In the corridor.
Sir Cadogan was still trying to mount the pony in his painting. Unfortunately, he'd been at it for who knows how many years without success.
So he kept half-climbing, half-falling while chattering to Sean about Quidditch—and whenever he got excited and smacked the pony's rump, it kicked him shrimp-shaped clear across the frame.
Sean offered a silent prayer for him and opened his panel:
[Name: Sean Green]
[Title: Potions Novice]
[Slightly increases sensitivity to potions; slightly improves Potions talent]
As expected, Sean nodded and scrolled down:
[Wizard Sean — Potions Talent: Green (boosted by "Potions Novice"; original talent: White). Note: average wizard is Green]
[Advance: Three Novice-level brews unlock the Potions domain's Novice title]
Maybe it was psychological, but the moment his Potions talent shifted, new ideas began popping into his head when he replayed earlier brews—ideas that had never surfaced before.
Magic, he thought, must be like this: a strange thing that lives in a wizard's blood, bringing miracles that can change reality. A wizard gifted enough might even inherit a faint, instinctive knowledge from that bloodline. Otherwise how do those hazy, hand-wavy books manage to teach first-years anything?
He lifted his head. Most portraits in the corridor were dozing; westering light through Gothic stained glass lit Sir Cadogan's babbling face. No wonder the knight harassed him—everyone else was asleep.
"Sean!"
Justin appeared in the lazy sun—who knew from where—and naturally placed a delicious-looking slice of English mille-feuille into Sean's hands.
"New flavor… please taste test," his grey-blue eyes crinkled. "Oh, and one more thing—Gryffindor and Slytherin only just started Flying. Want to go watch? Hermione and I worked on technique all day—no idea if she used it…"
…
It was half past five. Sean and Justin walked down a sloping lawn to a vantage point over the Quidditch pitch. The view was excellent: the first-years in lesson below, the Black Lake glittering, Hagrid's pumpkin patch sprawling by his hut.
"Look—Hermione seems to be doing well. Oh, that black-haired Gryffindor is—wait, who's that? How did he shoot up so high?!" Justin stared as a plump wizard rocketed skyward. "Some kind of special training?"
Obviously not. Neville Longbottom circled in panic, then—screaming—his broom shot past a statue while Neville did not. His robes snagged on the statue's weapon and left him dangling high above.
As everyone held their breath and Madam Hooch raised her wand, Neville yelped again—his robes tore under his weight. A chorus of "ah," "ow," and "oof" followed. He banged off a torch, a wall, and finally hit the ground with a thud.
"Is he… alive?" Justin asked, worried.
"He'll be fine," Sean murmured. If he remembered right, a fall from that height only broke Neville's wrist.
Wizards really are built tougher than Muggles. Sean even suspected brooms had no protective charms at all—that wizards rely on constitution alone to cut air resistance and pull high-G maneuvers. The Nimbus 1000 hit 100 mph as early as 1967. By the 1990s, the Firebolt's ash handle pushed 150 mph—and Bludgers only got faster. With that kind of kinetic energy crashing together, Hogwarts' worst incident had been a jaw or two smashed—nothing more.
Superhuman, practically.
"Right," Justin said, now hoping Hermione wouldn't get airborne—yet still found a second to slip Sean two chocolate cookies.
Much as flight is the human dream, after that display Sean reassessed Flying class. It was no less dangerous than Potions. Hard to imagine that after a cursory lecture, first-years were tossed onto brooms—no demos, no test flights. Like watching a few driving tips and merging onto the motorway.
Wizards really are thick-skinned… but Sean wasn't. If he fell from up there, he wouldn't be black-and-blue—he'd be in pieces.
…
Class ended soon. After carefully studying Madam Hooch's form, Sean and Justin met up with a rattled Hermione.
"Feeling okay, Hermione?" Justin offered a steaming cup of honey-lemon tea.
Sean blinked. Where had he pulled that from?
"Not really…" Hermione sipped and eased a little. "If you two get on brooms tomorrow, the most important thing is don't fall. As for getting airborne… did you see Neville?"
"You're right," Justin said, nodding.
Back in the castle, Sean kept replaying Hooch's technique. Learning to ride a broom mattered—especially once his Potions title was unlocked. He'd now collected five scholarship fragments. Only Herbology and DADA remained.
Herbology wasn't hard—just follow the steps. That left DADA. If Quirrell wasn't reliable, surely someone was. Hogwarts had more than one professor fluent in dark magic and its counters.
In the Hall, Hermione and Justin were hashing over the near-disaster. Sean, meanwhile, caught a different exchange:
"Having your last supper, Potter? When are you taking the train back to your Muggles?"
Both Justin and Hermione frowned and looked toward the Gryffindor table.
"Now you're back on the ground with your little friends at your side, you've grown a lot braver," Harry said coldly.
"I'm ready to duel you any time," Malfoy replied. "Tonight if you like—wands only, no contact. What's the matter? I suppose you've never even heard of a wizard's duel?"
"He has, actually," Ron cut in, then whirled around. "I'm his second. Who's yours?"
"Oh, no—" Hermione puffed up, exasperated. "How many points do they plan to lose for Gryffindor?"
~~~
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