
"What's that, Sean?"
Justin's eyes locked onto the long parcel Sean carried, a few neat, straight twigs peeking out.
"It's obviously a broom," Hermione said, looking up from her book.
"Cool," Justin said with a grin, then casually turned away.
But while Sean dove into The Origins of Transfiguration, Justin kept sneaking glances at the broom.
"Want some treacle tart?"
Justin pulled out a pastry made of crisp shortcrust and golden syrup. In the Great Hall, these tarts were usually served hot with a dollop of clotted cream, though sometimes regular cream, custard, or yogurt would do.
"Oh—uh—thanks," Neville stammered, taking it.
He was fiddling with a wide, old wooden table crammed with pots of all shapes and sizes. At the corner, a blackroot plant lazily curled its tender white leaves, while nearby, a few dittany seedlings twitched restlessly under a magical glass dome.
"You're curious about Sean's broom too, right?" Justin whispered, like they were plotting a secret mission.
"Y-yeah—"
Neville didn't have the heart to say no.
When Sean finally looked up, he caught Neville and Justin sneaking a peek under the parcel's wrapping. Hermione, standing at the back, gave him a helpless glance. When her green eyes met his, she froze, flustered.
Sean quietly looked away.
"It's a Nimbus 2000! Merlin's beard!"
Justin and Neville poked at the broom, marveling at the golden letters stamped on the handle.
"Nice one, Neville," Justin said.
Neville's shy face lit up with a tiny spark of confidence. For once, he hadn't messed up.
"A Nimbus 2000?"
Hermione, who hadn't spoken yet, was floored by the news.
"And there's a flying test! The notice is right in the parcel—tomorrow afternoon—"
Justin muttered to himself.
"Sean never even told us—oh, Hermione, want some treacle tart?"
"You guys—what? No, where'd you even get that?"
Hermione had too much to say and didn't know where to start.
"Oh, this?" Justin grinned.
"It's exactly what I was gonna tell you guys about today—something magical."