Sean still had this nagging question eating at him—could he actually pull off a second Animagus form?
By the time he stopped daydreaming about it, the sky outside was already bright.
Before heading out, he habitually flicked open his panel:
[Transfiguration of Matter: Skilled (10/3000)]
[Magical Transfiguration: Beginner (50/300)]
[Soul Transfiguration: Beginner (280/300)]
After that little trip to the borderlands, he was just a hair away from hitting the "Skilled" threshold in Soul Transfiguration.
Grinning to himself, Sean gripped his wand, and a second later a sleek black cat slipped out of the Ravenclaw dormitory.
It was a Friday in November.
And once November rolled in, the weather turned brutal. The mountains around the castle were all gray and buried under snow and ice. The Black Lake had frozen solid—cold, hard, and unforgiving. Every morning the corridors were coated in frost.
The black cat shot out a window and nearly ran head-first into a giant who was basically blocking the entire hallway.
Hagrid's face was completely hidden under a snow-crusted balaclava, and he was bundled up in a massive mole-skin overcoat. Little wizards were squeezing past him like he was a boulder in a stream.
The guy had some kind of sixth sense for magical creatures. When the black cat darted through a portrait hole into a secret passage, Hagrid stared at the painting for a good few seconds and scratched his head in confusion.
Sean weaved through the crowds all the way to the Great Hall doors, then leaped, shifted mid-air, and landed as a black-robed Ravenclaw.
[You practiced Soul Transfiguration at a Beginner level within the Master domain. Master-level proficiency +3]
"Flying carpets… yeah, flying carpets are totally banned in Britain," Hermione was saying.
She was chatting with Justin Finch-Fletchley, looking a little worried. Justin hadn't exactly been in high spirits lately.
Of course, he wasn't the only one—Harry had been walking around like the weight of the world was on his shoulders too.
"I heard Mr. Weasley say some guy named Ali Bashir kept trying to sell flying carpets here, but the Ministry shut him down," Hermione went on. "They're classified as Muggle artifacts on the banned list."
Harry dropped his bag on the bench with a grin. "Guys, I've got huge news! You're never gonna guess what happened to me last night—it was insane!"
Ron squinted at him. "Harry, you look—"
"I saw that black cat bloke again!" Harry whispered dramatically.
That got everyone's attention. A bunch of little wizard heads swiveled toward him like owls on a hunt.
"If you think about it," Hermione muttered, still stuck on the carpet thing, "brooms are technically Muggle artifacts too. Banning carpets is basically xenophobia or anti-dumping laws. If flying carpets were legal, broom sales would tank."
Only Hermione was still seriously pondering international magical trade policy.
By the time Sean slid into his seat, Harry had just finished recounting last night's adventure.
Then the conversation naturally shifted to the topic everyone actually cared about.
"Are we even having Defense Against the Dark Arts today?" Ron asked, practically grinning.
"No notice on the board outside," Hermione said, frowning.
"I heard the hospital wing's out of a certain potion—the exact one they need for Lockhart's… situation," she added.
Sean instantly thought of that cauldron he'd "accidentally" ruined in the dungeons.
Yeah. Definitely not a coincidence.
Sure enough, that afternoon proved him right.
A black blur burst into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Professor Snape strode in like he owned the place, flicked his wand, and every window slammed shut.
"What are you waiting for? Open your books," he drawled, sounding like death warmed over.
"Oh no…" Ron groaned.
"I'm telling you, he totally did something to Lockhart just so he could steal this job," Ron muttered under his breath.
Harry didn't look any happier—he ducked his head like a turtle trying to disappear into its shell.
Sean quietly pulled out Basics of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, and a few others.
"Harry Potter," Snape hissed, looming over him like a bat in a bad mood. "Travels with Werewolves—cute. Are your eyes just for decoration, or do you actually think that rubbish can teach you anything? Five points from Gryffindor."
Harry's brief good mood evaporated on the spot.
At this point he honestly couldn't decide which was worse: Lockhart prancing around like a peacock, or Snape turning every class into a personal vendetta.
For Harry, the lesson was torture.
For Sean? Snape actually taught useful stuff—especially counter-curses for dark magic. If you'd watched the last Duelling Club meeting, this class was basically the detailed theory follow-up you didn't know you needed.
When they finally filed out, the whole room was dead silent.
They'd walked a good stretch down the corridor before Ron spoke up again.
"Hermione, seriously—why do you still carry all those Lockhart books around?"
He nodded at the stack in her arms—sometimes it was Magical Me, sometimes Voyages with Vampires, and of course Gadding with Ghouls and Year with the Yeti made regular appearances.
"Even Sean admits the stories actually happened! But we all know Lockhart's a total fraud. Doesn't that bug you?"
Hermione looked like she'd been wrestling with that question for weeks.
Right then, two balls of flame came zooming around the corner.
Fred and George strutted past Harry like they owned the hallway, shouting, "Make way for the Heir of Slytherin! Seriously evil wizard coming through!"
Hermione was not amused.
"That's not funny. And Harry is not the Heir of Slytherin," she snapped.
"All right, Miss Granger," Fred said with a dramatic bow.
"But Harry's got places to be," George added, grinning. "Gotta hurry down to the Chamber for tea with his fanged servant."
Harry knew the twins didn't actually believe he was the Heir—that made it almost bearable.
Then he said something that made Fred's jaw drop.
"Even if I did have a fanged servant, tea's not really my thing with it."
Fred blinked. "Solid point, Harry."
"Top-notch thinking," George laughed as they sauntered off.
Sean watched the chaos, then glanced at Hermione clutching her Lockhart books and smiling at Harry like he'd just solved world hunger.
"Professor Sprout's got the Mandrakes dressing up in scarves and socks right now…" Sean said casually. "If you really want answers about Lockhart, Hermione, somebody in the greenhouses might know something."
He paused, then added, "You could ask Bruce. He'd probably love to tell you."
(Yeah, getting Lockhart out of here early wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Might even mean Professor Lupin shows up sooner.)