The corridors at night were dead quiet except for the soft scuff of footsteps.
Every now and then came a faint rustle, like something long and scaled slithering over stone.
Headmaster's office.
It sat high in its own little tower, protected the same way the four house common rooms were: you needed the password. A massive stone gargoyle guarded the door; right now it hopped aside with a grinding scrape, revealing the spiral staircase.
Sean stepped inside. The portraits were all dozing, snoring gently in their frames.
On the spindly legged desk sat a bunch of weird silver instruments spinning lazily and puffing out little wisps of smoke.
Behind the desk, on a shelf, was a battered, frayed old wizard's hat: the Sorting Hat.
Sean picked it up.
"Mr. Sorting Hat?"
He slid it onto his head. The brim dropped over his eyes.
"Proud and clever Ravenclaw, that's what they always say," the Hat muttered, its brim rippling like a mouth. "But I say wise Ravenclaw… the kind of wisdom that comes with long-thought courage…"
It gave a low, knowing chuckle. "No doubt about it, old Hat knows: the time has come."
The Sorting Hat always talked in riddles; four founders' worth of wisdom will do that to a hat.
Moonlight spilled across the floor. Sean tilted his head like he'd heard something and gently lifted the Hat off, cradling it in his hands.
On its golden perch, Fawkes opened his bright black eyes and slowly stretched his crimson wings.
At the door, Harry, Hermione, and Ron were practically vibrating with shock.
"How is it Sean—oh, right, of course it's Sean. No other kid could just waltz into the headmaster's office like that," Ron whispered.
"But why the Sorting Hat?" Hermione breathed, pressing herself against the wall.
"Look—there's something inside it—" Harry hissed, trying to shove down the weird feeling in his chest.
Sean's profile looked sharper than usual in the moonlight. His fingers closed around something long and solid.
No resistance this time.
He drew out the Sword of Gryffindor.
"It's time… time to answer the call and appear for the heir you deem worthy…"
The Sorting Hat's voice faded into silence.
The sword gleamed silver-bright, rubies the size of eggs glinting in the hilt.
Sean hefted it—lighter than he expected.
He frowned slightly, puzzled at how easy that had been, but the clock was ticking.
Time to head to the Chamber.
A flick of his wand and a stack of books flew out of his bag, folding themselves into a makeshift scabbard. He buckled the sword at his hip.
He looked like one of those ancient wizards you read about.
Back before the International Statute of Secrecy, when wizards still mingled openly with Muggles, using a wand against a Muggle sword was considered deeply dishonorable. So plenty of wizards carried swords and fought with them just as naturally as spells.
The really gifted ones were usually incredible duelists—Godric Gryffindor had been one of the best.
Sean figured he probably didn't have any natural sword talent. He wasn't even sure swordsmanship showed up on his "panel."
At the door, the trio jolted like they'd been electrocuted and scrambled away from the crack.
"What was that?!" Ron squeaked, already halfway down the moving staircase.
"Gryffindor's sword," Hermione whispered, hurrying after him. "If you ever actually read Hogwarts: A History, you'd know. It was forged by Ragnuk the First—king of the goblins himself. The stories say it's almost like a wand: it senses need and appears for the heir it judges worthy."
"But Sean's a Ravenclaw," Harry said, brain spinning.
If there'd been a sword hidden in the Hat every time they put it on…
Were they basically one wrong thought away from getting decapitated?!
"When it comes to courage—" Hermione started.
Ron cut her off with a panicked yelp. "There's a SWORD inside the Sorting Hat?! Does it just—drop on your head if you fail the test?!"
Harry's stomach did a flip. Yeah, same thought.
"I've never heard of anything like that happening," Hermione snapped.
They shut up fast—because a small figure was descending the spiral staircase again.
Moonlight lit his path. As he passed the spot where they were hiding, he suddenly glanced back.
The three of them nearly had collective heart attacks.
Thank Merlin he looked away again.
"That was too close," Ron wheezed, legs like jelly.
Ron, Harry, Hermione—Sean counted three heartbeats and didn't bother worrying about it.
Being spotted didn't matter. As long as it wasn't Voldemort.
The only person he was actually concerned about was Professor Dumbledore. He hadn't seen the headmaster in ages. Ever since their last talk, Dumbledore had barely shown up in the Great Hall.
Second-floor girls' bathroom.
Almost curfew.
"Hiss—open."
The tap glowed white-hot and spun like crazy. The whole sink shuddered, slid aside, and revealed the gaping pipe.
Sean slipped on the magic-reflecting glasses. Whitey and Tira (his snakes) got their own custom tiny pairs.
"It's time."
Back in the corridor, the trio were pacing in frantic circles—the person they'd been tailing had vanished into thin air.
"You know what swords are for, Harry?" Ron said, voice shaking. "Definitely not weeding the garden. If something's so bad that even Sean needs outside help—"
Weasleys always had scarily accurate gut instincts.
"I'm going to find Justin," Hermione declared, already turning. "Maybe he knows something—"
"I just remembered—" Harry blurted.
"Remember what?"
"Dobby! The house-elf—he said Hogwarts was in danger. And my Parseltongue… Sean already knew about it. He asked me exactly how certain words sounded."
"What?!"
Harry's brain was racing. "You heard it too, right? Not just the voice—the word 'open.' Sean wants to open something!"
They stared at each other, the same realization crashing over all three of them.
Whatever massive thing Sean was doing alone this time, they weren't about to let him do it without backup.
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