The Knight Bus was going so fast it flung him backward.
Harry struggled upright and peered out into the darkness beyond the window. They were already hurtling down an entirely different street.
Stan rubbed his eyes, then looked at Harry's stunned face with obvious interest.
"We were here before Mr. Green hailed us," he said. "Where was it again, Ern? Somewhere in Wales?"
"Mm," said Ern.
"How come Muggles can't hear the bus?" Harry asked.
"Them!" Stan said scornfully. "They never listen properly, do they? And they never look properly either. They don't notice anything."
"Better wake Madam Marsh, Stan," said Ern. "We'll be in Abergavenny soon."
Stan walked past Harry's bed and went up the narrow wooden staircase to the upper deck.
Harry kept staring out the window, feeling tense and uneasy.
Then he looked ahead. Sean was sitting there gracefully, still working on his Wizarding Magic Chronicle.
Harry had no idea what it meant, but he knew one thing: if that book ever showed up in Green Bookshop, he'd have to buy at least three copies.
A signed edition would be even better.
People in the wizarding world more or less all agreed on one thing:
—Green Bookshop sold the best series of books in the entire magical world.
Whether you were Muggle-born, half-blood, or pure-blood, you could learn about the past, the present, and even a little of the predictable future of the magical world from them.
And whether you were talented or not, you could still learn magic from those books.
Harry found it hard to imagine how a wizard as gifted as Sean—someone on the same level as Headmaster Dumbledore—could possibly have imagined all the difficulties ordinary, less talented wizards faced while learning magic.
And in such detail, too.
Of course, Green Notes had once said:
> "I have faced the difficulties wizards face, and asked the questions wizards ask…"
Harry did not entirely believe that line.
But with Sean, he wasn't so sure.
> "I wrote these books so that, in the vast and boundless sea that is magic, even a wizard just beginning to learn it can see their direction clearly.
The first duty of wizarding knowledge is continuity. Wisdom that cannot be passed on cannot truly be called wisdom.
The changes I make may be insignificant. History itself may indeed be nothing but ashes…
But beneath the ashes, there is still warmth."
As Harry thought that, the Sean before him seemed to drift nearer and farther all at once.
He could see Sean right there, clearly enough, yet at the same time it was as though he existed inside the books too.
The Sean in those books was the best teacher Harry had ever known—patient, attentive, all-knowing.
If you failed to understand something, he would teach it again.
If you still didn't understand, he would teach it again.
If you still couldn't get it, he wouldn't scold you. You'd just turn the page and see:
[Naturally, the method above has its flaws. That is the author's problem.
So let us learn an easier way.]
Would Sean make the best teacher?
Harry didn't know.
But would Green Notes be the best books?
That was beyond question.
The Knight Bus rattled on through the night.
Sean found himself thinking about what Stan had said.
At first, those notes had only been meant to organize his own thoughts. Later, they gradually became a way of helping the young Hogwarts students who felt lost in the obscurity of magic—while earning a few Galleons on the side.
And now, had those carefully arranged notes really begun to change the entire wizarding world?
Details that talented wizards once overlooked had been brought out into the open.
Once-vague knowledge had been made concrete.
Magic that had once been unclear had been given stages a person could refer to…
So would witches and wizards who once believed themselves unremarkable begin burning with passion for magic again?
Sean didn't know.
But he had met Stan.
And he knew those notes were useful. They had helped witches and wizards, and nothing made him feel their value more than that.
He smiled faintly just as Stan came back downstairs, followed by a witch in traveling robes who looked slightly green in the face.
"This way, Madam Marsh," Stan said brightly.
Ern hit the brakes, and all the beds slid about a foot toward the front of the bus.
Madam Marsh clapped a handkerchief over her mouth and staggered down the steps.
Stan threw her bag out after her and slammed the door shut.
Then came another deafening bang, and they shot off down a narrow country lane, the trees leaping out of the way for them.
"Mr. Green."
Stan came over, suddenly more restrained.
"Mr. Stan, do you think anything in the Spell Standards section needs changing?" Sean asked seriously.
"Ah—no way! That's the perfect book. What could possibly need changing?" Stan said at once, thumping his chest.
"Please tell me what you really think."
Sean's green eyes looked almost as though they could read minds.
Only then did Stan lower his voice awkwardly.
"I still can't learn the higher-level magic. I haven't pushed a single spell to Expert, Mr. Green. Of course that's because I'm just not talented…"
"That isn't your problem," Sean said suddenly. "That's the part on nonverbal casting. I haven't written it yet."
An awkward silence followed.
Stan stared at the little wizard as if he wanted to say something but couldn't get it out.
In the end, he left in a dull, almost fleeing sort of way.
To give his muddled head something to do, Stan unfolded a copy of the Daily Prophet, bit his tongue, and started reading.
On the front page, a large photograph showed a gaunt, exhausted-looking man with long, tangled hair slowly blinking at him.
Harry quietly leaned closer.
Funny—he looked oddly familiar.
"That's him!"
Harry blurted out. "He was in the Muggle news too!"
Stan flipped the paper back to the front page and said thickly,
"Sirius Black. Of course he was in the Muggle news, Neville. Where've you been?"
Seeing the blank look on Harry's face, he let out a superior little laugh, tore off the front page, and handed it to him.
"You ought to read the papers more, Neville."
Harry held the paper up to the candlelight and read:
[BLACK STILL AT LARGE]
The Ministry of Magic confirmed today that Sirius Black remains at large, probably the most dangerous prisoner ever held in Azkaban.
"We are doing everything in our power to recapture Black," said Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge this morning. "We ask the wizarding public to remain calm."
Some members of the International Confederation of Wizards have criticized Fudge for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis.
"To be frank, I had no choice," Fudge said irritably. "Black is a desperate criminal. Whether wizard or Muggle, anyone who encounters him is in danger.
I demanded that the Prime Minister promise not to reveal Black's true identity to anyone. Honestly—even if he did, who would believe him?"
Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand Muggles use to kill one another),
while the wizarding world knows that twelve years ago Black killed thirteen people with a single curse, and fears such a massacre may happen again.
Harry stared at Sirius Black's gloomy eyes. They seemed to be the only lively thing left in his gaunt, ruined face.
Harry had never met a vampire, but he had seen pictures of them in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Black's skin was so pale he looked almost like one.
"Sean… we're not going to run into him, are we?" Harry asked uneasily.
Sean said nothing; he seemed to be reading.
"He's a bit creepy-looking, isn't he?" Stan asked instead, watching Harry read.
"He killed thirteen people? With one curse?" Harry asked, then hurriedly handed the paper back to Stan.
~~~
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