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HP: I have a Proficiency Panel - 136
🕑 Added 2025-12-18 16:34:13 +0000 UTCChapter 136: Two Days
As Shawn passed by, Malfoy and Harry were rolling in the snow in a tangled heap, while Ron, Crabbe and Goyle were grappling nearby, trading punches and kicks and shrieking in pain.
Without a word, Shawn summoned two snowmen and separated them in moments.
Malfoy shuddered. He did not look at Shawn, only gave a quiet snort, then left with Goyle and Crabbe.
As for Harry, he felt even more like a baboon now, this time without even a wand.
Shawn watched Harry and Ron for a short while. The two of them kept their heads down and for some reason felt faintly guilty.
They did not look hurt, and there was no need for the hospital wing, so Shawn simply walked away.
But in Harry and Ron’s eyes, it looked like Shawn was disappointed.
They were wizards, after all. Even before the Green Notes became popular, Shawn had already given them notes, far more detailed than the Compendium.
And them? One spent all his time training for Quidditch, a game Shawn didn’t even like. The other was obsessed with Wizard Chess. Neither of them had learnt a single respectable spell.
“Harry… do you think we have no chance at all now?” Ron could not even hold onto a smile this time.
“I think so…” Harry said.
“Harry, Ron, good morning,” Justin said brightly. He could not stand it anymore. He popped up out of the falling snow in the courtyard, blinked, and added, “If you want to know the outcome, why not go and ask yourselves?”
…
As Shawn walked along the corridor, he half expected Fred or George to pop out from somewhere, but it did not happen.
So, no longer willing to wait, Shawn headed outside. From occasionally watching Harry, he knew Gryffindor had another training session that afternoon.
By a stained‑glass window on the third floor, Professor McGonagall watched the young wizard leave footprints in the snow, alone.
Behind her, a few Ravenclaws were sneaking about.
“Little wizard! Foolish little wizard!”
Mr Owl appeared so suddenly that they stumbled and fled at once.
Mr Owl gave the wizards led by Roger a look, his eyes showing a strangely human sort of disappointment and confusion.
And so, that evening, the eagle‑shaped door knocker to Ravenclaw Tower seemed to “malfunction”, firing off several difficult riddles in a row and leaving a handful of Ravenclaws shivering outside in the wind for ages.
At the Quidditch pitch, Shawn had already reached the changing room door.
Two tongues of red flame abruptly flared out of the snow.
“The moment we saw you come to the Quidditch pitch,” Fred burst out of the snow, a badge in his hand, “we knew a genius had appeared again in the world of Alchemy!”
George looked deeply moved. “Truly.”
“Fred, damn it, where is my prefect badge?” an extremely irritated voice snapped, and someone stepped out of the changing room, clothes neat and perfect.
It was Percy Weasley, Gryffindor prefect, clutching a book titled “How Prefects Gain Power.”
He was rigidly rule‑bound and loved shouting at anyone who broke them. Ron said he was a study maniac with a vanity problem and absolutely no flexibility.
With Percy glaring, Fred curled his lip and yelled, “I’m George, Percy. Did ‘How Prefects Gain Power’ not teach you how to tell us apart? What a tragedy.”
He dragged out the last word and shot Shawn a quick, exaggerated wink.
“Fine, George,” Percy roared. “Then tell me where my prefect badge is!”
“That was a joke. I’m Fred, obviously,” Fred said at once, grinning. “You’re slipping, Perce. All that reading and you still lose your badge?”
“Give. It. Back.”
Percy lunged for him.
Fred whooped and bolted, laughing as Percy tore after him around the changing room, bellowing about responsibility and respect while snow and mud flew everywhere.
George and Shawn watched them. Then George pulled a badge from his pocket.
“I do not understand. Does a prefect badge really need polishing that many times? Run west, Fred!” he shouted.
Fred instantly changed direction.
“Oh, right. About the floating quill,” George began.
Before he could finish, Shawn took out the alchemical item he had made.
“I knew you had talent just like ours. Not bad. Not bad at all,” George said, blinking as he tucked the floating quill away in his bag, together with the prefect badge.
“To do it in two weeks, honestly. You were born for Alchemy.
“Right, you have a notebook or a diary or something, yes? You can write now. Not the proper alchemical attitude, I know, but you did not even know what Alchemy was.
“Professor Tyra will definitely be interested in you. We just need to arrange a few chance encounters…”
Shawn handed over his notes. George patted him on the shoulder, wearing an expression that said, Yes, we are the same sort.
“Professor Tyra, who is she?” Shawn asked.
"Oh, great question," George said. "Professor Tyra’s on the International Alchemical Association council. She’s also the most mysterious professor in the school. Nobody sees her except sixth- and seventh-years."
He broke off mid-flow, eyes flicking past Shawn.
"And the important part is—Fred, right!"
George suddenly yelled toward the changing room, warning his twin, who was still playing hide-and-seek with Percy around the door.
A moment later, Percy came marching over, furious, hair and robes slightly askew.
"Not good. Time to go, Green," George muttered, and vanished in a blur. As he ran he called back over his shoulder, voice carrying across the snow, "Don’t worry, we’ll come find you—Magnificent Green!"
"Magnificent… Green?" Percy repeated, still livid, but the word clearly caught his interest. He stopped dead and looked Shawn over from head to toe.
"Oh, Mr Green," Percy said, hastily smoothing his expression into something warm and polite.
Green was not simple, Percy thought. He had passed the flying test and written the wildly popular Green Notes; Percy had read them, and even he had to admit the History of Magic section was excellent. Whether Green ended up a Quidditch star or some future academic authority, he was worth treating pleasantly.
"Hello, Mr Weasley," Shawn replied politely.
"Oh, call me Percy," Percy said, voice turning warm and approachable.
Outside the changing room, the oak door sat half‑ajar, warm lamplight and faint voices slipping out. At the edge of the snow, Fred had an arm slung over George’s shoulders.
“I am going to throw up lunch. Call me ‘Perce’‑y, why do you not?” Fred said, pulling a face.
For once, George did not answer.
Fred tilted his head and only saw George staring blankly at a notebook.
“The Magnificent Green Notes?” Fred cried theatrically, and when George still did not react, Fred’s expression turned serious.
“Two days. Barely managed to make a floating quill…
“That is strange, George. Is this English?”
