Detention—the word stung Harry's eyes.
To their surprise, Mr. Filch didn't make things hard; he simply led them out of the castle.
They strode across the black grounds, braced against cold wind and hard rain.
Harry still didn't know what punishment they faced, which only made them more uneasy.
Malfoy was shivering; Harry and the others weren't much better.
Sean, they'd heard, had gone to the headmaster's office and would be leaving with Dumbledore and an alchemy professor.
It hit them, as their detention began and both Sean and Dumbledore were away, how deep their fear ran.
They had gotten used to life when Sean was around—whatever happened, as long as he was in the castle, they felt they were never in real danger.
They'd learned that during the troll incident, and this latest nighttime escapade had only strengthened the notion.
Now Sean was leaving… and Quirrell was still here, worse than ever.
He could lash out at any time—and kill Harry.
Moonlight was bright, but clouds kept drifting over the moon, throwing them into darkness.
Harry could see the lamplit windows of Hagrid's hut. Then, in the distance, a shout.
"That you, Filch? Hurry up, I'm about to set out."
"It's me."
Filch shot them a long look full of a distaste they didn't understand.
Hearing Hagrid's voice, they eased a little. If they were with Hagrid, surely nothing would go too wrong?
"You don't think you're off for a jolly lark with that oaf, do you?
Think again, lads—you're going into the Forbidden Forest!"
Filch snapped, impatient,
"Keep to that fool like glue, or you'll be in real trouble!"
What he meant wasn't only the Forest's trouble, but: don't land a certain young wizard in any.
"The Forbidden Forest?"
Malfoy halted, far less cool than usual.
"We can't go in there at night—there's everything in there—I've heard there are werewolves."
"Serves you right!"
Filch's attitude toward Malfoy was pure contempt.
"Don't let me catch you dodging detention. Especially you!"
He shot Malfoy a vicious glare, then stalked away.
…
Outside the Forest, in the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.
Quirrell, turbaned, huddled and shaking in a corner. Driven to the end, he cast a furtive glance at the biscuit tossed among other odds and ends; his empty stomach growled on cue.
He slowly fumbled out some biscuits. Firelight washed the corner, then wavered away.
At the same time, in the headmaster's office.
Sean glanced curiously at Professor McGonagall. He hadn't known she was versed in alchemy—clearly, there was much he didn't know.
"My student, come here."
Professor Tayra met McGonagall's eyes; they nodded politely to each other. Then Tayra took Sean's hand.
Dumbledore's eyes crinkled to slits.
"Time is a charming thing—blink, and it steals my memories away. I nearly forgot…"
Fawkes opened his eyes on the headmaster's arm as Dumbledore took a gentle sip of tea.
"Minerva, my excellent student, how many times have I invited you to come see—and at last, now, success… how very… delightful…"
Sean understood then: just as Flora Olivia Tayra could bring her student, Sean Green,
Albus Dumbledore could certainly bring his beloved student, Minerva McGonagall.
Few students realized the headmaster and deputy head were, in fact, also teacher and pupil.
The crackle of the office fire blended with the soft burbling of kettles; silver instruments chimed faintly.
From Sean's hand, the Alchemy Congress invitation flew up and unfurled into a peculiar portal:
runes carved all around, with "Legend," "Era," and "Future" in the center.
"Hold tight to me."
Tayra led Sean in a step through the left-hand doorway, where green fire burned.
Sean skimmed it with interest—some variant of the Floo network, perhaps.
So this was… an auto-follow hearth-door?
It looked very much like… a door anywhere.
Hogwarts vanished; beyond the door stretched a long gallery.
Above hung a sorcerous firmament, a sea of stars rolling in it.
At the far end stood an old, cracked board on which names slowly surfaced—Sean saw his own carved there.
There were twenty-four boards in all. At the top, pale letters glowed:
"I know that I hung on the windswept tree,
nine long nights,
wounded by a spear and given to Óðinn—
myself to myself—
on that tree that no man knows
from what roots it rises.
They gave me neither bread nor drink from a horn;
I peered down,
I took up the runes—
screaming I took them—
then I fell back from there.."
—two famed stanzas of the Hávamál, Odin's account of winning the runes.
At the bottom:
"Awaiting an era's twenty-four masters."
While Sean stared, Dumbledore murmured, kindly amused:
"Oh, so many statues… reminds me Hogwarts' third floor has a rather good set…"
Sean glanced across the countless statues in the gallery, then at the headmaster: he suddenly suspected who had midwifed that noisy Castle.
"This way, please."
A house-elf popped before Sean—so sudden he hadn't noticed it arrive.
Clad in a rag of a towel, it bore a polished board and bowed low.
All around, doors with green flame swung open and a modest stream of witches and wizards stepped out.
Each arrival was matched at once by a house-elf.
"Take your slate—now you will see the breadth of alchemy."
Tayra's voice was soft.
Joy and excitement tinged it; those commonplace apprentices—even if admitted—could only offer trifles.
But she would take her student—and together declare alchemy great again, declare… an era arrived.
Some would rejoice, some would fear; some would curse, some would covet.
But all alchemists would concede:
In this age there was little real rivalry. There was only—
Sean Green.
~~~
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