October brought more than just a chill—it ushered in a week of relentless wind and rain.
It was Sunday, and the weather was as miserable as ever. Icy raindrops battered the windows, and the wind howled around the castle.
From a corridor window, Sean spotted a massive figure wrapped in a long moleskin coat, wearing rabbit-fur gloves, de-icing broomsticks in the Quidditch pitch's broom shed.
The brutal October weather made young witches and wizards linger in the Great Hall. For days, small groups huddled around the fire, chatting.
But a group like Sean's—four students from three different Houses—was a rare sight. Sean cradled a mug of hot cocoa, loaded with sugar cubes by Justin, so sweet it nearly made his teeth ache.
At his feet lay a pile of books on Transfiguration and ancient runes, stacked on a thin wool blanket.
Since diving into advanced Transfiguration, Sean had barely waved his wand for practice.
Professor McGonagall had handed him a stack of dense, obscure books—some not even in the library, part of her personal collection.
Transforming a wizard's body or turning an object into magic was incredibly difficult and dangerous. McGonagall had stressed, repeatedly, that he needed to thoroughly understand the theory before attempting anything reckless.
For days, Sean pored over these Transfiguration books and studied the pronunciation and symbols of ancient runes.
He spent noticeably more time in the Great Hall, where a certain Hufflepuff's desserts had multiplied in variety.
Compared to the slow but necessary progress in Transfiguration, his work in Charms was speeding along. Sean had quickly mastered Finite Incantatem to a beginner level, with only half the proficiency needed to reach adept.
Notably, Justin showed real talent with this spell, keeping pace with Sean.
The proof? Neville was now brave enough to practice the Levitation Charm on a small wooden board.
Sean suspected that, beyond magical disciplines, different wizards had varying talents for specific spells—like Harry's Levitation Charm versus his Expelliarmus.
The former lagged far behind Hermione's, but the latter could go toe-to-toe with Voldemort.
Speaking of Harry, maybe because Sean was spending more time reading in the Great Hall, he often saw Harry and Malfoy bickering like amateurs.
Their jabs included things like: "Just wait till you're punished, Potter! First-years aren't allowed to fly broomsticks. I'm telling a professor!" or "Hah—funny thing is, I got my broom thanks to Mr. Malfoy."
The hot cocoa was so sweet Sean squinted, shaking his head, ignoring the usual Great Hall squabbles.
After mastering Finite Incantatem, he planned to visit the staff room tomorrow to learn the Disillusionment Charm from Professor Flitwick.
But then Hermione charged forward:
"So you think breaking school rules deserves a reward?"
She stormed over, glaring at the broom in Harry's hand.
Justin hurried after her, blurting out in the heat of the moment:
"Hermione, Sean has one too…"
Hermione froze, then shot Justin a look. "It's not the same. Sean is ten times better than Harry."
Suddenly, Harry and Malfoy's attention shifted to Hermione—and Sean, who glanced their way.
Harry thought of Wood's assignment, while Malfoy recalled, "Sean? Ha! The guy who took on a troll single-handedly and punched out a werewolf…"
Both fell silent.
The atmosphere turned awkward until Professor Flitwick approached:
"I hope there's no fighting, children?" he squeaked.
"Someone broke school rules and brought a broom, Professor," Malfoy said eagerly.
"Oh?"
Flitwick's eyes softened with a hint of pride.
"You've heard Mr. Green passed his flying test, I presume?"
Why'd it come back to Green…?
Malfoy's mouth twitched.
Flitwick seemed to defuse the tension—or maybe he didn't.
Harry could hardly believe it when Malfoy slunk off without a word.
Sean, unaware he'd ended a spat, reviewed the twenty-four runes he'd memorized, then pulled out Advanced Potion-Making and his notebook.
Lately, Master Libatius Borage had been chatty, his words appearing in the book:
"My efforts gave the past a future."
Or: "Endless horizons, infinite truths… you should know, they're being born in your hands."
It felt like encouragement for Sean.
His quill scratched away, noting methods to guide potion brewing with precise willpower.
From lighting the cauldron to the potion's boil, Sean recorded every action's change, analyzing the reasons behind them.
Like Master Borage, he aimed to leave a precise, replicable method.
He called it the Guiding Method.
By strengthening a wizard's conviction through an improved ritual, then aligning their emotions with the potion's needs in specific settings.
Sean often lost track of time while writing, lingering in the Great Hall.
Until dusk settled.
The fireplace still blazed warmly. After long hours of summarizing and thinking, Sean lifted his stiff neck.
Phew—he'd managed to roughly outline the Guiding Method before heading to the dungeons that evening.
His green eyes glowed with quiet joy. Glancing around the Great Hall, he saw Justin encouraging Neville to levitate chess pieces, while Hermione pretended not to care but kept sneaking looks.
At the entrance, Sean spotted a drenched young wizard.
On another stormy evening, Harry returned from training, soaked to the bone, shoes caked in mud.
The Gryffindor common room was too far to avoid catching a cold, so Quidditch team members often warmed up by the Great Hall's corner fireplace to dry their clothes.
Outside, the sky was dark, rain pouring in sheets.
Harry hadn't believed the Weasley twins, but they were right—Quidditch training didn't stop for any weather.
Recalling Wood's words, Harry wasn't sure whether to feel thrilled or miserable:
"This year, the Quidditch Cup will have our names on it!"
Wood had said excitedly as they trudged back to the castle.
"I wouldn't be surprised if you outshine Charlie Weasley, Harry. If he hadn't gone off to study dragons, he'd be playing for England…
But Harry, have you learned anything about that… Green fellow?"
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