Chapter 98: The Guidance Method
October brought more than just the cold. It brought a week of howling wind and hammering rain.
Sunday's weather was as foul as ever. Icy drops drummed against the windows, and the gale shrieked around the turrets.
Through a corridor window, Shawn saw an enormous figure bundled in a long moleskin coat and rabbit‑fur gloves, out by the broomstick sheds on the Quidditch pitch, clearing frost from the brooms.
The wretched weather made students happy to linger in the Great Hall. For days on end, little clusters of two or three had huddled by the fires.
But a group of four from three different Houses was a rarer sight. Shawn cradled a mug of hot chocolate. Justin had put so many sugar cubes in it that it was almost tooth‑achingly sweet.
Books lay heaped at his feet – Transfiguration texts, rune primers – all resting on a thin woollen blanket.
Since he had started studying advanced Transfiguration, Shawn had barely lifted his wand to practise.
Professor McGonagall had dumped a pile of dense, abstruse volumes on him, some not even in the library – private treasures from her own collection.
Transforming a wizard's body, or turning an object into magic itself, was extraordinarily difficult and dangerous. McGonagall had been strict: he was to master the theory thoroughly before attempting anything reckless. She had repeated that warning many times.
For days on end, Shawn had been poring over Transfiguration theory and the pronunciation and symbols of ancient runes.
His time in the Great Hall had noticeably increased. A certain little badger's repertoire of sweets had expanded by several recipes.
His Charms progress, by contrast, was flying. He had ground Finite up to Entry in no time and was already halfway to Proficient.
Worth noting: Justin seemed to have a real talent for the spell. His progress nearly matched Shawn's.
The clearest proof was that Neville now dared to practise Levitation on wooden blocks.
Shawn suspected that, beyond broad branches of magic, different wizards had different aptitudes for individual spells. Harry, for instance, with Levitation and Expelliarmus.
The former lagged far behind Hermione's. The latter had held its own against Voldemort.
Speaking of Harry, now that Shawn was spending more time reading in the Hall, he often saw Harry and Malfoy squabbling like a pair of sparrows.
Their insults included gems like, "You are going to get punished, Potter. First‑years are not allowed brooms. I am telling a professor," and, "Actually, I only got my broom thanks to Mr Malfoy."
The chocolate was so sweet that Shawn's eyes half closed. He shook his head and paid the bickering no mind.
Once he had Finite at Entry, he planned to visit the staffroom tomorrow and ask Professor Flitwick to teach him the Disillusionment Charm.
What he had not expected was Hermione suddenly surging to her feet.
"So you think breaking school rules deserves a reward?" she demanded, storming over to glare at the broom in Harry's hand.
Justin rushed after her and, just as she was getting heated, blurted out, "Hermione, Shawn also has one…"
Hermione froze. When she recovered, she shot Justin a look and said, "That is completely different. Shawn is ten times better than Harry."
Harry and Malfoy both turned to stare at Hermione, and then at Shawn, who glanced at them once before looking back at his book.
Harry suddenly remembered Wood's assignment. Malfoy recalled someone saying, "Green? Oh, he fought a troll solo and beat a werewolf with his bare hands…"
Neither of them said another word.
The atmosphere turned odd. Then Professor Flitwick appeared.
"I hope there is no quarrelling, children," he squeaked.
"Someone broke the rules and got a broomstick sent in, Professor," Malfoy said quickly.
"Oh?"
Flitwick's expression softened with what looked like pride.
"So you have all heard that Mr Green passed his flight test, then?"
Why does this keep coming back to Green?
Malfoy's mouth twitched.
The clash seemed to have been defused by Flitwick. Or perhaps it had not.
Harry could hardly believe Malfoy had just slunk off without another word.
Shawn had no idea he had ended a fight. After running through the twenty‑four runes he had memorised so far, he dug Advanced Potion‑Making and his notes out of his bag.
Libatius Borage had become rather chatty lately. One moment, the book shimmered with:
My labour has given the past a future.
The next it read:
The infinite distance. The endless truth. You must know – they are being born in your hands.
It seemed like encouragement.
Shawn's quill scratched steadily across the page as he wrote down methods for using finely controlled willpower to guide potion fusion.
From the moment the cauldron was lit to the instant the draught boiled, he recorded every shift in movement and analysed the reasons behind it.
Just as Libatius Borage had done, he left behind a precise, replicable process.
He named it the Guidance Method.
The improved ritual strengthened the wizard's conviction. That conviction, paired with a specific scenario, then guided the wizard's emotions to align with the potion's needs.
Shawn always lost track of time when he wrote. He stayed in the Great Hall far longer than he had meant to.
Dusk crept in.
The fire still roared. After a long stretch of thinking and summarising, Shawn finally lifted his stiff neck.
He exhaled. Just before he had to head down to the dungeons, he had managed to sketch the Guidance Method out in rough.
Deep satisfaction lit his green eyes. He glanced idly around the Hall. Justin was coaxing Neville to levitate a chess piece on the table. Hermione was pretending not to care, but kept stealing glances.
At the entrance to the Hall, Shawn saw a thoroughly drenched first‑year.
Once again, on a wild, rain‑lashed evening, Harry had returned from practice soaked to the skin, his shoes caked with mud.
Gryffindor Tower was too far. He would catch a cold before he got there. So the Quidditch team had gotten into the habit of warming up in the Great Hall first, drying their clothes by the corner hearth at the very least.
Outside, the sky was black and the rain came down in sheets.
Harry had not believed the Weasley twins when they said Quidditch training never stopped, no matter the weather. Now he knew better.
Recalling Wood's words, he did not know whether to feel proud or miserable.
"This year's Quidditch Cup will have our name on it," Wood had said cheerfully as they trudged back to the castle, exhausted.
"I would not be surprised if you turn out even better than Charlie Weasley. If he had not gone off chasing dragons, he would have played for England… but Harry, have you found anything out about that… Green fellow yet?"