Sean was flat broke again. By the time he got back to the McGees' cozy little villa, the sky had already gone all dim and twilight-y.
Meanwhile, over in the trash-strewn streets of Croydon, Holy See Orphanage was having its first real feast ever.
The new mystery manager, Roland Taylor, stood in the entrance hall, watching the kids tiptoe across the freshly waxed wooden floors.
They were wearing clothes that weren't brand-new but were clean and pressed crisp. The girls had actual silk ribbons in their hair. Nobody was shoving, nobody was crying—even the littlest kid just clutched the hem of his shirt, eyes wide and round like saucers.
One boy stared at the mountain of stew and pudding on his plate, then looked up and asked, "Is this really for me?"
"Of course, sweetheart," Roland Taylor said.
"All of it?"
"All of it."
The kid—Lia, his name was—picked up his fork, set it down, then picked it up again. He did that three whole times, like he was making sure the dream wouldn't vanish if he blinked.
"We wanna know… why?" he said. "If it's gonna be like this from now on, we'll do anything. We'll work real hard."
A couple of the older kids edged closer, nodding like crazy while they listed off all the chores they could handle.
Roland's throat got all scratchy listening to them.
"No need, kids…"
She looked at every little face glowing in the firelight, at the hope burning in their eyes. She knew that look. Someone else used to have it, too.
He never got his miracle. But they did.
"Because… someone came through," she said softly.
…
That night, Holy See Orphanage buried its dead. When the last marker went up and everyone slipped away, the world figured nobody cared, nobody remembered.
But someone did.
Roland Taylor dug the graves herself. Snowflakes melted the second they hit her skin. Skinny kids came running out of the building.
"We can help dig," said the bigger ones.
"We can haul dirt," said the little ones.
By the time the headstones were set, Roland was on her knees—not bowing to anyone, just to every ounce of human suffering and kindness the world's ever known.
…
Back at the McGee villa, it was the last night of the big family get-together.
Sarah had no idea what was up with Grandpa—he'd come back from his trip all quiet and broody. He and Grandma Minerva just kept staring out the window like they were waiting for something. Dust kicked up in the distance, and a carriage rolled closer.
"It's big brother Green!" Sarah whooped, finally sneaking the last cookie. She knew once that cool-but-nice wizard was back, her siblings would quit chasing her around.
"Sarah! You stole it! That was our last one!"
Budd hollered.
The last thing little Sarah said before turning into a cat was, "Cats don't count—that wasn't Sarah."
And just like that, dinner kicked off.
The spread was amazing, same as always, but when Marcus McGee announced that Professor Minerva McGee and Sean were leaving, the mini-McGees screamed loud enough to blow the roof off.
After dinner.
Three pitiful little shapes were already camped outside the upstairs guest room.
They tumbled in just like the first time, landing on a big fluffy cushion transfigured from a stack of books.
Sean sighed. He'd planned to grab some animal-party biscuits in Diagon Alley, but Emily Gert wouldn't give him a single one.
She pointed at the writing on every single cookie: "My dear Mr. Green, each of these is dated. I've only got enough for five days.
"If you, a master alchemist with half a business brain, had any pity, you'd whip up a fresh batch for poor old Gert's shop. Otherwise those angry wizards might turn me into a biscuit.
"Do I look like a biscuit to you?"
Emily practically shoved Sean out the door, but her shopkeeper manners won out in the end.
So he settled for raw ingredients, and the villa's kitchen turned into a warm, busy bakery that night.
[You practiced Mrs. Loris's Biscuits at Journeyman level. Proficiency +10]
[You practiced Mrs. Loris's Biscuits at Journeyman level. Proficiency +10]
…
The three mini-McGees sat cross-legged on the rug, gasping "Whoa—" one minute and "Ooooh—" the next.
Sean swore the room had sprouted three frogs.
Downstairs by the staircase, two grown-ups were murmuring:
"I need to know… is Hogwarts really safe?"
That was Marcus.
"It's the safest place on earth," Professor McGee said calmly.
"I'm giving him this Portkey. You know where it goes, Minerva."
"Marcus, that puts your whole family at risk…"
"We're family. I'm not worried about us. I just don't know if a kid like him can stay out of danger…"
The hallway went quiet for a long, long time.
Next morning, Professor McGee didn't bring her trunk downstairs. Sean was still staring at the Portkey glove in his hand.
A Portkey's any everyday object charmed to whisk whoever touches it to a set spot. Usually something boring so Muggles don't notice. Using one feels like a hook yanking hard behind your belly button.
Hogwarts allows Portkeys. Before the Hogwarts Express, that's how kids got to school without freaking out Muggles.
But the Ministry keeps them on a tight leash—gotta file paperwork, get approval. Using an unregistered one? Remus once said, "It'll cost you more than your life."
Still, Dumbledore waltzed right past Ministry officials with one to get to Hogwarts.
Some things matter more than rules.
As Sean turned the glove over, a slip of paper fluttered out:
[Keep it somewhere you can grab fast. It'll get you out of danger.]
Under the beech tree, Marcus shouted goodbye while the mini-McGees bawled their eyes out.
Nobody actually said "see you later." By the time the dust settled, Sean and the professor were back on Diagon Alley's cobblestones.
This time, Sean didn't even bother counting Knuts—he'd lost his whole money pouch.
His robe pockets were empty, but somehow he still felt weighed down, standing there in the sunlight.
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