The Hogwarts Express slowed to a stop at Hogsmeade Station, its whistle piercing the evening air.
A voice crackled through a charmed loudspeaker, instructing first-years to don their black robes, grab their wands, and leave their luggage behind.
Sean adjusted his robes, tucking his ebony wand into his sleeve, and followed the stream of students off the train.
In the dim light, a towering figure loomed ahead—Hagrid, his bushy beard and lantern casting a warm glow as he called for the first-years to follow him toward the Black Lake.
The path to the lake was smooth but chilly, the late summer air thick with dampness. Stars glittered above, but the darkness and lake's mist made the little wizards shiver.
They huddled together, their footsteps crunching on the gravel as they reached a wooden dock lined with small boats, each bobbing gently under flickering oil lamps.
Sean stood among the crowd, his breath misting in the cool air.
Across the dock, he spotted Miles Bulstrode, smirking alongside Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, and a few other pure-bloods. Their sleek robes and haughty glances marked them as a clique, bound by shared elitism.
Sean's eyes met Draco's, and the blond boy sneered, his expression dripping with disdain. No words were needed—the message was clear: You don't belong.
Sean stretched, unfazed, and turned his attention to the boats.
With only a few dozen first-years, boarding was quick. Hagrid's booming voice echoed over the water. "Listen up! No more'n four to a boat! If it's full, wait for the next one, or you'll be swimmin' in the lake—and it's colder than a Dementor's breath!"
Sean claimed a spot on the first boat, settling onto the worn wooden seat.
Kulkan's cage, charmed to stay dry, rested by his feet, her ruby eyes glinting in the lamplight. He'd barely steadied himself when a yelp rang out behind him, followed by a thud. Someone crashed into his back, nearly sending him tumbling into the icy water.
Sean caught the boat's edge, steadying himself, and turned to see who'd bowled him over. Before he could speak, Hagrid's gruff voice cut through. "Harry! You alright, lad?"
A skinny boy with messy black hair and round glasses scrambled to his feet, nodding sheepishly at Sean. "I'm fine, Hagrid," he called back. "Just tripped. I'm okay now."
"Be careful, Harry," Hagrid warned. "Don't go fallin' in the lake."
Harry rubbed his head, then faced Sean, his green eyes earnest. "Sorry, I tripped and bumped into you. You okay?"
Sean waved it off, a faint smile tugging at his lips. So this was Harry Potter, the wizarding world's golden child, already stumbling into trouble.
"I'm fine," he said. "Just a nudge. You two should watch your step, though—the lake's not exactly inviting."
"Thanks," Harry said, settling into the boat as another boy—red-haired, lanky, unmistakably a Weasley—clambered aboard.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Harry. What's your name?"
"You can call me Sean," he replied, keeping his tone light but guarded. Harry's innocence was almost charming, but Sean had no plans to get chummy.
Hogwarts was Harry's stage for chaos—trolls, dark wizards, you name it. Sean wanted no part of that spotlight. A polite acquaintance was enough.
"I'm Ron," the redhead piped up, squeezing in beside Harry. His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward. "I saw Malfoy glaring at you earlier.
Did you tick him off or something?"
Sean shrugged, his expression neutral. "No idea. Probably doesn't like that my parents are Squibs. Thinks I'm beneath him."
Ron's jaw dropped, his freckled face a mix of shock and curiosity.
He'd clearly pegged Sean as a wizard-born kid, not someone from a non-magical family. Harry, still new to the wizarding world, looked puzzled. "What's a Squib?"
Sean considered for a moment, choosing his words carefully.
"It's a term for people born to wizard families but without magic. In the magical world, it's common enough, though some—especially pure-bloods—use it as an insult.
They think anyone without a wand is lesser, even if they're tied to magic by blood."
Harry frowned, processing the explanation, while Ron's eyes widened, clearly rattled by Sean's calm honesty. Most wizards, Sean knew, carried a quiet superiority over non-magical folk. Pure-bloods like Malfoy were the loudest about it, but even others looked down on Squibs or Muggle-borns, whether they admitted it or not.
Sean didn't bother sugarcoating it—Harry and Ron would learn soon enough.
He fell silent, letting the boat's gentle sway and the lake's soft ripples fill the moment. The Black Lake stretched vast and dark, its surface shimmering under the oil lamps' glow. In the distance, Hogwarts Castle loomed, its turrets piercing the starry sky like a dream made solid. Sean's heart stirred, but he kept his focus sharp.
Wonder was fine, but he wasn't here to gawk.
One by one, the boats glided to a hidden dock beneath the castle, nestled in a rocky cove. Hagrid led the first-years ashore, their shoes scuffing on the damp stone.
They passed through a boathouse, its air thick with the scent of wood and water, and climbed a winding, slippery staircase.
At last, they emerged into a torchlit antechamber just off the Great Hall, its stone walls echoing with the hum of the castle's magic.
A stern witch stood waiting, her emerald robes and tight bun commanding instant silence. Minerva McGonagall's sharp gaze swept over the group, quieting their nervous chatter like a charm.
Sean stood near Harry and Ron, noting the awe on their faces. McGonagall was every bit the no-nonsense professor he'd expected.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said, her voice clear and firm. "I am Professor McGonagall. The opening banquet will begin shortly, but first, you will be sorted into one of four houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin."
Her eyes lingered on a few disheveled students—Ron's crooked tie, Harry's untucked robe—and she paused. "You have a moment to tidy yourselves before the Sorting Ceremony."
With that, she turned and swept out, leaving the first-years to their whispers and adjustments. Ron started rambling to Harry about the Sorting, his voice a mix of excitement and nerves. Sean's gaze drifted to Neville Longbottom, clutching a toad nearby. Something nagged at him. In the stories, Neville's toad, Trevor, went missing before the Sorting, only to be found later.
But there Trevor was, snug in Neville's hands, unlost.
Sean's brow furrowed. His presence at Hogwarts—a new student, a wildcard—had shifted things. Neville's toad was safe, a small change.
Yet other events held firm: Draco's sneer, Harry's stumble, the pure-blood clique's arrogance. Sean was tangled in their orbit now, caught in Malfoy's scorn alongside Harry. A spectator no longer, he'd have to tread carefully.