January slipped by beneath unending sleet and snow.
For once, Sean's days at Hogwarts fell into a steady rhythm.
He was either in Hagrid's hut trialing new rites or in the Forbidden Forest practicing Transfiguration.
With Sean around, Hagrid suddenly had more time to pop over to the Three Broomsticks for a pint—or to queue at Weasley & Green's Joke Shop for the Animal Party line.
The only pity was that no matter how early he went, he never made it to the front.
Knockturn Alley and Diagon Alley had recently spawned a swarm of "reseller wizards."
Hagrid saw the same few people at the head of the line every day and nearly started a fight with them in a fury.
In the end, the freckled shop manager thanked him and pressed a full set into his hands—begging him to keep up the good, angry work.
Hagrid felt a bit sheepish about it.
"She hired you as a bodyguard for a box of cookies?" Sean asked.
"How's that a bodyguard… Sean, I wanted to…," Hagrid blustered. After a moment's scramble he blurted, "Er—say I agreed to keep an eye on things… would you pay me? Oh… cookies are fine…"
Sean studied him, struck once more by how Hagrid's rough manner hid a careful heart.
"Mm."
Sean nodded.
Hagrid was so delighted he cooked a huge pot of rock cakes, softened them with a charm, and fed Sean till he was stuffed.
"Glad you like 'em… most folks can't appreciate the taste…"
Hagrid dabbed at his eyes.
Sean nodded, then lifted a hand—on it perched a little fellow with twiglike fingers and limbs.
Tila, the Bowtruckle Sean had chosen; it adored Sean's pockets and forearm.
Since yesterday it had even followed Sean out of the Forest.
Accordingly, Sean chose his next magical creature cookie: Bowtruckle.
Its camouflage makes it wonderfully useful—cast a Smokescreen, turn into a Bowtruckle, and vanish into a crevice. Anyone unfamiliar with the cookies would never think to look for you.
Its rite, however, became a thorny problem. Even after several long discussions with Professor Tayra, they hadn't pinned it down.
Sean recalled where his last success had come from—imitating and adapting Polyjuice—and since then he kept Advanced Potion-Making on him; inspiration came quickly.
Another Thursday dawned over Hogwarts.
The cold was still cutting. Ravenclaw Tower felt heavier than usual.
Their match against Hufflepuff drew nearer, but the team's spirits weren't high.
They could beat Hufflepuff—Cedric was tricky, but Roger felt confident he could contain him.
But beyond Hufflepuff stood Gryffindor and their first-year Seeker—Harry Potter.
In his last match he'd snatched the Snitch in five minutes flat.
"Will he come?" Roger asked Penelope quietly.
"He will."
Penelope Clearwater gazed at an eagle wheeling high in the gray, then down at the schedule—next Wednesday.
Third-floor corridor.
Sean, carrying a box of curious cookies, knocked on the Transfiguration office door.
"Come in, child."
Professor McGonagall was reading a newspaper-like journal.
A master in Transfiguration—and still she never stopped studying. Influenced by her, Sean had devoured piles of Transfiguration texts.
On Thursdays, she shared the latest draft from a journal.
Transfiguration Today—tracking the field's newest developments, academic papers, and industry news.
Dumbledore and McGonagall had both published in it.
Bathilda Bagshot, author of A History of Magic, once praised a student Dumbledore's paper there—on cross-species Transfiguration.
McGonagall herself had won "Most Promising Newcomer."
"Child, are these… Kneazle cookies?" McGonagall asked with a gentle smile.
Sean shook his head.
In fact, they were his newly developed Kneazle-Cat (Kneazle hybrid) cookies—the proficiency had reached Entry.
A full minute of duration.
"And these are?"
Her interest kindled; whatever Sean did, she encouraged him.
"Kneazle-cat," Sean said softly.
"Kneazle-cat, mm… Kneazle—?"
A ripple crossed McGonagall's voice.
Ten minutes later.
"It's been centuries since Transfiguration saw a breakthrough like this…"
Back in human shape, McGonagall murmured. Looking at Sean's bemused face, she realized he had no notion what he'd done.
To gain a magical creature's power—in the history of Transfiguration, that merited pages in bold.
Wizards have coveted magical creatures' gifts for millennia; their only success till now was using hide and blood for potions…
Was it that they didn't want those powers?
No. They simply couldn't take them.
Magical creatures are as old as magic; some foresee danger, some command storms, some are reborn from flame…
Wizards have schemed for ages to steal those rights—and failed.
Consider Polyjuice—why does it say "human only"? The reason is plain—early wizards intended to transform into creatures and found it impossible.
"Tell no one, child."
McGonagall could hear her own heartbeat; her tone turned solemn.
Sean hesitated. "Professor Tayra—she knows…"
"She does not, foolish child."
McGonagall said softly, then, face impassive, swept from the office.
This cookie alone proved the child's staggering gift in Transfiguration. She was certain he would surpass her—perhaps even… Albus.
Such talent must not be squandered by those mumbo-jumbo alchemists!
In the Headmaster's office, the great stone gargoyle leapt aside by itself.
"Albus—"
Urgency sharpened McGonagall's voice.
"Look at this—"
Left alone at the office door, Sean found McGonagall's reaction far stronger than he'd imagined.
Heat pricked his palm; he looked down—the invitation to the International Alchemy Congress had somehow drifted from his bag into his hand:
[On this land of magic, what awaits us now…
Wind over icefield and desert,
Ancient banners of runes snapping on the heights,
In every curve of a rune, an undiscovered legend.
Someone lost in deep forest,
Someone reborn in a sea of fire,
And we—
Where shall we carve our script?
The International Alchemy Congress—three lunar months hence—
Awaiting—
The arrival of Legend.]