Chapter 587: The Direct Inquiry
After Headmaster Dumbledore's departure, Hogwarts Castle remained as peaceful as
ever. Sean spent most of his time in the Shack practicing Transfiguration. Since
the Christmas break, his Advanced Transfiguration—specifically the branch of
transforming the "Self" into "Objects"—had finally reached the Master level of
practice.
[You have practiced Soul Transfiguration at a Master standard. Proficiency +300]
[Transfiguration Branches:]
- Magical Transfiguration: Expert (14,500/30,000)
- Material Transfiguration: Expert (1,300/30,000)
- Soul Transfiguration: Master (1,250/3,000,000)
Looking at the three-million-point requirement for the next tier, Sean felt like
he was trying to fill a lake with a thimble. At three hundred points per cast,
he would need to perform ten thousand transformations to reach Legendary status.
Even with his partial understanding of Magical Circuits, Master-level Soul
Transfiguration wasn't something he could just flick off his wrist. At his
current limit of ten sessions a day, it would take a thousand days—roughly three
years—to reach the summit.
In three years, I'll practically be the Headmaster, Sean thought dryly.
Unless... he returned to the Lands Between. Finding Professor Ravenclaw and
understanding why his proficiency had spiked so violently during his last visit
was now his top priority.
As he planned, a name surfaced in his mind: Godric Gryffindor. It felt strange.
He had definitely met the man—the "Teacher"—but why did he feel the urge to call
him that? The details were hazy, but he suspected Rowena would clear up the
confusion soon enough.
For now, he was energized by Dumbledore's promise. Since his return from the
Veil, his "standard" Transfigurations were consistently hitting the [Master]
bracket. At this rate, he would have Material and Magical Transfiguration maxed
out within two months. From there, he would be standing on the threshold of a
power the world hadn't seen in a millennium.
Vibrate—
His Magic Hand Mirror hummed in his pocket. It was an invite from Professor
Slughorn.
[M-Net Channel: The Slug Club] [Horace Slughorn: My lovely children, as the
Christmas holidays draw to a close, our little gathering is set for the final
evening of the festival!]
Sean tucked the mirror away. The message reminded him of the two crystal phials
and the Pensieve Dumbledore had left him. The Headmaster had said they contained
the three most vital perspectives: Slughorn's, Voldemort's, and Sean's own.
Without hesitation, as the morning bells tolled across the grounds, Sean poured
the contents of the first phial into the basin. He felt himself falling, the
world stretching until he landed in the center of a cataclysmic battlefield.
Mist and lightning tore the sky apart. High atop a gargantuan stone titan,
amidst the roar of a supernatural storm, a black cat's fur whipped in the gale.
"In the Lands Between, if you believe you can summon a tidal wave, you become
the storm!"
The whisper was so clear it felt like it was being spoken directly into Sean's
ear. It was a bizarre sensation—watching himself from the outside.
Finally, the new entry on his system panel made sense:
[Special Legendary Transfiguration:] [Storm Guardian: ? (110/?)]
The power Albus warned me to use with caution, Sean mused as he withdrew from
the memory. His eyes flashed with a sharp, green light.
Next was Slughorn.
He poured the second phial into the silver basin. The substance was thick and
slightly coagulated; it seemed even memories could turn peaky if they were
suppressed for too long. Sean dove in, landing in a much younger version of the
Potions office.
A much younger Horace Slughorn sat before him. He lacked the signature bald
head, possessing instead a thick, lustrous head of straw-colored hair and
gingery whiskers. He wasn't quite as round as the man Sean knew, though his
golden waistcoat buttons were already under significant strain.
He sat in a winged armchair, his feet resting on a velvet pouf. He held a small
glass of wine in one hand while the other picked through a box of crystallized
pineapple. Half a dozen boys, aged around fifteen or sixteen, sat on smaller,
harder chairs around him.
Sean recognized Tom Riddle immediately. He was the most relaxed of the group,
his hand draped carelessly over the arm of his chair.
"Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?" Riddle asked.
"Tom, Tom... if I knew, I couldn't tell you," Slughorn chuckled, wagging a
sugar-coated finger at him. He gave a conspiratorial wink. "I must say, I wonder
where you get your intel, boy. You seem to know more than half the faculty."
Riddle offered a shallow, charming smile. The other boys looked on with
undisguised admiration.
"You're a clever one, Tom. You know things you shouldn't, and you certainly know
how to flatter the right people. By the way, thank you for the pineapple—it is
indeed my favorite."
As the boys snickered, something went wrong with the memory. A thick white mist
suddenly flooded the room, obscuring everything. Sean frowned.
Unnoticed by Sean, the Void Rune on his chest began to glow. A sliver of white
vapor seeped from the cracks in the stone, snaking into the Pensieve. The
"faked" mist in the memory seemed to encounter a natural predator; it recoiled,
fleeing toward the edges of the room.
Is the memory clearing? Sean wondered, looking down. He saw nothing of his own
intervention. The white vapor had already vanished.
Slughorn's voice suddenly rang out, unnaturally loud and jagged:
"—You will make mistakes, boy! Mark my words!"
The mist vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. No one in the room seemed to
notice the anomaly. On the desk, a small gold clock chimed eleven.
"Heavens, is that the time?" Slughorn gasped. "Off you go, boys, or we'll all be
in a tizzy. Lestrange, I expect that essay tomorrow or it's detention. You too,
Avery."
The boys filed out, but Riddle lingered. Sean could tell he was stalling,
waiting for a private moment.
"Hurry along, Tom," Slughorn said. "You don't want to be caught out after hours;
you're a Prefect, after all."
"Sir, I wanted to ask you something. About a specific term..."
"Ask away then, boy, ask away..."
"Sir... I wondered if you knew anything about... Horcruxes."
The mist returned instantly. Sean could see neither Slughorn nor Riddle. He knew
this was the point where the memory had been tampered with. He withdrew from the
Pensieve, leaving the "faked" Slughorn to shout his prepared rejection into the
void: "I know nothing of them! Out with you!"
By the time Sean emerged from the dream-trance, it was already mid-afternoon.
His stomach let out a low, traitorous growl. He had missed lunch.
Fortunately, he knew exactly where to go. He headed for the kitchens, where he
ran into Justin.
"Afternoon, Sean," Justin grinned, his eyes crinkling.
"Afternoon," Sean said, his focus entirely on the spread of food. "Thank you for
the cream cakes and tomato soup, Ira. And thank you for the shrimp cocktail and
steak, Ava."
"To serve the Great Green is an honor for Ira!" a small elf in a mismatched
tea-cosy squeaked, standing perfectly straight.
"Oh! Master Green remembered Ira's name..." she whispered to her companion.
The elves watched with maternal delight as the young wizard, normally so
composed, began to stuff his face with a look of pure happiness, momentarily
forgetting his refined manners.
"Sir Cadogan was right," Ira whispered. "He said, 'If a Knight still lives in
this world, it is the young Master Green...'" Her eyes sparkled at the mention
of the knight.
"Headmaster-Elect Green," Ava corrected her, blushing.
Within minutes, a crowd of house-elves had gathered to watch Sean eat. Justin
stood back, enjoying the sight of his "Legendary" friend being completely
swarmed by adoration without even noticing it.
Sean reached for a small, golden tart. It was a Spiced Wine Tart, a delicacy
popular in 13th-century Europe. Being a polymath, Sean's mind automatically
recited the recipe: Four eggs, two yolks, a pint of wine, sugar, cinnamon,
cloves, saffron, mace, galangal, and ginger.
The most interesting part, however, was the wine. In the 13th century, these
tarts were often more intoxicating than the drinks they accompanied.
Sean, holding to his principle of never wasting food, finished the entire
platter.
Suddenly, there were three Justins.
"Justin... when did you master the Gemino charm? Can you teach me?" Sean asked,
his voice a bit slow.
"Sean?" Justin realized something was wrong and hurried over.
"There are even more of you now. Your magic is advancing, Justin. I'm proud of
you," Sean said, scrutinizing the eight identical Justins with great
seriousness.
"Right..." Justin sighed, suppressing a laugh. "I'll share the secret once
you're... sober. For now, you need to lie down."
"I have a meeting," Sean insisted, watching Justin's eight heads bob in unison.
"You're making excellent progress, Justin. But I have a gathering to attend."
"You actually want to go?" Justin asked, surprised.
"Mmm," Sean nodded firmly.
The Slug Club party began shortly after sunset.
"Sean! My dear boy!" Slughorn practically bounced out of his chair as Sean
entered. His velvet-clad stomach seemed to fill half the room. His bald head and
silver whiskers gleamed under the magical lanterns, matching the shine of his
golden buttons.
"Wonderful to see you! And you must be Mr. Finch-Fletchley! And Harry, and
Hermione... and my dear Mr. Longbottom."
Neville gave a jerky nod, looking terrified. Harry and Hermione, used to
Slughorn's boisterous nature, offered polite greetings. The group huddled
together at a table in the center of the room.
"Sean, your face is... flushed?" Hermione whispered, leaning in and casting a
suspicious look at Justin.
Justin just grinned and put a finger to his lips.
Sean felt as though his brain was wrapped in wool. He looked like he was
present, but his mind was currently drifting through the stratosphere. Only as
the party began to wind down did he remember his actual objective.
"Professor Slughorn, may I have a word?"
As the club began to disperse, Sean caught the Professor. Justin quickly grabbed
Hermione and dragged her behind a nearby tapestry to eavesdrop.
"Oho!" Slughorn beamed, his ivory whiskers twitching. He shooed the remaining
students out and led Sean to a quiet corner. "What's on your mind, dear boy? I
could talk shop with you all night. I hear Snape is working on a new theory—I'd
love your thoughts on it. It's important for young minds to stay on the cutting
edge..."
Slughorn's eyes were a mix of warmth and professional calculation.
"It isn't about the theory, Professor," Sean said. He fixed Slughorn with a
steady, emerald gaze.
Slughorn felt a sudden, cold prickle of unease.
"It's about Voldemort," Sean said clearly. "It's about his Horcruxes."
Behind the tapestry, Justin and Hermione's eyes widened in unison.
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