The next few days, something shifted with Gilderoy Lockhart's reputation.
Back when he used to sweep into the Great Hall, the little witches would start squealing and whispering like crazy. Now? A lot of the girls actually tried to duck out of sight when he showed up.
Saturday.
Great Hall.
Sean took a slow sip of steaming pumpkin porridge; the thick sweetness always reminded him of roasted sweet potatoes by the fireplace on winter nights back home.
Owls swooped in under the cloudy enchanted ceiling, parcels dropping like rain.
All around him, Harry was half-heartedly dealing with Colin Creevey. To Colin, the most exciting thing in the world was saying "Hi, Harry!" six or seven times a day and hearing "Hey, Colin" back, no matter how flat and annoyed Harry sounded.
Hermione was seriously considering setting fire to every single one of Lockhart's books; Justin Finch-Fletchley finally talked her down.
"My mum says knowledge itself is never guilty, no matter what," Justin told her.
Neville was carefully studying the fire-making spell in Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. Somewhere along the line he'd stopped waiting for someone else to save him, especially when that someone was probably going to be Sean.
Ron, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with excitement. Today he was sneaking off to Diagon Alley to buy himself a new wand. He just had to be super careful not to get Sean in trouble.
The little crew from the Burrow (or really, everyone who'd somehow gotten roped into Sean's orbit) had already been hanging out together for a whole year without anyone quite noticing how it happened.
Sean casually glanced over at the Gryffindor table. A certain cute red-headed first-year was chattering away with her friends, all of them clutching little moving black-cat cards and giggling over them.
His eyes flicked to the diary sitting open on the table in front of Ginny. The malice rolling off it had gotten heavier. Sometimes it actually stung his eyes like tiny needles.
At the same time, Ginny herself now carried a faint trace of something that made soul containers twitch, the same kind of residue Sean could sense on a Horcrux.
He knew, just like he could sense Voldemort, the younger Tom Riddle could sense him too, through whatever creepy link the diary had. They'd clocked each other the night of the Sorting.
The difference? Tom had no idea what Sean was planning, but Sean knew exactly how to destroy that diary.
Still…
Tom was starting to panic. He'd obviously forced something nasty on Ginny's soul to speed things up.
Sean felt the pressure, but he refused to rush.
Tonight, once he was sure no one would notice, he was finding the Chamber entrance.
That was the plan.
Outside the castle, the grass was still damp with dew even though the sun was high. Wisps of leftover morning fog clung to the Quidditch pitch.
A bunch of Ravenclaws in blue-and-white scarves came trudging off the field, brooms over their shoulders, clearly just done with practice.
Sean had a book up in front of his face and slipped past them.
"First-years are done with flying lessons and we still don't have a Seeker?" Roger Davies yanked his scarf loose, sounding seriously fed up.
"You're looking for another Rodrick Prenton, Davies. The guy's the star of the Tutshill Tornadoes, five league cups—"
The teammate next to him got a death glare for that.
"Cut Roger some slack," another guy chimed in. "The year before he took over, Ravenclaw won the Cup. The second he became captain? Total collapse. Now everybody knows exactly who to blame."
A Chaser named Toa struck a dramatic pose. "Guess who Roger just appointed as recruiting officer? Me. So when we lose spectacularly this year, everyone will know last year we got a powerhouse rookie and this year we got nothing."
Roger's vein was practically popping. He slapped a "Recruitment" badge onto Toa's arm. Misery shared is misery halved, right?
Sean quietly picked up the pace and headed toward Hagrid's hut.
His Transfiguration skill was only a hundred points away from hitting [Proficient], which meant less than a week of solid practice. Beginner level took forever to cast, but once you hit Proficient the casting time dropped hard, and Expert was basically instant. He'd already proven that with curses and dark spells.
Out by Hagrid's hut, the pumpkins had swollen to the size of small garden sheds.
Hagrid was storming out the door, face like thunder, but the second he spotted Sean his whole expression lit up.
"Sean! Good to see ya! Come in, come in; thought you were that Lockhart git again for a second."
Sean stepped inside, a little confused. One corner had Hagrid's gigantic bed, the other a cheerfully crackling fire.
"You won't believe this," Hagrid grumbled, shoving aside a half-plucked rooster to make room for the teakettle. "He tried teachin' me how to keep kelpies outta wells. As if I don't know! Then he starts braggin' about banishing a banshee; if even one word of that's true I'll eat this teakettle."
Sean eyed Hagrid's teeth and decided yeah, the kettle probably wouldn't stand a chance. Then he noticed the rooster wasn't just plucked; it had weird wounds.
"It's hurt?" he asked.
"Second one since term started," Hagrid muttered. "Either foxes or a vampire. I need the Headmaster to let me put a ward around the coop."
Sean went quiet.
Tom was already strong enough to force Ginny to kill roosters, and it had only been two weeks since term began.
Sean had a pretty good idea why the guy was in such a hurry, and it had everything to do with him.
His eyes darkened. He needed something that could track Ginny's movements. He'd been thinking the Marauder's Map, but tonight he'd come up with something even better.
…
It was a pitch-black, cloudy night.
October was creeping closer; the air was colder, rain more frequent, nights darker than ever.
Ron poked his head around a corner, checking for Filch or Mrs. Norris.
Except Mrs. Norris was currently draped across Sean's shoulders like a furry scarf. Ron whipped around, saw her glowing eyes, and nearly jumped out of his skin.
"S-Sean?!"
He slapped a hand over his mouth.
"I cleared it with Mr. Filch," Sean said calmly.
Ron just stared, brain clearly buffering.
"Great Green, my lord—" Fred's head popped out of a portrait hole, took one look at Mrs. Norris, and vanished again.
"Your faithful servant approache—" George started, then saw the cat and disappeared too.
Ron muttered under his breath in the exact same tone George had used, "Your faithful servant has left the building…"