Harry Potter: The Duelist of Hogwarts

Human memory was a fickle, treacherous thing. For Sean, the Harry Potter books and films of his past life were faded echoes, ghosts of a world left behind. Some major plot points were now frustratingly vague, while obscure, trivial details remained with crystal clarity.

He did, however, remember this. Hermione's panicked face, the empty seats where Harry and Ron should have been. The memory was sharp, tied to the distinct, plasticky smell of a pirated movie disc rented on a long-ago summer afternoon. He had been so young then...

"Sean? Sean, are you listening?"

Hermione's voice snapped him back to the present. He looked at her, his expression calm and reassuring. "Hermione, think logically. The Hogwarts Express is a closed system. If you've searched and they're not on it, then they're not on it. But you don't need to panic. For Professor Dumbledore, Harry is... special. Do you really think he'd be barred from school for missing the train? The professors don't take the Express, and they arrive just fine."

His logical demeanor seemed to soothe her frayed nerves. Perhaps it was his academic victory over her last year, or the prestige of his article in The Golden Cauldron, but Hermione had come to afford Sean a level of trust she usually reserved for her closest friends.

Still, trust did not erase worry. "But why did they miss it?" she pressed. "Do you think they could have gotten into an accident?"

Of course, Sean knew exactly what had happened. He knew a frantic house-elf named Dobby, in a misguided attempt to "protect" Harry Potter, had sealed the barrier to the platform. He knew Dobby's panic stemmed from Lucius Malfoy slipping a dark, dangerous artifact into a young student's cauldron—an artifact that would unleash a monster and once again stalk the halls of Hogwarts.

But he couldn't say any of that. His persona was that of a gifted student, not a mystical seer. That was a mask he might have to don in the future, perhaps even inventing a fictional prophet that only he could contact, but not now. Now, he was just a concerned friend.

"Harry and Ron are resourceful," he said gently. "They may have run into some trouble, but I have no doubt they'll find their way back to Hogwarts safe and sound. Besides, there's nothing we can do from a moving train. Panicking now won't help them. We should remain calm and inform the professors as soon as we arrive. What do you say, Hermione?"

His calm reasoning worked. Hermione took a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly. After thanking him, she and Neville departed. As much as she got along with Sean, she wasn't quite comfortable sitting in a compartment full of Slytherins.

The rest of the journey passed without incident. As they disembarked at Hogsmeade station, the familiar, "horseless" carriages awaited. At least, they were horseless to Blaise, Andy, and Jensen.

For Sean, they were not empty.

Skeletal, bat-winged creatures stood patiently in the traces, their reptilian eyes blinking slowly in the twilight. Thestrals. Visible only to those who had witnessed death. Since he had crushed Professor Quirrell's skull with his bare hands, their gaunt, elegant forms had been burned into his sight, a constant, silent reminder of the path he was on.

The luggage was whisked away to the castle by house-elves, and the students climbed into the carriages for the final leg of their journey.

In the Great Hall, surrounded by the cheerful din of reunion, the Slytherin boys fell into easy conversation.

"Sean, I still remember this day last year," Andy said with a nostalgic chuckle. "You kicked Malfoy clear through the doors. Shocked us all. Never thought someone would start a fight before the Sorting even began."

"The moment I saw him put that ponce Malfoy on his arse," Blaise added with a grin, "I knew we'd be good friends."

A short distance away, Malfoy overheard the fragmented conversation. He shot a venomous glare in their direction, the memory of his public humiliation still a fresh, stinging wound. "Damn son of a Squib," he muttered under his breath, his face a mask of cold fury. "You won't be dancing for long."

Sean paid him no mind, his attention fixed on the Sorting Ceremony. As Professor McGonagall called out the names, a familiar one made him sit up straighter.

"Ginny Weasley!"

He watched the small, red-haired girl walk toward the stool. She was prettier in person than her film counterpart, with a vibrant energy about her. But Sean wasn't interested in her appearance. He was interested in what she was carrying, tucked away in her school supplies. Voldemort's diary. A Horcrux.

And with her, Sean knew, came the instrument of his future power. The thought was a sudden, sharp spike in his mind, overriding everything else: I need it.

He watched as the hat shouted "GRYFFINDOR!", his mind already churning with plans and possibilities. He was so lost in thought that another name almost passed him by.

"Luna Lovegood!"

He looked up. The real Luna, like Ginny, was different from the version in his memory. Her hair was a messy, dirty-blonde tangle that fell to her waist. Her eyebrows were so pale they were almost invisible, and her large, protuberant eyes gave her a look of constant, mild surprise. She wasn't ugly; she was even somewhat pretty, but her strange, mismatched attire and dreamy aura made her seem like a being from another world.

"RAVENCLAW!" the hat declared.

As Luna drifted toward her table, Sean's gaze returned to the red-haired girl in the Gryffindor colors. He looked at Ginny Weasley and saw not a student, but a vessel. A container for a piece of the Dark Lord's soul.

Obtaining that diary through normal means was impossible. Which left only one question burning in his mind: to get what he needed, what was he willing to do? What lines was he willing to cross? Was a piece of Voldemort's soul worth a potential ticket to Azkaban?

(End of Chapter)

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