Early the next morning, the weather was clear and cold. The hall smelled temptingly of grilled sausages, and everyone was buzzing with excitement, eager for a great Quidditch match.
"Like we said, Harry—you'll do great!" Ron had been pumping him up since dawn.
The two of them sat just behind Sean at the Gryffindor table. Harry nodded.
Witches and wizards were almost universally mad about Quidditch. Ron and Harry thought: if Harry could show some real talent, would that give him some value of his own?
—Like Justin, who knew loads of food magic and also organized all of Sean's notes, classifying and compiling them with a scientific flair.
Or Neville, who helped Sean refine the Herbology notes, and whose magical plants let Sean and the others observe and learn up close.
Or Hermione, who was always teaching the group charms; only the truly hard bits sent them to Sean.
According to Justin, Sean knew everything—and tracked everyone's spell levels in a special way.
At that, Justin's eyes always lit up.
Harry's and Ron's did too. They hadn't realized charms even had tiers! Wasn't passing the end-of-term test the only thing that mattered?
With "a pass is a win" on the brain, neither had any idea what kind of enthusiasm they'd soon discover in themselves.
"You've got this," Ron said.
Inside the Hall, Ron was more nervous than Harry. It felt less like a first match and more like their ticket into a secret group.
Seeing their tense faces, Justin over at the Ravenclaw table couldn't stop grinning.
Sean just glanced at Justin once, and Justin swallowed his laugh.
Lately… has he been a bit odd? Sean wondered.
By eleven o'clock it seemed the whole school had crowded into the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many students brought binoculars. The seats seemed to rise into the air, yet sometimes it was still hard to see the play.
The match began quickly. Sean and the others sat farther back. To Sean, Quidditch—though it looked thrilling—felt like children playing house (they were all too slow), so the commentary was more fun—
Even with Professor McGonagall sitting beside him, commentator Lee Jordan couldn't be stopped from talking like a sleepwalker.
"Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor grabs the Quaffle straight away—what a brilliant Chaser, and a real stunner—if only I could get a date—"
"Jordan!"
"Sorry, Professor."
You could call that a… relaxed commentary style.
Gryffindor cheers rolled through the cold air, mingled with Slytherin's roars and groans.
Suddenly Gryffindor roared in anger too.
Marcus Flint had deliberately rammed Harry; Harry's broom swerved violently, but he clung to it with all his might.
Lee Jordan shouted, completely forgetting he was supposed to be neutral: "Slytherin now have an edge—entirely thanks to that blatant, filthy bit of cheating—"
"Jordan!" McGonagall hissed.
"I mean, following that public and repulsive foul—"
"Jordan, I warn you—"
"Alright, alright. Flint nearly killed the Gryffindor Seeker—happens to the best of us—so it's a penalty to Gryffindor. Spinnet has it, she passes—smoothly done—play continues, Gryffindor still in control."
His snide tone riled Slytherin more than any direct insult. They stared daggers, ice-cold.
Sean thought McGonagall sat beside him not just to keep Jordan in line, but also to keep him from being mobbed by furious Slytherins.
Sean quietly opened An Illustrated Guide to Ancient Runes. He'd come to the match only because McGonagall had said, "Get out and look around, child—the game's about to start."
Suddenly a wave of noise swept the stadium—Harry's broom was acting up!
It spasmed and twisted wildly, carrying him higher and higher away from the pitch. It started to roll and tumble; Harry could barely hang on. The next instant it bucked hard and flung him—he was left dangling by one hand from the handle.
The heart-stopping scene made everyone's eyes go wide.
Sean seemed to remember something. When he turned, Hermione had already fought through the crowd toward Snape's section of the stands—so fast she knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst into the row in front without stopping to apologize. She muttered, "It's Snape—he's jinxing the broom."
Compared to Harry, who wasn't actually in danger, Hermione's move was what made Sean's eyes widen.
At the next stand over, Hermione crouched behind Snape and was about to cast at his unhealed leg. She murmured the incantation—but the magic fizzled before it went anywhere.
She turned, alarmed, and found Sean there.
He had just, with elegant ease, lowered his wand. "Hermione—look," he said softly.
Up in the sky, Harry suddenly managed to climb back onto his broom.
Moments later the stands erupted—Harry had caught the Golden Snitch!
Only then did Hermione turn back stiffly. "How… Sean?"
Sean said nothing, and walked with her back to Justin and the others. Neville was crying—no sign of the boy who had faced down a troll.
High in the stands—
Penelope's brow furrowed; her bottled fury was nearly swallowing up Roger—Ravenclaw's athletic star and backup Quidditch captain.
"You're in charge of recruiting and you missed a first-year who passed the flight test—even Gryffindor know about it?!"
She looked at the burly wizard as if at a pig—though perhaps pigs were smarter.
"How was I supposed to know… that test… nobody's passed it in ages…" Roger faltered, with a pained smile.
"Go find him—now!" Prefect Penelope thundered. "No—come back! I'll go—"
But it wasn't just them looking for Sean. At a corridor corner, two red-haired figures got to him first.
"You finished those books?!"
"Never seen a wizard with talent like yours—"
"We've got to teach you some real stuff!"
"It only takes—"
~~~
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