The effect of Finite had everyone buzzing.
For days afterward, they practiced it nonstop.
Hermione, Justin, and Neville were in the Hope Nook nearly every day; Ron sometimes got pulled away by Oddball Wizard Chess—or by Quidditch—but he still showed up often.
Only Harry was largely absent—five practices a week. When Wood heard the latest match news, he silently cranked training to max.
The twins, Harry, and the rest were miserable.
Roger would sometimes taunt from the locker-room door:
"Ravenclaw is about to make history!"
It made Wood see red—he was two seconds from throwing the team onto the pitch to settle it right then.
At this point Ron seemed more part of the Hope Nook than Harry; under the grind, Harry's updates came filtered through Ron's stories—what odd plant they'd met in Greenhouse Three, what sweet Sprout had handed out as a reward.
Meanwhile, one thought weighed on Harry almost as much as Quirrell:
He was going to face Sean—head-to-head—on the Quidditch pitch.
Ron worked Finite like mad with the others; every night he staggered into the dorm too tired to think. Harry tried to talk through his worry; Ron only mumbled:
"Oh, Harry, tomorrow—can't it wait till tomorrow?"
And when tomorrow came, the answer didn't change. He was half-delirious with fatigue.
So Harry stewed—then went back to practice.
…
A clear, cold morning.
Sean warned Justin—seriously—don't get too close to Professor Quirrell.
Lately, Finite had made them bold—bold enough to tail Quirrell in secret.
Most in the room nursed the same thought:
If danger came, they could cure it with the mass counter-spell; and if they caught Quirrell out, they could report him to Dumbledore—they would be the ones who drove Voldemort's man out of the castle.
It was a naive idea—and a dangerous one.
Dumbledore can keep first-years safe in general; he can't stop a few kids from touching the flame and ending up with a Memory Charm—or worse.
They were being… rash.
Then again—Harry, Hermione, and Ron as first years had marched straight through the gauntlet to safeguard the Stone. Compared to that, quietly watching Quirrell looked downright tame.
In wizardry, recklessness is relative—there's no "most reckless," only "more reckless."
In the Forbidden Forest,
Sean drafted a map of magical-creature ranges. With a touch of alchemy, it behaved like a planner—showing the day's jobs.
Hagrid started with:
"My memory's better than that map—ten times over!"
and ended with:
"What did I forget again? Sean—go on, just tell me once…"
Sean gifted him a copy. Hagrid beamed all day and insisted Sean try his treacle fudge.
No one believed it was "fudge" until Sean set it by the fire to soften.
Hagrid said he made it every Christmas for the staff—with "care" and "variety of flavors." He swore they loved it.
Truth was… probably not. No one had the heart to say.
Even blunt Snape hadn't.
How bad was it? As hard as rock cakes, with a flavor Justin struggled to survive.
"I think… a tooth just cracked…"
Ron took a bite before warming it, then looked both panicked and heartbroken.
"My tooth—mmff—"
Neville over-melted his portion and glued his teeth together. Justin ferried them both to the hospital wing.
Sean watched the ruckus, shook his head, tapped the desk. A book slid from the shelf—his Forest notes.
In the woods, each feeding or gentle touch ticked bond up by inches—never fast.
Especially Thestrals—mild by nature, not quick to bond with one witch or wizard.
Still, bond rose daily. Sean had time enough to earn their trust.
While high-tier alchemy would take months, he set near-term focus on mid-tier constructs:
[Mid-tier · Oddball Wizard Chess: Journeyman (120/3000)]
[Mid-tier · Wizard Chess: Journeyman (119/3000)]
[Mid-tier · Leisure Broom: Journeyman (200/3000)]
He needed six Expert mid-tier works; first he'd grind these three up.
A new one joined the list:
[Mid-tier · Planner's Map: Apprentice (20/300)]
Once you survey an area, the Planner's Map behaves like a (slightly evil) game UI—daily tasks light up; ignore them and a little red exclamation point spawns on that region.
Who can resist a red exclamation mark?
Next step—track people.
The idea: Accio a target attribute—say, "Justin's scarf"—with the tiniest thread of magic. It wouldn't summon the scarf, but the faint tug—stronger or weaker—would reveal his rough direction.
Provided Justin didn't resist, or the thread would snap.
Call it a "lite" Marauder's Map.
Once stable, he'd hand copies to the Hope Nook crew.
So for now: grind the Planner's Map, grind the Oddball Chess.
And remind the room—please don't get any closer to Quirrell.