Outside the corridor, bullet-sized raindrops had been hammering for days.
Minerva McGonagall felt a prickle of hostility but didn't know why. Her severe expression wavered in puzzlement—then her eye caught the half-hidden vial in the fold of his robes: a stimulant for colds. She seemed to think of something and shifted aside.
Snape, following her line of sight, knew she'd seen it. Without a change of face, he swept past her. "I told you—I'll handle it."
His black robes billowed as he cut straight for the Great Hall—elegant and urgent. Along the way, rowdy first-years watching the rain hunched their necks and cleared a path.
…
In the Hall.
Justin steadied Sean's weight. Hermione, just in from the rain and not yet fed, hustled ahead to clear the way—scolding them both without discrimination:
"Merlin's beard! He's burning up—Sean! When it comes to showing off, you… and you—an idiot who needs a patient to tell you what to do! Professor Snape is right—both of you should be hung on the wall!" And under her breath, "…it's my fault too—I should've noticed—he looked awful yesterday…"
Justin's mild face betrayed nothing; he only murmured, "Mm."
They reached the doors. Firm footsteps rang; a black-robed figure approached. Justin looked up—Professor Snape.
He didn't flinch. He and Hermione shifted right, heads down to pass—only to be covered again by shadow.
"Give him to me."
The cold voice came with it. Justin jerked right another step, adrenaline firing. "Hospital wing" pounded in his head; he missed even the professor's words.
"He should go to the hospital wing, Professor Snape," Hermione said flatly.
"Heh—clever Miss Granger," Snape drawled; a ring of first-years shivered. "Then you should know which draught a wizard takes there when he's caught a cold…"
His face darkened completely. The boy being helped didn't seem to hear a thing—green eyes dull and half-lidded, each lip tremor puffing steam.
"Give it to him. Now. At once!" he barked.
A vial thunked into Hermione's hand. She blinked, eyes wide—then didn't lose a second. She got it down Sean's throat.
The stimulant worked instantly: smoke whooshed from Sean's ears like steam from the Hogwarts Express. Clarity returned. Little-McGonagall became Big-Hermione; a great black bat sailed away—ah yes, the bat that had dropped a vial.
…
Practice room.
Clearer now, Sean nervously cracked the door from within. To the owl's sing-song "Filius—again—you may enter—on behalf of Ravenclaw," a small, smiling professor stepped in.
"Delighted, Mr. Green—much improved, I see." Flitwick naturally hopped onto the little wooden table; the squirrel in the room bolted out the window at the sight of him. "But, my dear Mr. Green, sometimes rest makes for greater progress. You're sure you want to learn now?"
Sean weighed it, recalling The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection:
[I advocate that first-years at minimum learn the following to face the darkest parts of magic:
Green Sparks; Red Sparks; Knockback Jinx; Smokescreen Spell; Lumos.]
Only two remained: Smokescreen and Knockback. His DADA notes covered the theory; the practical still lagged. Two last pieces. Two days to Friday. He had to grind them to Novice. He nodded.
Flitwick sighed, as if he'd expected it, then brightened. "Very well, Mr. Green—my standards don't drop, especially not for the gifted—"
…
Smokescreen: classic defensive charm—throws up smoke to block line of sight; invaluable in duels, where it spoils aim. Garrick Ollivander was a fine practitioner.
Sean discovered the smoke was… subjective—willed. "Fumos!"
[You practiced the Smokescreen Spell once at Novice standard. Proficiency +3]
His wand cut the air; a shroud of black smoke wrapped him—blocking everything. Sound didn't pass if he willed it; light was swallowed. Far more useful than he'd expected—like Lumos, which sits in DADA for good reason: besides light, it repels ghosts and spectral foes, such as the Gytrash/Black Dog—pale, fork-tailed canine spirits that haunt British forests. The Forbidden Forest harbors them too.
He remembered Miranda Goshawk's line in Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1:
[When wizards have a need, spells arise. Those seemingly "useless" spells have often saved us. There are no useless spells—only useless wizards.]
By the time Flitwick left, satisfied, an ice pack still cooled Sean's brow. Fatigue affects magic—by late afternoon he had only just unlocked the Smokescreen Spell:
[Proficiencies]
[Smokescreen: Apprentice (150/300)]
A little push and he'd hit Novice by night.
Friday. Friday…
He'd been living for it.
Through sheer stubborn work, Friday's dawn crept in. Post-illness, Justin and Hermione watched him closer—and soon, they spotted a truth that wasn't hard to guess.