Hogwarts.
Evening.
At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Sean held a small, finely cut crystal vial.
This was the Veritaserum from the vault.
It was a magical potion used to force the drinker to tell the truth. Just three drops were enough to drag secrets out from the deepest parts of a person's heart.
The use of this potion was heavily regulated by the Ministry of Magic. But since Professor Snape brewed it, Sean suspected the Ministry didn't actually have much control.
Sean knew the potion and its recipe, but he still couldn't brew it himself— even Snape needed a month to make a batch.
One noteworthy ingredient in the potion was a feather from a Silent Lark.
This bird never makes a sound in its entire life— not until the moment of its death, when it lets out a long, piercing cry, repeating every sound it has ever heard in its life, starting from the most recent.
Because of that, it was indispensable in Veritaserum and Memory Potions.
A "running-horse song", then?
Sean thought vaguely, then drank three drops.
"Who are you?"
the brooch asked.
"Sean Green."
Sean felt a strange power fill him, making it impossible to say anything except the truth.
Even staying silent became almost impossible.
"In the field of Transfiguration, do you possess a Master's level of skill?"
"Yes."
"In the field of Charms, do you possess a Master's level of skill?"
"No."
"In the field of Charms, do you possess an Expert level of skill?"
"No."
Sean fell quiet for a moment.
Sure enough, a wizard couldn't always clearly perceive his own limits.
Deep down, he didn't believe he'd reached that level yet.
"In the field of Charms, are you close to the Expert level?"
"Yes."
"Then overall, in magic, have you reached the Expert tier?"
After this question, Sean felt a flicker of tension. This, he believed, was a wizard's first honest self-assessment of his magical ability— the true level of his faith in his own magic.
"No."
"Then overall, have you reached the Master tier?"
"No."
"Somewhere in between?"
"Yes."
It was a strange conversation. Sean was beginning to realise that a wizard's faith in magic was something holistic.
That "faith in magic" was built from all branches of magic together; when he improved in, say, Charms, then in theory, all the other branches were raised as well.
It was very easy to connect this to the way people talked about "magical power". Maybe what grew in a wizard wasn't some abstract "power", but their faith in magic itself.
After all, the wizarding world had never truly had a rigorous theory of "mana" to begin with.
"Avada Kedavra requires a great amount of magical power as a foundation—"
Crouch Jr. (pretending to be Moody) had said that once. If you replaced "magical power" with "conviction", it still made perfect sense.
In fact, it fit better. It explained why emotion and will were so important when casting powerful magic.
Then the brooch's voice dropped, becoming much lower.
"At all times, can you guarantee you will never lose yourself to Dark Magic?"
By now the sky was completely black.
Sean walked back from the forest's edge, his brows tightly furrowed.
Far away, the last of the sunset had faded, leaving only deep ink-coloured sky.
The soul-stone at his chest flashed once and went dim. He noticed that tonight the moon was clear and unobscured.
Wisps of mist began to rise in Ravenclaw Tower.
A black cat slipped once more into the layered fog. This time, those black, green-tinged clouds of malice had vanished.
At the same time—
Gryffindor Tower.
"This time— this time, it has to work—"
A red-haired little witch muttered to herself, then flopped back into bed with a thump.
"Ginny, if you see Mr. Black Cat, could you pass on a message for me—"
A small witch beside her whispered.
"Me too!"
Another, clearly very lively girl, immediately chimed in.
"What do you want to say?"
Ginny asked curiously, then shook her head.
"Mr. Black Cat doesn't like trouble. Better tell the statue instead."
"Ginny!"
The lively witch launched herself at her, fingers ready to tickle.
After a good while, they finally settled down to sleep.
Somewhere else, in the boundary-realm, a swirling cloud of strange light dove straight at the black cat.
He reacted quickly, dodging aside, then batted at the fog with his paw and easily recognised it as Ginny.
But why could Ginny actively pull herself into the dream-fog?
As it turned out, curiosity didn't always kill the cat— but it certainly made its life harder.
Watching Ginny tumble out of the mist, the black cat tried to hide behind another fog bank.
"Mr. Black Cat!"
Ginny's face flushed bright red with excitement.
"Good evening,"
the black cat said, strolling out from behind the mist as if nothing were strange.
"I have so many questions for you— you were the one who took away the diary, weren't you? Ever since it disappeared I haven't had any nightmares—"
Ginny chattered breathlessly.
"No,"
the black cat said.
He watched her, a thought slowly coalescing in his mind.
The soul-stone had incredible powers. Could he use it to pull Harry and Voldemort into the boundary-realm together?
As one of Voldemort's Horcruxes, Harry was a soul container Voldemort had made by accident— his soul was not fused with Ginny's in the same way.
Even in the original story, Harry's soul and Voldemort's fragment had manifested together.
Obviously, Sean had missed some crucial trick earlier— last time only Harry had appeared.
The black cat thought in silence, and the mist thicken around them.
The next day.
Hope Nook.
The soul-stone lay quiet, but Sean could feel his connection to it growing deeper as he used it.
He could sense it slowly recharging its magic. It wouldn't be long before he could test his idea.
If all went well, Sean would be able to remove one of Voldemort's Horcruxes with relative ease.
Besides that, he needed to push his magical skills further. His Charms, Potions, and other branches were lagging a little behind.
Time slipped by.
The good news: the Basilisk biscuit was complete.
As for what to do with the Basilisk itself— Sean decided to ask the Headmaster's opinion.
The bad news: the Chamber of Secrets affair was impossible to keep hidden. If he was unlucky, once he explained everything to Snape, he'd end up spending the next six years serving detention in the dungeons.
Out in the corridor, Sean saw Harry being cornered by Lockhart again.
"So then, Harry,"
Lockhart said, eyebrows waggling,
"today's the first Quidditch match of the season, isn't it?
Gryffindor versus Slytherin, yes?
I hear you're quite the player. I used to be a Seeker myself. They wanted me for the national team, but I preferred to devote my life to stamping out the forces of darkness. Still, if you feel you need a bit of extra coaching, do come and see me. I'm always delighted to pass on my experience to players whose skills aren't quite up to my standard yet—"