"Sean, where are you going?" Blaise Zabini called, his voice echoing in the Slytherin common room's damp air.
"The library. Homework's piling up, and I'm curious about the books there—might unearth something useful." Sean's tone was casual, but his eyes gleamed with purpose.
"Then… do you need company? If you want, I could…" Blaise trailed off, shifting awkwardly, his usual confidence tinged with hesitation.
Sean smirked, reading Blaise like an open spellbook. They'd been thick as thieves lately, but Blaise's mind was elsewhere. "Go chase that senior who asked you out.
Ditching her would be a foul move. The library's all hushed whispers—nothing but homework and dusty tomes. You'd be bored stiff."
Blaise grinned, clapping Sean's shoulder. "Then let's meet in the Great Hall tonight. I'll spill how the date went—hope it's a triumph."
"Okay, I look forward to your success," Sean replied, his smirk widening.
Sean watched Blaise stride toward the Quidditch pitch, its empty stands perfect for a quiet rendezvous—no matches, no crowds, just the rustle of autumn leaves.
If only I had time for that sort of thing, Sean mused. A carefree student life sounded tempting, but he knew the storm brewing beyond Hogwarts' walls.
Harry's year was cursed with yearly perils—trolls, dark wizards, worse. Slacking off could cost more than points. I need to get stronger, fast.
The library perched on the fourth floor, a trek made perilous by Hogwarts' enchanted staircases. Sean paused at the base, glaring at the shifting steps.
One wrong move, and I'm stranded till supper. For a first-year, the staircases were a maze of creaking traps, pivoting without warning. After dodging a vanishing step and cursing under his breath, he reached the library, its heavy doors exhaling a musty scent of parchment and ink.
Inside, the room buzzed with quiet intensity. Fifth- and seventh-years dominated, hunched over OWL and NEWT prep, their quills scratching like nifflers after gold.
Lower years were scarce—only Ravenclaws, noses buried in tomes, outnumbered the rest.
He claimed a window seat, vacated by a Hufflepuff fifth-year who'd scurried off, muttering about a forgotten essay. Sunlight slanted through the glass, warming the worn table. Sean's homework was straightforward—nothing his past life's knack for logic couldn't handle.
He breezed through History of Magic and Astronomy with minimal effort, saving his focus for Transfiguration, Potions, and Charms. Snape's essays demand perfection, or I'm toast.
The assignments took barely an hour—first-week tasks were light, even from Snape. Sean stacked his parchments neatly and headed to the towering bookshelves, their enchanted spines whispering faintly. His knowledge leaned heavily on textbooks and Gideon Bulstrode's old notes, but gaps remained.
The library was his key to deeper mastery, untangling knotty spell theory and potion quirks.
He pulled seven books—on hexes, potion catalysts, and charm precision—his arms straining under the weight. As he turned back, Madam Pince loomed, her feather duster poised like a wand.
"First-years can borrow five books at a time," she said sharply. Her eyes softened a fraction. "But you're new. Mind the rules next time. Go on."
"Thank you, ma'am," Sean murmured, keeping his voice low to avoid her wrath.
Madam Pince nodded, resuming her patrol, her duster flicking at an errant cobweb. Sean returned to his seat, the books' leather covers cool under his fingers. Five or seven, I'll devour them all. Knowledge is power—and I'm not here to play.
Sean returned to his seat, arms laden with five books—Madam Pince's limit—when he spotted Hermione Granger perched at his table, leafing through his neatly stacked homework.
The library's enchanted hush seemed to hum with her curiosity, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the parchment.
Seeing Sean approach, Hermione shot to her feet, her cheeks flushing. About to blurt an explanation, she caught Madam Pince's hawkish glare from across the room and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Sorry, I was sitting here too. I saw your name on the homework and… well, I got curious and took a peek."
Sean's lips quirked into a wry smile. Hermione's earnestness was almost comical, like a niffler caught sniffing gold. He nodded slightly to Pince, a silent apology for the disturbance, then murmured to Hermione, "It's fine. Look all you want—it's just homework, not something that needs to be keep secret."
Hermione nodded, her flush deepening, words caught in her throat. She hovered, as if weighing whether to say more, but Sean settled into his chair, unfazed.
He cracked open Advanced Charm Structures, diving into the precise wand flicks needed for a flawless Lumos.
The library's musty air and faint rustle of turning pages wrapped him in focus, Hermione's presence a minor ripple.
Hermione, taking his cue, sank back into her seat, quill scratching as she tackled her own assignments. Every so often, she'd glance at Sean's parchment, comparing her answers. Her brow furrowed as she noticed the depth in his work—detailed responses to Snape's potion queries, nuanced takes on McGonagall's transfiguration theories.
A first-year shouldn't write like this, she thought, her competitive spark igniting. Inspired, she pushed her completed homework aside, pulled fresh parchment, and rewrote her essays, aiming to match Sean's rigor.
The library emptied as dusk settled, students trickling out to make the Great Hall's dinner hour. Miss it, and you'd be scavenging in the kitchens or starving till breakfast.
Even the OWL-obsessed fifth-years packed up, leaving only a scattering of Ravenclaws and Hermione's determined scribbling.
Sean, satisfied with his progress, tucked two books under his arm for borrowing and returned the rest to Madam Pince, who gave a curt nod.
He turned to Hermione, her quill still flying. "Granger, heading to the Great Hall?"
Hermione paused, tempted, but hesitated. A Slytherin and a Gryffindor strolling in together would raise eyebrows. "I'll stay a bit longer," she said softly. "You go ahead."
"That's fine. Goodbye then."
Sean shouldered his bag and navigated the moving staircases—dodging a trick step with a muttered curse—to the Great Hall.
The vast room buzzed with chatter and clinking cutlery, house banners swaying overhead. Blaise Zabini sat at the Slytherin table, but as Sean approached, he froze.
Blaise's usual swagger was gone, his face clouded with worry, eyes fixed on Sean with an unease that prickled the back of his neck. What's got him spooked? Sean thought.