Just before dawn, Sean returned to Hogwarts Castle with a few unassuming honors in hand.
His green eyes were as calm as ever—save for a faint, hidden sorrow.
On his way back he'd had a small run-in: a "lady" who had sneakily turned from a beetle kept trying to interview him. Although the International Alchemy Congress was highly secretive and she knew nothing of its inner workings, that didn't stop her from taking an intense interest in a witch or wizard so young.
The castle was under anti-Apparition spells; yet when Sean stepped outside, it was as if she'd materialized out of thin air beyond the walls.
"So young, and already a participant—come now, dear boy, look this way. Let me help you keep a few lovely memories…"
She glanced about—no other alchemists in sight. If one had been present, she'd have bolted at once. She looked a touch scatterbrained; the truly mad ones, in her mind, were those "ancient fossils" of the Congress.
Studying the boy before her, she guessed he'd slipped out alone to breathe. For what reason?
"Crushed prodigy, demoralized by the old guard?"
"Or the decline of Alchemy—caused by alchemists squeezing out new blood?!"
Her imagination ran wild. She lifted a magical camera, eager to take a few close shots of Sean's face.
As for those "lovely memories"—if "Cunning Miss Granger toys with the affections of Potter and Krum (and is perhaps brewing Love Potions)," "Half-giant, half-monster Hagrid is the gamekeeper," or "Dumbledore a calcified old lunatic" counted…
"A beetle turning into a witch—are you a registered Animagus?" Sean glanced once at her immaculate, stiff, oddly permed hair.
"Ah—ah—" The camera wobbled in her hands; panic flitted across her face as she tried to clap a hand over Sean's mouth.
A tall, severe Professor McGonagall had her wand pointed at Rita; the woman had only just been in the Headmaster's office, and now—who was this witch again?
Sean returned to Hogwarts all the same.
Thunder rumbled overhead; gale winds battered the castle walls; far off in the Forbidden Forest, branches snapped with brittle cracks.
It wasn't good weather…
Professor McGonagall went to clear the backlog of matters piling up; Sean took his leave of her in the Great Hall. He carried a worry carefully hidden, though not from Minerva McGonagall's eyes.
That child always hid things from her. He didn't yet know that people can be leaned on; it wasn't his fault—at the moment of greatest need, no one had ever been there for him.
McGonagall drew out a letter—she had written back and forth for a long time with a lady named Roland, a truly noble soul who had spent her life for orphans. The paper in her hand was faintly damp:
[Esteemed Ms. McGonagall,
Love is a vague and misty dream—but did you know? Perhaps only when you truly love a person's weaknesses, a person's flaws, is that love real.
Take care, dear lady; lovers are easily hurt, for they are utterly open.
—A meddler, Roland]
"It's all right. We have time—so much time," she told herself. That was the best news.
McGonagall tucked the damp letter away and watched the small figure recede down the corridor.
The halls were noisy; with two Transfiguration periods canceled, students had snatched a brief respite from their year-end grind and were enjoying the rare ease.
Sean walked on until he reached the Headmaster's office.
He didn't yet know what had happened in the castle, nor what choice Professor Quirrell had made. If anyone could move unseen through Hogwarts—appearing anywhere, watching everything—it was a simple answer.
"Young Green, I don't find this dangerous at all. Keep a stout heart, remember?" Sir Cadogan sat astride his pony at the office entrance, posture proclaiming one knight alone could stem a thousand.
"Nothing much of note lately—save a squirrel, who lingered here a while. It held a curious button and squeaked 'Dungheap!'—but the gargoyle didn't budge. Everyone with their wits knows the Headmaster is away."
"You are truly brave," Sean said quietly, eyes still unreadable, head slightly bowed. "I'm sorry…"
He didn't know to whom he apologized. There was only the wind and rain in the corridor.
"Oho, don't fret. I did as you said—hid a squirrel biscuit in the corner—It's gone?! Don't tell me the squirrel nicked it?"
Sir Cadogan galloped into the corner of his frame, elbowing aside ladies in wheel-farthingales who squealed in fright.
Sean had already slipped away.
He could not bear to imagine how much courage this place had held—and how much despair.
"There's still a chance…"
He stretched out a hand; a broom fell like a meteor through a second-floor window.
When he landed at the door of the Hope Nook, the Owl Master did not question him—rather, he bowed with grave steadiness.
"When Lady Ravenclaw fought for those children who died, untaught and out of control, I saw such eyes too many times.
Clever young wizard, you know what the prudent choice is; yet you will not choose it, will you? May you know—that is the greatest wisdom…"
Sean nodded once and stepped into the Gifted Hope Nook.
To kill a unicorn is an act of monstrous cruelty.
To butcher a pure, defenseless creature—when that blood touches the lips, you win only a half-life, a life under a curse.
But what if the unicorn isn't dead?
There is still a chance…
Inside, the others were in the midst of a fierce debate and didn't even hear the door.
"Justin and Firenze burst out and saved me," Harry said loudly. "Bane said Firenze shouldn't have—he was furious—he said it would disrupt what the stars had foretold… the constellations must show You-Know-Who rising again… Bane thinks Firenze should've let You-Know-Who kill me in the Forest… I reckon the stars show that too, don't they."
"Don't say that name!" Ron hissed, fearful as if the Dark Lord might overhear.
"Firenze said You-Know-Who is in the Forest! He's drinking unicorn blood to cling on until Quirrell steals the Stone… Firenze also said…"
Harry ignored Ron, but his voice grew smaller. He mimicked the centaur's cadence:
"Some say he is dead. I believe that pure nonsense. There's so little human left in him, he cannot die."
Everyone there knew who "he" meant.