When Sean returned, the small villa buzzed with conversation again:
"Minerva, let him decide, alright? But first, I want to teach him a thing or two."
"As you wish, Marcus."
With that, the two parted ways.
Sean, caught in a moment of hesitation downstairs, finally headed up.
"Huh? Since when did we get a cat in the house?"
As he left, Sean overheard one last curious question from below.
…
One of the best ways for an old wizard to bond with a young one is by teaching them magic, but Marcus McGonagall realized he might've missed his chance.
"What have you been teaching him?!"
Marcus stormed out of the room, clearly frustrated.
"He's just naturally gifted," Minerva McGonagall replied, sipping her tea. It had been a while since she'd tasted her brother's brew, having been away for so long.
"Honestly…" Marcus muttered, but despite himself, a smile tugged at his lips. "Good thing I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."
He plopped down next to Minerva, watching the steam from his tea fog up the elm-framed windows, blurring the view of the farm outside.
Upstairs, in the spacious attic room:
"Mr. Green?" Bade knocked on the door.
"If you're in there, we're coming in," Sarah whispered.
"You're supposed to ask for permission, Sarah," Zoe corrected.
"Oh, right—if you're there and okay with it—"
Sarah quickly corrected herself, but the room was already empty.
For fourteen out of the fifteen hours the young McGonagalls were awake, they wanted to find Sean. But Sean had slipped out—quietly, in the form of a cat.
The more he used the transformation spell, the deeper his understanding of it became. Now, he could stay a black cat for a solid half-hour. He also noticed his control over his feline body was improving, even surpassing that of an ordinary cat.
"Green?"
Caught off guard, Sean was scooped up. With a quick leap, he shifted back to his wizard form.
"Professor McGonagall."
Here, Professor McGonagall seemed far more relaxed than at Hogwarts, her usual sternness softened. But when she saw him transform back, she looked almost disappointed.
"You can feel it, can't you? A wizard's Animagus form isn't just about turning into an animal. A cat's top speed is about twenty-five miles an hour, but an Animagus can easily hit thirty, sometimes more. The magic doesn't just vanish, child. You need to learn to harness these abilities—they can surprise you."
Professor McGonagall explained gently.
Soon, under a beech tree, two cats appeared. Sean was practicing with the professor, learning to master his animal form.
For instance, cats can slip through tiny gaps—Sean couldn't.
Cats use their whiskers to sense their surroundings—Sean couldn't.
The professor could even outrun cars on the highway, hitting speeds of about thirty miles an hour. Sean, of course, couldn't.
Sunlight spilled across the soil and fields, and a black cat—Sean—lay panting on a pile of straw. The honey-colored light bathed him, warm enough to almost melt him.
Beside him, a tabby cat—Professor McGonagall—watched with elegant poise, her vertical pupils glinting with human-like amusement.
Winter sunlight always felt more precious than in other seasons, casting the fields in a glow reminiscent of the oil paintings in Hogwarts' halls.
Marcus McGonagall didn't dare blink, holding his breath as he hid behind a tractor.
…
Time at the McGonagall farm slipped by quickly.
One morning, an owl swooped through the window, carrying a stack of newspapers—not just The Daily Prophet, but Muggle papers like The Guardian, The Independent, and The Times.
The McGonagalls always included Sean in everything, whether he needed it or not, so he took a moment to skim the papers.
The Times featured a serious front page, with a large photo of fighter jets from the Gulf War and a solemn headline analyzing the situation.
Below, an article discussed how the traditional "orphanage" model was shifting to smaller, family-style care systems. Beneath the polished words, it was clear this was a way for local governments in poorer areas to offload the costly burden of running care facilities. Outsourcing to private companies, they claimed, was the only option under financial and political pressure, even if it meant lower-quality care for profit.
"Hmph—those pig-headed fools don't care one bit," Marcus McGonagall scoffed, clearly outraged.
Sean flipped through the paper and spotted news about Hogsmeade.
With only one day left at the McGonagall farm before returning to Hogwarts, Sean felt time slipping away. He stroked the fluffy head of his silvery-white owl.
"Faster," he whispered.
The owl nuzzled his hand before taking flight. Sean's owl, "Snowy," was far quicker than most. By the time it reached its former owner in a rundown London street, the sun hadn't even hit noon.
"Faster," its old owner had said, echoing Sean's words.
By midday, Sean received a letter from Roland Taylor:
Dear Sean Green,
Child, are you sure about this?
I'll be at King's Cross Station this afternoon, hoping to see you—or hear your refusal.
—Yours faithfully, Roland Taylor
Sean tucked the letter away. The McGonagall farm wasn't far from London, and with a little help from transportation, he could make a quick trip.
So, he set off, the wind whistling past his ears as he rode a carriage. At the McGonagall farm, he had complete freedom in every way.
Croydon District.
The streets here were littered with trash, and a faded sign for "Oak Children's Home" hung crookedly on a peeling door, dust shaking loose in the breeze.
Sean made his way to Diagon Alley, then to King's Cross Station, where he met Ms. Roland Taylor.
He took one last look at the place's worn furnishings before leaving under Ms. Taylor's tear-blurred gaze.
His wallet was empty now, having sold even his Extension Charm bag to scrape together enough money.
It wasn't a hard decision to make, just like the conversation at King's Cross:
"Are you sure, child? If I take over this orphanage, you won't see a penny of profit, and…"
Sean's eyes sparkled as he smiled softly. "I'm just doing what's been done before."
Roland Taylor's vision blurred completely with tears. She hadn't expected hope to bloom from such barren soil.