Sean had never really pictured the original owner's family.
Muggles? Wizards?
As he climbed the tower, a flicker of curiosity sparked.
The Book of Admittance hadn't been touched by human hands since the four founders placed it there a thousand years ago.
Normally, only Hogwarts headmasters and the professor greeting first-years ever laid eyes on the Book and its Quill.
Now his little pouch was wiggling like crazy. The pocket Dumbledore had given him wriggled out—shaped exactly like a Niffler—and crawled up his arm. It pulled a letter from its belly and handed it over.
[I've always believed that a wizard not knowing his own birthday is a sad thing. It means one less reason for the world to celebrate with him.]
The note burst into flame a few seconds later. At the same moment, the blurry Book in front of Sean snapped into focus.
"Thank you," Sean said, looking north toward the headmaster's office.
Far away—past corridors, spiral stairs, and a gurgling kettle—Dumbledore blinked, as if he'd felt the gratitude.
Sean knew the old man couldn't hear him, but he'd remember the kindness.
He stepped forward and gently opened the Book, handling it with the same care McGonagall showed every year—careful, excited.
He wasn't just looking for the date. He was curious about the alchemy behind these two legendary artifacts.
They were among Hogwarts' finest.
The dragon-hide cover was soft, edges flaking with age.
Flipping the pages felt like time slipping through his fingers. Over a dozen centuries of names appeared and vanished.
Near the back: Sean Green, born July 27th.
No other clues about his past, but the moment he saw the date, something clicked. He felt… tethered to the world.
Maybe Dumbledore was right. A birthday gave you one more reason to throw a party.
While the artifacts were still clear, Sean studied them.
The Quill of Acceptance looked almost identical to a diricawl feather from Fantastic Beasts, but diricawl feathers repel water—and the inkwell was empty.
So how did it write?
Sean stared at the silvery liquid dripping from the tip, mesmerized.
"Sean—"
Hagrid's voice boomed from the doorway. Sean closed the Book gently and jogged over.
"Well? Dumbledore snuck me in to bring ya here—"
Hagrid's beard was a mess. He reached to clap Sean on the shoulder, then thought better of it and puffed out his chest instead, proud of his restraint.
"Hagrid, I really appreciate it."
"Oh—oh, no need to thank me for somethin' like this—"
His voice got smaller and smaller.
Hagrid was honest and big-hearted. Huge body, tiny feelings.
Outside the tower, Sean could tell Hagrid was finally breathing easier. No more hiding in his hut, waiting to be sacked.
They set a meeting for dusk in the Forbidden Forest.
Hagrid insisted—no more detentions meant no night walks in the Forest for little wizards.
(He conveniently ignored the school rule that said no wizards in the Forest, period.)
---
Bleak March had rolled into stormy April. Rainy nights were the norm. Today was a rare clear evening, so the Forest edge was packed with students.
By dusk, they reluctantly headed back to the castle.
Sean walked the opposite way, boots crunching on grass that had only been dry for half a day.
Against the tide of students, he glanced up. A few bright stars were already twinkling.
Stars. Astronomy. Divination.
In simple terms: the heavens helped those who understood them predict the future.
Not like Trelawney's hit-or-miss prophecies—this was a real, traceable branch of magic.
Sean always found Trelawney terrifying. In an hour she'd rattle off a hundred predictions. Ninety-nine were nonsense.
But one was real.
And she had no idea which.
Could anything be scarier?
Sean didn't want his future read, but he was dying to learn divination properly.
Centaurs—real masters of prophecy. He wasn't sure if he'd find any in the Forest, or if Firenze was in the mood to teach.
But he wanted to try.
Magic still lit a fire in him.
The Forest loomed closer. On the Marauder's Map, Hagrid's name was almost on top of his.
A little booklet in the corner logged his performance at the traps:
- Herbology got him past Devil's Snare.
- Transfiguration turned a plank into a flute to hypnotize Fluffy.
- Charms snagged the key.
- Dark Arts blasted the chess king.
- Alchemy—broom and paper plane—bought precious time.
Knowledge really was power.
Sean looked up at the star-studded sky.
Magic—what else was waiting for him?
---
"Two hours till curfew. I can only introduce you. Whether they agree… that's up to them."
Hagrid glanced at the time.
Sean followed him to a clearing deep in the woods. Soft moss carpeted the ground; trees grew straight out of it. Branches heavy with leaves filtered moonlight into gentle, dappled patches.
Hagrid leaned against a trunk, arms crossed tight. He didn't care for "all that star nonsense," but he knew one thing: centaurs weren't exactly friendly magical creatures. He'd keep an eye on Sean.
A tall centaur stood in the center of the clearing, eyes unnaturally blue.
"Sean Green," he said.
Rustling. Hoofbeats. Soon the clearing filled with centaurs.
"Firenze, remember—this is centaur knowledge!"
An older centaur—though not by much—snapped.