The Quidditch match went ahead as scheduled.
The next afternoon, Sean sat in the stands with Justin beside him, while Hermione, Ron, and Neville stood outside the locker room wishing Harry good luck.
Harry knew they were secretly afraid they might never see him come back alive.
He looked toward the stands. Though his view was blocked, he still felt he could see Sean, looking down over everything.
Sean's magic was far beyond what they could imagine; in their subconscious, they believed he was enough to handle even adult wizards.
Thinking that way was the only thing that could give Harry some comfort.
He pulled on his Quidditch robes and grabbed his Nimbus 2000, not hearing a word of Wood's pep talk.
Meanwhile, Ron, Neville, and Hermione took their places around the stadium. They were heavy-hearted and anxious, and each of them had brought a wand to the match.
When they'd been planning together, nothing had seemed too frightening. Now that they were spread out, each guarding a sector, fear surged all at once.
What if the caster was a lunatic? What if he threw a terrifying curse at them without caring about the consequences?
Everyone in the Hope Nook had been secretly practicing Finite.
Their goal was to stop an unknown enemy from casting and to identify him—so a strong defensive counter-curse was their first choice.
"Remember—don't forget, it's Finite," Hermione whispered as Ron tucked his wand up his sleeve.
"I know," Ron said—rare agreement—already shaking with nerves. "Quit nagging."
In the locker room, Wood pulled Harry aside.
"Not to pressure you, Potter, but today we more than ever need you to catch the Snitch fast. In and out—we can't give Snape time to tip the scales for Hufflepuff."
"The whole school's here!" Fred Weasley said, peeking out the door. "Even—Merlin—Dumbledore's come to watch!"
Harry's heart lurched.
He wasn't the only one. The people in the stands buzzed.
"Thank goodness—make way—excuse me—"
Ron trotted all over the stands, eyes hunting for Sean—there were still some empty seats around here.
"Dumbledore's here—"
"It's Headmaster Dumbledore—"
He and Hermione arrived together and said the same thing.
Hermione didn't let Ron speak; she said herself, "That person won't dare show himself. Looks like 'Round Table Plan One' is shelved."
Excitement, fear, anticipation, and relief battled across her face, ending in a complicated sigh. "Who knows when he'll try again…"
Ron, giddy a moment before, fell silent too.
"No matter what, we'll be ready for him, right?" Justin said with a smile.
They looked at him, then at Sean—calmly eating his pudding—and their nerves settled. They nodded firmly.
With the crisis dissipated, they turned their attention to the match.
"The game's begun! Today's biggest thrill is still Gryffindor's Seeker, Harry Potter! He flies for Gryffindor—Gryffindor in possession—Angelina Johnson driving in to shoot!
Blocked by Hufflepuff—now it's Harry Potter—wait, what did he—?!
The match is over! Harry Potter! He's caught the Golden Snitch! In just… five minutes!"
The stands exploded; it would be a new record—no one could remember a match where the Snitch was seized so quickly.
"Did you see that?! Hermione, Neville! Merlin—we won!" Ron shouted to everyone.
Watching the young wizards cheer, Sean understood: Quidditch might be dull, but so much was attached to it.
Hopes for a friend, hunger for house honor, a love of competition and sport—at least it gave them a memory to hold onto.
But it held little appeal for Sean. When the match ended, he headed to the Transfiguration office.
Hagrid had asked him to come to the Forest today to meet a "special magical creature."
Sean had looked forward to it for some time. Was the Norwegian Ridgeback arriving early?
Or had the timeline in his memory shifted in some reasonable way?
After all, the source didn't specify exactly when the Ridgeback arrived; Sean had only estimated the window from big events.
In the Transfiguration office, Professor McGonagall, as always, was writing.
From time to time she glanced at Sean's transfiguration practice and corrected tiny mistakes.
Time passed with the soft hiss of snow on the windowpanes.
Sean flicked his wand toward the hearth; the flames shaped into a big salamander's head—menacing and a little funny.
What he wanted to make was a fire dragon…
His "object to magic" transfiguration, boosted by a special talent, had always progressed quickly.
Coupled with his imitation of the magic inherent to magical creatures, he'd walked the path of seven school years with ease.
Fire salamanders, fire crabs, snowmen, water-serpents—Sean could command them freely.
But once he left the ready-made magical circuits of creatures behind, conjuring something from nothing was hard.
With the hearth, he could control only a small portion of flame; with wizard-chess pieces, he could only command a handful.
Which made it obvious how powerful Dumbledore was, idly setting statues in motion—and Professor McGonagall, calling the stone blocks to arms.
Sean suspected both had surpassed Master level in this discipline.
Then what lay above Master…?
"Goodbye, Professor McGonagall," he said politely, and left.
She watched his small figure disappear through the door, then took a gentle sip of hot tea.
It was from Marcus… he hadn't sent anything in a very long time.
…
On the way to the Forbidden Forest, Sean's mind raced—fire dragons didn't just mean a Fire Dragon Biscuit; they could help him research the transfiguration from flame to dragon.
In Fiendfyre, flame itself takes shape, turning into a host of beasts made of fire: fire salamanders, chimeras, and dragons…
Strangely, it echoed his own development in transfiguration. Surely he wasn't about to reinvent Fiendfyre?
He opened his panel:
[Wizard Sean, Dark Magic Talent: Gold]
[Evaluation: You are a once-in-an-era prodigy in Dark Arts; the Dark Arts will reach for you. You are a born king of dark magic.]
Dark magic, Sean thought—let's not have it reach.
~~~
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