"Sir, please—!"
Peeves zipped around, finally cornered.
"I messed up, sir! Have mercy on old Peeves just this once—!"
The Bloody Baron stared him down, cold and unyielding, until Peeves' dramatic wails petered out. Hesitantly, the poltergeist ventured, "That little wizard—oh—Green!"
The Baron kept his icy gaze fixed on him. After a long moment, he drifted away.
Peeves perked up instantly, bouncing and humming as he floated upstairs:
"Oh—a little wizard, don't mess with him—!"
As he went, he yanked at the stairwell carpet, hoping to trip someone up.
---
In the corridor, Sean knocked on the Transfiguration office door. A soft, almost tender "Come in, child" answered.
He pushed the door open, and with a flick of Professor McGonagall's wand, scattered letters leapt back into their envelopes.
"Good afternoon, Professor," Sean said.
He set his notebook on the desk. For a teacher, nothing beat seeing a student improve, so Sean diligently recorded his insights and progress. As expected, McGonagall seemed pleased.
December brought heavier snow. From the window, the view was pure magic.
A beetle, with a whoosh, transformed into an owl. The owl soared out the window, wings slicing through the snowy wind, clutching a scroll of parchment. It vanished from Sean and McGonagall's sight.
Moments later, it swooped back through another window, hooting softly, the letter in its claws dusted with snow.
[You've practiced advanced Transfiguration at a skilled standard. Proficiency +300.]
Sean stroked the owl's feathers, then waved his wand. The owl shrank back into a beetle, buzzing its transparent wings toward the fireplace.
He jotted down more notes. Transfiguration came naturally to him.
His eyes sparkled as he waved his wand again.
[You've practiced advanced Transfiguration at a skilled standard. Proficiency +300.]
[You've practiced advanced Transfiguration at a skilled standard. Proficiency +300.]
He didn't notice McGonagall's hand trembling slightly as she clutched a letter, watching his spellwork pile up.
"I should've known…" she murmured, her voice faint, echoing the dimness in her eyes she kept hidden.
Sean, as always, never gave her reason to worry.
Sipping honey-lemon tea in the Transfiguration office, Sean's exhaustion faded.
After recovering, his fatigue wasn't as bad as before, and he bounced back quickly.
"Living-to-living" Transfiguration at the skilled level was now second nature. Next, he'd follow Professor Tyra's book on inscribing runes to complete his preparations.
Even better, Leon, a senior student, had accidentally given him a sample to work from.
Sean's mind wandered to the Weasleys, probably peddling their Canary Creams… which explained why Bruce had ended up in a feathery mess.
Leaving the Transfiguration classroom, Sean decided to hit the library for some ancient runes texts. He'd finished Tyra's book, but it felt like something was missing.
Even Tyra hadn't set him a huge goal—his Howler's strength was proof of that.
But McGonagall seemed to expect more, letting him choose his own practice project.
What Sean didn't know was that even the Weasley twins' Canary Creams had McGonagall's help with the rune inscriptions.
Sean? He planned to do it all himself.
As he stepped into the corridor, the Fat Lady and Violet swooped over, eyeing him with cautious, hopeful looks that threw him off.
"Fat Lady, Violet," he greeted politely.
"Oh—oh, of course! Young Green, you and Roland Tyra—no, little McGonagall…" The Fat Lady stammered, flustered.
"Move it, you daft portrait!" Violet yanked her away.
Roland Tyra?
That was the second time Sean had heard that name.
Tyra…
He froze, lost in thought.
After a moment, he carefully pulled a letter from his bag, a wilted violet pressed into one corner.
His memories drifted to last winter—nothing too remarkable.
Just three months bedridden, dragging his frail body through the cold.
Sometimes, sheer willpower could keep a dying body going.
Three months later, a ding from the panel, and he could finally get out of bed.
The kind old volunteer lady had looked after him then.
December evening light glinted off McGonagall's square glasses, mingling with the dying fireplace embers.
Her hand lowered, the letter she'd just read trembling between her fingers, its ink gleaming in the firelight.
A quill rested by Sean's open notebook, her annotations half-finished. Her gaze lingered on a framed photo at the desk's corner—something she'd never expected, never understood…
Outside, fiercer snow swirled, the Scottish Highlands' wind howling past the castle towers.
She removed her glasses, pressing her fingertips to her nose. When she looked up, her usually sharp eyes shimmered with rare tears, the firelight fracturing into soft, painful sparks.
The warm desk was nearly bare, save for a silver cat figurine and stacks of letters.
The letters, neither short nor long, weighed heavy as stones crashing through the snow.
[I'm so sorry, Ms. McGonagall. You know the orphanage doesn't bother with a child that sick—it doesn't suit the masters' interests.
For three months, he was good as gold. God bless him, he pulled through. Madam, I don't mean to pry, but he's a sweet boy. If you're not adopting him, please don't send him back to the orphanage. I can't do much—just fifty pounds and a warm coat enclosed. Please accept them.
Five pounds will cover a ticket to St. Katherine's Docks. The other five, please pass to him.
He told my mother that with a thick coat and five pounds, he could survive.
I'm at a loss for words.
I'm poor, humble, plain, but when my soul passes through the grave, my heart will weigh lighter than a feather.
May God place all this in his hands.]
---