Chapter 297: A Lingering Gaze
Over the next few days, a subtle shift occurred in Gilderoy Lockhart's reputation.
In the past, whenever he entered the Great Hall, the excited whispering of the young witches would reach a fever pitch. Now, many of those same girls seemed to find reasons to look away or avoid him entirely.
Saturday.
The Great Hall.
Sean took a sip of steaming pumpkin porridge. Its cloying sweetness reminded him of soft, roasted sweet potatoes by a winter hearth. Above him, owls swooped through the grey, cavernous space beneath the enchanted ceiling, dropping parcels like rain.
Beside him, Harry was listlessly dealing with Colin Creevey. For Colin, the most thrilling thing in the world seemed to be saying "All right, Harry?" six or seven times a day and hearing "Hello, Colin" in return—no matter how resigned or annoyed Harry's tone became.
Hermione looked as though she were considering using a Blue-Bell Flame to incinerate every one of Lockhart's books, but Justin eventually talked her out of it.
"My mother always says that regardless of the man, knowledge itself is innocent," Justin said mildly.
Neville sat nearby, meticulously studying the Fire-Making Spell in The Standard Book of Spells. Somewhere along the line, he had stopped simply waiting for others to bail him out. He was becoming particularly determined now that it was clear his "other" source of help would likely be Sean.
Ron, meanwhile, was vibrating with nervous excitement. Tonight, he was to sneak out of Hogwarts to buy a new wand. He knew he had to be careful; the last thing he wanted was to cause trouble for Sean.
The members of the Room of Hope had clustered together, linked by Sean's quiet leadership, for over a year now without even realizing how much they relied on one another.
Sean's gaze drifted toward the Gryffindor table. There, a small, red-headed girl was chatting enthusiastically with her friends. They were all holding moving "Black Cat" cards, giggling as they discussed them.
Sean's eyes flicked to the diary sitting on the table next to Ginny. He could sense the malice radiating from it; it had grown thicker, sharper. Sometimes, it felt like a needle pricking at his eyes.
At the same time, Ginny herself had begun to carry a faint, unsettling aura—something that made his Soul Hallow hum with warning.
Sean knew that just as he could sense Voldemort, the young Tom Riddle could likely sense him through some unknown link. They had likely detected one another as far back as the Sorting Ceremony. The only difference was that Tom didn't know Sean's plan, whereas Sean knew exactly how to destroy the diary.
But... Tom was getting impatient. He was likely using forceful means that were damaging Ginny's soul.
Sean felt a prickle of urgency, but he refused to let himself panic.
Speed up the progress, he thought. Tonight, once I'm sure the coast is clear, I'm finding the entrance to the Chamber.
Outside, the grass on the school grounds was heavy with dew. Even though the sun was high, a lingering mist clung to the Quidditch pitch. A group of players in blue-and-bronze scarves trudged off the field, looking exhausted from a morning practice.
Sean kept his head down, partially hidden by his book, as they passed.
"First-years have finished their flying lessons, and we still haven't found a Seeker?" Roger Davies muttered, tugging irritably at his scarf.
"You're looking for someone like Roderick Plumpton, Davies—the star of the Tutshill Tornadoes! The man who won five league cups!" a teammate retorted, eyes wide.
"Have a heart for Roger," another player, Toya, said with exaggerated sympathy. "Before he took over, Ravenclaw was the Quidditch champion. The moment he steps up, we fall apart... well, now everyone knows where the problem lies."
"Right, then. I'm appointing you head of recruitment, Toya," Roger snapped, his forehead vein throbbing as he pinned a recruitment badge to Toya's arm. "When Ravenclaw loses miserably, people will know it was because we lacked a core player this year."
Sean quickened his pace, heading toward Hagrid's hut. His Material Transfiguration was only a hundred proficiency points away from the [Adept] level—less than a week's worth of training.
Entry-level mastery required long incantations and focus, but [Adept] level would significantly reduce that time. Once he reached [Expert], his spells would be near-instantaneous. He had already proven this rule with his Dark Arts and Charms.
Outside the hut, the pumpkins in the patch had swollen to the size of garden sheds. Hagrid was just stepping out, looking furious, but his face broke into a grin the moment he saw Sean.
"Sean! How're yeh doin', lad? Come in, come in—I thought for a moment it was that Lockhart fella back again."
Sean entered the hut curiously. A massive bed sat in one corner, and a fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth.
"Yeh wouldn't believe it," Hagrid grumbled, taking a half-plucked rooster off the clean table and setting down a teapot. "He was tryin' to tell me how to keep Kelpies out of a well. As if I didn't know! And then blowin' his own trumpet 'bout how he banished a Banshee. If a single word of it was true, I'd eat this teapot."
Sean looked at the rooster. It didn't just have slaughter wounds; it looked as though it had been savaged by something else.
"Was it attacked?" Sean asked.
"Aye, second one since term started," Hagrid explained sadly. "Either a fox or a vampire, I reckon. I'm gonna have to ask the Headmaster for permission to put a ward around the coop."
Sean fell silent.
Tom was indeed using powerful Dark Arts. Term had barely started, and he was already strong enough to force Ginny to slaughter roosters. Sean had every reason to believe Tom's haste was a direct response to his own presence.
His gaze grew deeper. He needed a way to track Ginny's movements. He had originally thought of a Marauder-style map, but by nightfall, he realized he had a better option.
It was a pitch-black, overcast night. Since the approach of October, the weather had turned cold and damp, making the nights feel even more oppressive.
Ron peered around a corner of the corridor, his heart hammering against his ribs as he watched for any sign of Filch or Mrs. Norris.
In reality, Mrs. Norris was currently perched on Sean's shoulder. When Ron turned back around, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
"S-S-Sean!" he hissed, quickly clapping a hand over his mouth.
"I've already spoken to Mr. Filch about your situation," Sean said calmly.
Ron stared at him in a daze. Is that even something people do?
"The Great Mr. Green—" Fred's head poked out from behind a portrait. He saw Mrs. Norris and immediately ducked back in.
"Your faithful followers have arri—"
George's grin vanished the moment he saw the cat. He retreated behind the portrait as well.
"Doesn't seem very faithful, does it?" Ron muttered, instinctively mimicking George's tone. "Your faithful followers have bolted—"
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