The next morning was clear and crisp. The Great Hall buzzed with the tempting aroma of sizzling sausages, and everyone was abuzz, eagerly anticipating an exciting Quidditch match, chatting away with enthusiasm.
"Like we said, Harry, you've got this!"
Ron was hyping Harry up first thing in the morning.
The two sat at the Gryffindor table, just behind Sean.
Harry nodded.
Wizards were practically obsessed with Quidditch. Ron and Harry figured if Harry could show some skill on the pitch, wouldn't that prove his worth?
—Like Justin, who knew tons of cooking charms and organized Sean's notes in a scientific, systematic way.
Or Neville, who helped Sean refine his Herbology notes and let them study his magical plants up close.
Or Hermione, who always tutored them in charms, only turning to Sean for the really tough bits.
According to Justin, Sean knew everything and had a unique way of tracking everyone's charm progress.
At that, Justin's eyes lit up.
Harry and Ron were stunned too. They hadn't realized charms could be graded like that!
Wasn't it enough to just pass the final exams?
The two, whose life motto was "passing is enough," had no idea how much passion they'd unleash in the coming days.
"You'll be fine," Ron said.
In the Great Hall, Ron was more nervous than Harry. This wasn't just the first match—it was their ticket into the secret group.
Watching their anxious faces, Justin, over at the Ravenclaw table, couldn't stop laughing.
Sean shot him a look, and Justin stifled his grin.
He's been… kind of weird lately, Sean thought.
By eleven, it seemed the whole school had packed into the stands around the Quidditch pitch.
Many students brought binoculars. The seats were practically in the clouds, but sometimes it was still hard to follow the action.
The match kicked off quickly, with Sean and the others sitting a bit farther back.
Compared to the thrilling but, in Sean's eyes, almost childish Quidditch match (they were just so slow), the commentary was far more entertaining—
Even with Professor McGonagall sitting beside him, Lee Jordan couldn't stop his dreamlike commentary.
"The Quaffle's nabbed by Gryffindor's Angelina Johnson—what a fantastic Chaser that girl is, and pretty charming too—if I could just get a date with her—"
"JORDAN!"
"Sorry, Professor."
His commentary style was, to put it mildly, free-spirited.
Gryffindor cheers echoed through the chilly air, mixed with Slytherin roars and groans.
Suddenly, Gryffindor erupted in outrage.
Marcus Flint had deliberately rammed Harry, sending his broom veering off course. Harry clung on tightly.
Lee Jordan shouted, forgetting he was the commentator:
"Slytherin's taken the lead—thanks to that blatant, dirty cheating—"
"JORDAN!"
McGonagall growled.
"I mean, after that obvious and disgusting foul—"
"Jordan, I'm warning you—"
"Alright, alright. Flint nearly killed Gryffindor's Seeker, but that happens to everyone, right? So, Gryffindor gets a penalty. Spinnet takes the Quaffle, passes it smoothly, and the game goes on. Gryffindor's still got the ball."
Sometimes sarcasm stung more than blunt words. The Slytherins glared at him coldly.
Sean figured McGonagall sat next to Jordan not just to keep his commentary in check but also to stop the angry Slytherins from mobbing him.
Sean quietly flipped open A Guide to Ancient Runes. He was only at the Quidditch pitch because McGonagall had said:
"Get out and see some things, child. The Quidditch match is starting."
Suddenly, a roar erupted from the pitch—Harry's broom was acting up!
It twitched and jerked wildly, slowly pulling Harry higher and farther from the game.
His broom started bucking and rolling. Harry could barely hang on. The next second, it twisted violently again, flinging him off. He dangled in the air, gripping the broom with one hand.
The crowd gasped, eyes wide at the heart-stopping scene.
Sean seemed to recall something. When he turned, Hermione was already pushing through the crowd toward Snape's stand.
She even knocked Quirrell headfirst into the front row without stopping to apologize.
She muttered, "It's Snape—he's jinxing the broom."
Compared to Harry, who'd be fine, Hermione's actions made Sean's eyes widen.
At another stand, Hermione crept near Snape, ready to cast a spell on his still-healing leg.
She whispered incantations, but the magic fizzled before it could take effect.
Panicked, she turned to see Sean.
He'd just gracefully lowered his wand, saying softly:
"Hermione, look—"
In the sky, Harry suddenly climbed back onto his broom.
Moments later, the stands exploded—Harry had caught the Golden Snitch!
Hermione turned back stiffly:
"Why… Sean?"
Sean didn't answer, just walked her back to Justin and the others.
Neville was sobbing, looking nothing like the boy who'd faced a troll.
Up in the highest stands, Penelope's brows furrowed, her suppressed anger nearly overwhelming Roger, Ravenclaw's athletic star and Quidditch team reserve captain.
"You're in charge of recruitment, and you missed a wizard who passed the flying test—one even Gryffindor knows about!?"
She glared at the burly wizard like he was a pig—and pigs might be smarter.
"Who'd have thought… that test hasn't been passed in ages…"
Roger stammered, giving a pained smile.
"Go find him!" Penelope, the prefect, roared.
"No—wait, I'll go—"
But it wasn't just them looking for Sean. At a corridor corner, two redheaded figures cornered him first.
"You finished those books?!"
"Never seen a wizard with your talent—"
"We've got to teach you some real stuff!"
"All it takes is—"