Soon the sparring parties dispersed after setting a time.
As Harry and Ron passed, they were whispering:
"What's a wizard's duel like?" Harry asked. "And you said you'd be my second—what does that mean?"
"Oh—if you die, the second steps in," Ron said breezily—then, noticing Harry's pale face, hastily added, "But that's only in a proper duel against a real wizard. You and Malfoy will barely manage to shoot sparks at each other."
"What if I wave my wand and nothing happens?"
"Then drop the wand and punch him on the nose," Ron said firmly.
"Honestly!" Hermione was already flushed with anger. "Do they have any idea how many points they'll lose? I worked so hard to earn those—and we still don't match Ravenclaw—and they're going to throw points away!"
She marched off; Justin, worried, hurried after her. "We'll be right back, Sean… don't worry. With me there, no one will give Hermione trouble."
Sean nodded—temporarily more focused on the Yorkshire pudding in front of him. Justin could handle Ron and the others; he had a full head of height on them, which should make Ron think twice before saying something cutting.
Sean also knew this midnight duel would bring Harry face to face with the three-headed dog—and his first-year adventure would formally begin. Not that it had much to do with Sean.
What mattered to him was that once Harry drove Voldemort off, Hogwarts would be much safer—at least for the rest of the year—leaving Sean to grind proficiency in peace.
…
On the eve of Flying class, Ravenclaw excitement was through the roof. After Sean politely said goodbye to Madam Pince, the corridors still buzzed with Quidditch talk.
Before she left, Madam Pince had been paging through his notes with interest. The librarian first-years feared and revered wasn't always prickly—or rather, it was the students' behavior that made her so. Anyone would be angry to see carefully arranged books left in a mess or a cleaned desk scribbled over.
So Sean quietly did a little—cast a few Scouring Charms. It was easy and took no time. His History notes were halfway to perfect, and the scholarly Pince had given him many useful tips. Whenever he got stuck, the kindly lady would "happen" to hand him a book—saving him untold hours.
He closed the heavy oak doors once more. A cool evening breeze lifted his hair. Sir Cadogan had elbowed a black-robed wizard out of the frame overhead:
"Oh—Sean Green (Seen Green)!" he crowed.
Sean ignored him.
"Tomorrow—yes, tomorrow is your Flying class, and today you don't want advice from Scotland's greatest Chaser?"
Head down, Sean walked on as Cadogan hopped between frames—through a golden wheatfield with a straw-hatted beauty, then narrowly around a cluster of monks.
"Sir, you're from Arthurian times, and the first Quidditch World Cup was in 1473…" Sean said wearily.
"A minor detail! At least you're speaking to me. Violet—three bottles of firewhisky!"
Lady Violet chuckled, resigned but sporting. "Very well, Sir—I pay my debts."
"Aha! For the whisky alone I must give you a tip," the knight declared.
Sean eyed him dubiously. Cadogan leapt—was promptly kicked across the frame by his startled pony—then popped back up. "I've watched five centuries of Quidditch, young Green—know it better than the lecturing madam."
"I'm listening," Sean said, notebook out in a flash.
"Exclusive wisdom—only for the rare student I fancy. The last to get it was some Potter—another gifted lad…" Cadogan said, a touch wistful. "Hear me: witches and wizards didn't choose brooms because only brooms can fly. They inscribed their spells into brooms. You're not riding the broom—you're riding the charm. The charm gives the broom flight. Once you sense that, you'll understand: control yourself, and you control the flight."
It sounded… sensible. "Thank you," Sean said, sincerely.
"Hmph—" Cadogan's chin tilted skyward. As Sean left, he muttered, "Young Green, don't move the monks' painting this time. Last time Lady Violet chased me with a broom for a whole day…"
…
The Ravenclaw common room hearth was as cozy as ever. First-years gathered automatically to talk Quidditch. Sean thought of Cadogan's "Potter… gifted…" Whichever Potter, the name seemed tied to Quidditch talent. Harry had flown past the fourth-floor barrier, snatched the golden egg past a dragon in the Tournament…
Did that mean…?
No. How could Cadogan see that?
Friday. The Quidditch pitch crouched quiet at the edge of the Forest—a charmed arena. A 300-foot oval with three golden posts at each end; the middle hoops made the scoring area, like a giant's ring-toss.
Those hoops had a history. They used to be baskets on top of the posts—then became rings between the posts. Why? Up north near Barnton, crafty witches and wizards mounted tiny baskets on the opponent's goalposts—too small for a grape.
On their own end they wove giant ones—and spun them to boot. The Department of Magical Games and Sports got burned there, then forced reforms through.
In the Great Hall, furious protesters hurled baskets; the reform delegate retreated step by step. Goblins, as ever, fanned the flames.
…
Under the tall golden posts, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff first-years filed in.
"Sean… isn't that broomstick too thin? Can you even ride that?" Justin whispered.