novelraw Chapter 488 489: Black on the Loose
Chapter 488 489: Black on the Loose
The Knight Bus accelerated with such violent force that Harry was thrown
backward onto a bed. He struggled to sit up and peered out the dark window,
watching the street blur past. They were already in a completely different part
of the country.
Stan Shunpike rubbed his eyes and watched Harry's stunned face with an amused
grin. "We were right 'ere before Mr. Green signaled us to stop," he said,
gesturing vaguely at the darkness. "Where was it again, Ern? Somewhere in
Wales?"
"Ar," said Ernie Prang from the driver's seat.
"How come the Muggles don't hear the bus?" Harry asked, adjusting his glasses.
"Them!" Stan said dismissively. "Don' listen properly, do they? Don' look
properly, either. Never notice nuffin, they don'."
"Best go wake up Madam Marsh, Stan," Ernie called out. "We'll be in Abergavenny
in a minute."
Stan marched past Harry's bed and headed up the narrow wooden staircase to the
upper decks. Harry remained staring out the window, his heart still hammering
with a mix of nerves and adrenaline. He looked toward the front of the bus.
There sat Sean, looking perfectly composed and elegant despite the erratic
swaying of the bus. He was busy scribbling in a thick volume—his latest work,
The Wizarding Magical Annals.
Harry didn't fully grasp the complexity of the theories Sean was writing, but he
knew one thing: if that book ever hit the shelves at Green's Bookshop, he'd be
first in line to buy three copies. A signed edition would be even better.
It had become common knowledge across Great Britain: Green's Bookshop sold the
best instructional series in the wizarding world. Whether you were Muggle-born,
half-blood, or a pure-blood elitist, Sean's books offered a window into the
past, present, and—staggeringly—even the predicted future of magic.
More importantly, Sean had a knack for making magic accessible. Whether you were
a natural prodigy or a struggling "dunderhead," you could learn from his texts.
Harry often wondered how someone like Sean—a wizard whose talent was already
being compared to Dumbledore's—could possibly understand the struggles of an
average student so clearly.
In the preface of Green's Notes, Sean had written:
"I have faced the same hurdles as any wizard; I have pondered the same doubts...
I write these books so that those just embarking upon the vast, trackless ocean
of magic might find their bearings. The primary duty of knowledge is its own
survival; wisdom that cannot be passed down is no wisdom at all. My
contributions may be a mere spark, and history itself may be a pile of ash...
but deep within the ash, there is still warmth."
Watching Sean now, Harry felt a strange sense of duality. Sean was right there,
yet he felt like a figure out of a legend. To Harry, Sean was the best teacher
he'd ever had—all-knowing yet patient. If you didn't understand a spell, the
book would offer a different perspective. If you still didn't get it, the next
page would gently say: "The previous method has its flaws; that is the author's
fault. Let us try a simpler approach."
As the bus thundered through the night, Sean found himself reflecting on Stan's
earlier greeting. What started as a way to organize his own thoughts had evolved
into a lifeline for struggling Hogwarts students—and a tidy source of Galleons.
Now, his notes were actually changing the landscape of the wizarding world.
Details that prodigies took for granted were being laid bare; abstract concepts
were given form; vague incantations were broken down into manageable steps.
He looked up as Stan came back downstairs, leading a pale, greenish-looking
witch in a traveling cloak.
"This way, Madam Marsh," Stan said cheerfully. Ernie slammed on the brakes,
sending all the beds sliding a foot toward the front of the bus. Madam Marsh
clutched a handkerchief to her mouth and scrambled off the bus. Stan tossed her
bag after her and slammed the doors shut.
BANG!
They were off again, flying down a narrow country lane while trees jumped out of
the way to let them pass.
"Mr. Green," Stan said, approaching Sean with an uncharacteristic air of
bashfulness.
"Mr. Shunpike," Sean looked up with a smile. "Do you find the section on
Standard Charms to be in need of any revisions?"
"Oh—blimey, no! It's the most perfect book there is!" Stan said, puffing out his
chest.
"Please," Sean's emerald eyes searched Stan's face with a piercing, yet kind,
intensity. "Tell me what you really think."
Stan lowered his voice, looking embarrassed. "Well... I can't seem to get the
'Expert' level spells down, Mr. Green. I suppose I'm just a bit thick..."
"It isn't a matter of your talent, Stan," Sean said suddenly. "That's the
section on Non-verbal Spells. I haven't finished writing that part yet."
A brief, awkward silence followed. Stan stared at the young wizard, words
seemingly caught in his throat. Eventually, he just nodded sheepishly and
retreated.
To distract himself, Stan whipped out a copy of the Daily Prophet. On the front
page, a sunken-faced man with long, matted hair slowly blinked at the camera.
Harry leaned over to get a better look. "It's him!" Harry gasped. "I saw him on
the Muggle news!"
Stan turned the paper back to the front page. "Sirius Black, o' course he's on
the Muggle news, Neville. Where've you been?" Stan gave a superior sort of laugh
and handed the front page to Harry. "You ought to read the papers more,
'Neville'."
Harry held the paper up to the candlelight and read:
BLACK STILL AT LARGE
The Ministry of Magic confirmed today that Sirius Black, arguably the most
infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban, remains at large. "We are doing
everything in our power to recapture Black," said Minister for Magic Cornelius
Fudge this morning, "and we urge the magical community to remain calm."
Members of the International Confederation of Wizards have criticized Fudge for
informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis. "Well, really, I had no
choice," said an irritated Fudge. "Black is a madman. He is a danger to anyone
who crosses him, wizard or Muggle alike. I have the Prime Minister's assurance
that he will not reveal Black's true identity. After all—who would believe him
if he did?"
While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a metal wand used by
Muggles to kill one another), the wizarding community lives in fear of a repeat
of the massacre twelve years ago, when Black killed thirteen people with a
single curse.
Harry looked into Sirius Black's dark, shadowed eyes. They were the only part of
his gaunt face that seemed alive. Harry had never seen a vampire, but he had
seen pictures of them in Defense Against the Dark Arts; Black's skin was so
white he looked exactly like one.
"Sean," Harry whispered nervously. "We won't... we won't run into him, will we?"
Sean didn't answer immediately. He seemed deeply focused on his book.
"Scary lookin' customer, isn't he?" Stan asked, watching Harry read.
"He killed thirteen people?" Harry said, his voice trembling as he handed the
paper back. "With just one curse?"
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