Madam Hooch stood at center pitch. When she saw Sean walking out, she gave him a satisfied nod.
"Captains, shake hands,"
the referee called. Cedric and acting captain Roger stepped together.
Quidditch starts fast—and ends fast.
While the crowd was still riding the rush, Sean streaked across the sky like a shooting star.
The best broom, paired with flight technique honed to Expert—in just three minutes he'd outpaced everyone, alone on the tail of the Snitch.
The moment his feet left the ground, all that filled his mind was the practiced instinct of magic.
His willpower—so strong it can master alchemical constructs—was another reason he snagged the Snitch in barely five minutes.
"We won! It was Sean! Merlin—Terry!"
In the stands, Michael grabbed Terry in a bear hug.
"We're the best team in Quidditch!"
Roger roared on the pitch.
Ravenclaw's players crowded in around Sean.
"To the wind and eagle-wings that forever ride the heights!"
…
And just like that, the match was over.
Before they left the field, Roger, a little sheepish, asked Sean:
"I know this isn't your dream—but just once, one last time, help us bring home that bloody Quidditch Cup!
This is our best chance in seven years! Ravenclaw will win the House Cup!"
Quidditch was easy joy. In flight, Sean's mind emptied—but easy things can't alone point at the greatness of magic.
He recalled his promise to the prefect, then nodded to Roger and took his leave.
"Splendid, child!"
Professor McGonagall came striding down from the stands—behind her, Professor Snape glowered, faintly furious.
In the days that followed, Snape seemed to simmer with a contained anger.
His guidance came barbed:
"Well then, Mr. Green, did the Golden Snitch forget to tell you how much force to use when stirring Shrinking Solution?"
"Of course, Mr. Green—brute strength has seized your brain, so you've forgotten fire control must be handled with exquisite care."
McGonagall, meanwhile, grew even kinder.
In breathers she'd find herself sharing old Quidditch tales with Sean.
In that easy rhythm, he grew more fluent at laying down transfiguration mana-circuits.
Time slipped on.
Sean's plan never wavered.
His Transfiguration was edging closer to Master with each day, and he was ravenous to see the view beyond.
He'd already added several flavors to his Advanced Transfiguration:
—"Object → Magic" was his strongest;
—then multistage transfigurations, layering power and complexity;
—"Self → Creature" he was learning step by step…
—As for the rest of the ocean—he simply didn't have enough hours in the day.
Over a week he learned to wire the stone-plinth circuit, now able to summon small stone plinths without collapsing afterward.
More and more he felt how circuits lower the stamina and willpower cost of spells—and that refining them was a near-endless road.
No wonder the more practiced a transfigurer is, the stronger they become—this is a branch that can be built forever.
…
After the match, Sean's stock among the eagles rose visibly.
With Michael leading the charge, little ravens spread wild rumors.
The most outrageous: "Oh, Sean? Of course—if you knew he could outstrip young Dumbledore, it would all make sense."
In the Hall, even Neville began to believe Sean would at least be the next Dumbledore.
A certain sweet-toothed headmaster watched, highly amused—then, as an old memory surfaced, looked faintly startled.
…This child is, in some ways, truly doing better than I did.
Whatever the gossip, Sean kept to his own rhythm.
Thanks to days "patrolling" the Forest with Hagrid, his Thestral bond was nearly at the threshold for baking another magical-creature biscuit.
Meanwhile the Hope Nook crew, after weeks of practice, brought Justin a very interesting discovery.
"We've all been drilling Finite Incantatem—practical and efficient…"
Justin said as he came in, the Owl Gentleman's clamor behind him.
"By chance, Hermione found this in The Standard Book of Spells—it's so much like Finite that learning it was a breeze…"
Sean didn't follow—until he saw Hermione and the others lower their wands.
Then he understood at once: wand up—ultimate warding; wand down—Finite for all.
Finite (Mass Counter-Spell) is a group dispel requiring multiple casters to cancel a wide-area effect.
Its mechanism mirrors Finite Incantatem but scales to a collective casting, able to clear most routine spells (though not Killing Curses).
In joint engagements, it's invaluable.
When Grindelwald unleashed blue hellfire to consume Paris, local witches and wizards fused their power in Finite to avert catastrophe.
"Come on! Sean, I think we can really cast it!"
Hermione whispered, alight.
Her desk was piled with The Book of Spells, Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed, Defensive and Dissuading Charms… Given her range, it wasn't surprising she'd sniff out something interesting.
Professor Flitwick, passing by, was delighted to help test. So—
"Impedimenta!"
Flitwick flicked his wand.
"Finite! (Mass Counter-Spell!)"
The Hope Nook lined up with Sean at center, wands angled down. A gold-red glow gathered and lanced out from their tips—cleanly stripping away the Professor's jinx.
"Excellent! Truly excellent, children!"
Flitwick applauded.
For a heartbeat, the room was breathless with joy.
Harry and Ron had never imagined crossing wands with a professor; Justin was radiant—they'd stumbled onto something real.
And Sean heard his panel chime:
[You practiced Mass Finite at Journeyman standard; Proficiency +30]
In that shared casting, for a moment, they'd reached the level to trade counters with a professor.
~~~
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