Dusk settled as Sean, guided by Hagrid, even caught sight of some bowtruckles.
Shy little things, but they didn't reject Sean; he managed to grind one of their familiarity levels up to Apprentice.
Hagrid loudly praised Sean's knack for magical creatures—said it reminded him of an old Hufflepuff gentleman.
By then it was dinner time at Hogwarts.
At the Forest's edge, a broom shot skyward. Harry skimmed silently over the castle roofs, tailing a hooded figure into the Forbidden Forest.
Sean was just saying goodbye to Hagrid when he spotted Harry sneaking along.
Sean lifted a hand and, like lightning from the castle, a broom flew to him.
Where no one could see—safe to do so—Sean unleashed the broom's full potential; even the fastest Seeker would be left eating dust.
Over the Forest, Harry was tense. The trees were too thick—he'd lost sight of Professor Snape after he left the castle and didn't know where he'd gone.
He circled lower, skimming the treetops, until voices drifted up. He glided toward them and came down silently onto a towering beech.
Below, in a shadowed clearing, stood Professor Snape—not alone. Professor Quirrell was there as well.
Harry couldn't make out his expression, but Quirrell was stammering worse than ever. Harry strained to listen.
"—d-don't know why y-you chose to m-meet here, S-Severus—"
"Oh, I don't think this is suited to public discussion," Snape said, voice icy. "Students aren't meant to know about the Philosopher's Stone."
Harry's heart gave a jolt; he listened harder.
"—before long, when you've had time to think it over, to decide where your loyalties lie, we'll speak again."
Snape drew his cloak over his head and strode from the clearing. It was nearly dark, but Harry could still see Quirrell standing frozen, like a carved figure.
By now Harry's face had gone white.
If Snape wasn't the one behind everything—he had, after all, stopped the hex at the Quidditch match—
then the person he was watching—Professor Quirrell—could hardly be innocent.
But why would Quirrell want to harm him?
And whom was he—serving?
Plainly, a possibility had occurred to Harry.
"Harry?"
A voice sounded.
"Voldemort!"
Harry blurted.
He found Sean staring at him, puzzled.
"I didn't mean you—I mean, Sean—"
The moment he saw Sean, the panic, fear, and dread seemed to lift off him.
He calmed, if only a little.
"You heard it too, Sean?"
"I did."
Sean had a fair idea: because he had vouched for Snape, none of the kids in the Hope Nook had put suspicion back onto the Potions master.
This time Harry hadn't entirely misjudged Snape; he still thought the professor had it in for him, but at least not that he was out to kill him.
"Professor Quirrell—he wants to steal the Stone, doesn't he?" Harry half asked Sean, half himself.
"What should we do, Sean?"
Back in the Hope Nook, Harry relayed the crucial intel; now every seat at the round table was taken.
They held their breath, waiting for Sean's answer.
The hearth blazed, bathing the room in firelight. Called together in a rush, they hadn't even lit candles; the leader's face at the head of the table was hard to read.
After asking, Justin fell silent. He was always a touch quicker on the uptake than the others.
And he found it easy to guess certain possibilities—chiefly, that the greatest white wizard alive had a plan.
Neville was shaking; Hermione's brow was furrowed tight. She suddenly thought—if she had stopped Snape on the stands, would Quirrell have gotten his way?
She pressed her lips together, panic rising, and only when she fixed her gaze on Sean did it ease.
It had been Sean who stopped her. Which meant—he must have realized already…
Seated at the head, Sean wasn't thinking hard at all.
In first year, Voldemort had a hundred ways to die; not one included taking the Stone.
Unless a student went up to the fourth floor corridor and got taken hostage, Voldemort wouldn't pass the final barrier—the Mirror. Only a wizard who did not desire the Stone could retrieve it.
And Dumbledore had long since noticed Quirrell's irregularities; the reason he hadn't acted was largely to give Harry a chance to grow.
"Keep your distance from Quirrell, watch him. If something unusual happens, use this—"
Sean spoke softly and took out a stack of plain white slips.
"What's that?" Ron asked in a whisper, baffled, as everyone leaned in.
Sean calmly wrote a name with a quill, lifted the paper—and it folded itself into a plane, shot through the center of the table, and landed in Ron's hand.
"Seven-Second Paper Planes. Anywhere in the castle, they arrive in seven seconds. Write the name in advance; when you use it, touch the plane and think of the addressee."
It was Professor Tayra's contact method for Sean; since they were reusable, he had a few spares—perfect for this.
Firelight played over every face.
Leaving the Nook, it felt as if they all carried a heavy burden.
A minion of Voldemort had slipped into Hogwarts—
Harry and Ron didn't know whether Dumbledore was aware; Hermione and Justin's thoughts ran deeper.
They didn't believe Dumbledore was ignorant—clearly, he had a plan.
Which bred a quiet anger in both:
"Headmaster Dumbledore knows about this. But instead of stopping it, he's letting Hogwarts be put at risk. I don't think much of that plan," Hermione said, upset.
She thought of the three-headed dog—they'd nearly died that day.
"You know what I've realized, Hermione?" Justin nodded. "Counting on others is no use—counting on ourselves gives us better odds."
He seemed to understand at last why Sean never stopped studying.
They walked the corridor in silence for a long time.
Something subtle had shifted in both of them.
~~~
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