Are Bubble-Nose Goblins or Crooked-Horn Snorkerbeasts actually real?
That was a fair question.
Sean was still holding Nightwing's reins when he saw Hagrid stomp back, looking frustrated.
"I reckon it's gone wanderin' again. Sorry, Sean. Leave the rest to me—first years, follow me!"
Hagrid bellowed, and the new students shivered as they trailed after him toward the boats.
Everyone else climbed into the carriages—those "self-moving" ones—lined up in a row, creaking and swaying as they rumbled down the path.
They passed between the tall stone pillars that marked the entrance to the school grounds, each topped with a winged boar.
Hogwarts Castle loomed closer and closer: towers stretching high into the night sky, dark against the darkness, with the occasional firelit window glowing overhead.
---
"She's really strange."
Hermione frowned at their small group. Sean might be reliable, but he never openly expressed dislike; Justin was simply an idiot; and Neville… well, Neville was somehow worse than Justin.
"Maybe… I mean, yes, judging from what just happened, maybe she is."
As soon as Justin noticed Hermione's expression souring, he quickly changed his tune.
The entrance hall glowed red under torchlight, echoing with the shuffle of students' footsteps.
They crossed the flagstone floor toward the double doors leading into the Great Hall, where the Start-of-Term Feast awaited.
Inside, four long house tables were packed with students. Overhead, the ceiling was pitch-black and starless—perfectly mirroring the night sky visible through the tall windows.
Hundreds of floating candles lit the hall, casting their warm glow over the silvery ghosts drifting about and the excited faces of returning students who chatted loudly, swapped summer stories, waved to friends at other tables, and scrutinized each other's new haircuts and robes.
---
They separated there, and Sean made his way toward Ravenclaw's long table.
Strangely, the seats at the back were completely full; only the very front had space left for him.
The Ravenclaws fell silent when they saw him approach, watching with something like reverence as he moved to sit at the front.
"Is he coming back to the team?"
Roger Davies looked uneasy. The former captain had graduated happily, leaving Roger newly in charge.
Last year, they'd won both the Quidditch Cup and the House Cup. Anyone who looked at those bronze-and-blue banners or the soaring eagle crest above them knew whose accomplishment that truly was.
A certain young wizard had become something like Ravenclaw's unofficial mascot—his feats whispered about all over Hogwarts:
Defeating a mountain troll alone… thwarting the plots of a certain unspeakable wizard… becoming the first student in centuries allowed to stay at Hogwarts over the summer…
Even over the holidays, The Daily Prophet Weekly snapped a photo of him entering Fairytale Workshop—he had received a personal invitation!
No one thought that store had anything to do with Hogwarts students.
"Roger, don't get greedy,"
Prefect Penelope warned lightly, then turned with a smile.
"Sean, how was your summer?"
"Wonderful, Prefect Penelope."
Sean sat down, puzzled—this spot should've been hers.
At the staff table, the old Sorting Hat wobbled on its stool, and even Sean's usually calm face twitched slightly.
Sorting always reminded him of the hat's absolutely atrocious behavior last year.
---
"Ginny Weasley—GRYFFINDOR!"
Professor McGonagall was still conducting the ceremony.
A small red-haired witch removed the Sorting Hat as the Gryffindor table erupted with cheers. The Weasley twins nearly climbed onto the table to applaud her.
Ginny stole a quick glance at the Ravenclaw table before scampering to join the roaring lions.
"Nice to meet you. Do you know Sean Green?" she whispered to the girl beside her.
"Wow—congrats on finding the most famous student in school on your first try," the girl laughed.
"Luna Lovegood!"
McGonagall called the next name.
A scattering of polite claps rose from the Ravenclaw table.
---
"Sean, I heard you went to Fairytale Workshop! What do they sell there? Are those pastries that morph into magical creatures real?"
Michael poked his head in from somewhere down the table, eyes shining with curiosity.
"Technically speaking—they're biscuits, not bread."
Anthony corrected him, lifting his book.
"Fine, fine. As long as they're not Terry's gooey hash-browns."
"Those are potato pies!" Terry hissed, offended.
"I honestly can't tell the difference," Michael muttered, then added, as if soothing him,
"Of course they're potato pies, not potato bombs or potato airplanes or whatever…"
They quickly fell into their usual chaotic chatter. Sean kept reading, paying them little mind—until someone plopped into the seat beside him.
"I'm Luna. Lovely to meet you."
She didn't seem to realize her name had been called only moments ago.
"Sean Green," he replied.
"Do you read The Quibbler?" Luna asked in a sing-song voice.
"I read part of it."
Sean meant the interview request the magazine had sent him over the summer—he'd refused, but Mr. Lovegood had still sent him a whole set of books.
"Then do you think Cornelius Fudge really has a secret army of Heliopas?" Luna asked earnestly.
"Impossible," Anthony murmured nearby.
"They absolutely exist," Luna insisted.
"What are Heliopas?" Michael asked, completely lost.
"They're fire spirits," Luna said, her protruding eyes widening even more,
"massive flaming beasts that streak across the earth, burning everything in their path—"
"They're fictional," Anthony said, straight-faced.
"They are not fictional!" Luna snapped.
"Okay, okay, you two can look for evidence. Whoever has the stronger argument wins, all right?" Michael said quickly, trying to calm them down.
Sean, trying to study Ancient Runes, quietly distanced himself. Arguments between young wizards never interested him.
What did interest him was the Sorting Hat. If he could pull Gryffindor's sword from it, his chances this year would skyrocket.
That sword was absurdly powerful—one strike had slain a basilisk.
But just thinking about the hat's past misbehavior made Sean pause. Dumbledore had offered him tea in the headmaster's office anytime; next time, he fully intended to settle accounts with that shabby old hat.