In the Great Hall, at the staff table.
Dumbledore's silver beard flickered in the candlelight; when an owl dropped a bag of sweets onto a Gryffindor's head, the eyes behind his half-moon spectacles blinked with delight.
As he twinkled, the Transfiguration prodigy at his side slipped away—and his smile deepened.
The greatest white wizard of the age laced his fingers and murmured, "Oh, that's nice, isn't it? People always find that at Hogwarts, those who need help… get it."
The Hall's hubbub had nothing to do with Sean. He held an envelope and walked the empty corridor. Armor gleamed; the lively owl perched on his shoulder hooted and pointed him down a path he'd walked many times.
He didn't notice the Lady of the Wheatfield's painting, already crowded with faces. The golden field rolled under the sun like a sea kissed by light; among the heads of grain figures held blue cornflowers and whispered:
"Sir, I'm so excited. The boy worried himself enough to twist those sharp brows into a duck egg today," said Lady Violet, clutching the hem of her gown, watching the boy and his owl pass. For a moment she forgot to breathe.
"Lady Violet—do help me; my wounded hand can't reach my eyes," Sir Cadogan said, dismounting his pony, eyes bright.
"You all saw the letter?! I can't believe—do you know, I've watched little McGonagall for fifty years!" the Fat Lady began—only to be hushed by Sir Cadogan: "Now, now, my dear lady—go watch your big cat. A knight's eye is for young Green."
…
"Professor?" Sean knocked.
He was nervous. He didn't fear Snape, nor did he hold anything against Quirrell—though the two-headed act was a bit much. But McGonagall… he would never forget the owl that crashed through a window—this very one on his shoulder—or her help.
The orphanage bed had always smelled of damp; the sense that death could come at any time was no comfort. It made the day McGonagall took him from that place impossible to forget.
He pushed the door open. The Transfiguration office carried sandalwood and parchment. Fire roared in the grate; beside it, a long, wrapped object lay secure.
McGonagall's dark-green robes swayed; a few silver strands gleamed the tiniest gold in the firelight. For once, no severity in her brow; her voice was warm and steady.
"Mr. Green. Come here."
He jogged over obediently, not seeing the deeper worry in her eyes. Her wand gave the smallest flick; the long parcel floated to the desk.
"Open it."
Sean held his breath; his mind went briefly blank.
On the desk, in the wrappings he carefully untied, lay a magnificent broom—sleek lines, glossy sheen. A rosewood handle; a tail bound in straight, perfect twigs. At the top, gold letters gleamed:
Nimbus 2000.
"I… don't quite understand, Professor."
Even in the face of the temptation, he didn't leap or shout; he asked softly, carefully.
He wasn't a Gryffindor, nor the Chosen One. Three months ago he'd been an orphan clinging to life in Hollisay, waiting to get well enough to run. McGonagall was stern but kind, but—did he deserve this fierce kindness? A Nimbus 2000 wasn't a beater broom; it cost over 600 Galleons in Diagon Alley.
"By Arthur's crown—!" Sir Cadogan nearly thumped Sean on the head from his frame—until the Fat Lady grabbed his arm. "Dear Sir, how could you ruin such a moment—"
Firelight painted McGonagall's face; she eased the broom aside, and the tenderness in her eyes erased Sean's confusion.
"Come here, child."
Suddenly, he was being hugged. A clean, calming fragrance wrapped him up, bewilderment and warmth folding over him. He saw her emerald brooch with a scattering of stars glint, and heard her whisper:
"Mr. Green—no studies today. Tell me about your days at Hogwarts."
…
In the corridor a knight led two ladies across the golden field, all three smiling.
"Such stern faces—how they can burst with a surprising warmth. Worth every century," the Fat Lady said, dabbing her eyes.
"Hmph." Sir Cadogan's mustaches curled. "Cowards—so timid even happiness terrifies them," he grumbled, voice trailing off.
Holding the broom, Sean made for the Quidditch pitch. It was charmed light as a feather in his arms.
"Over here, Mr. Green," Madam Hooch called, spotting the gleaming broom at once, nodding in satisfaction. "Nice new broom. Get a feel for her—we're simulating the test today."
Sean nodded and swung on. Only then did Hooch's earlier hints sink in. He floated up without asking—his usual caution loosened a little.
Hooch's hawk eyes tracked him, a hint of pride there.
The test had plenty in it: threading rings, circling the posts, dodging charmed golf balls—all in thirty minutes. Hooch held him to the strictest standard.
"Mr. Green—turn! Climb! Stay focused—adjust your form. Only fluency keeps you safe from Hogwarts' too-frequent flying accidents!"
…
In a room lit by a roaring fire, a tall witch watched the pitch. "Minerva—you haven't cared so much about a child in a long while," said the kindly wizard with the long white beard, eyes bright with mischief as he glanced at a painting.
Wrinkles still pressed McGonagall's robe. Her voice was strict—and gentle. The two braided together seamlessly. She looked as if at a seed—or a shoot finally breaking the earth.
"You don't understand, Albus," she said, the faintest smile there. "He smiled, just a little, and told me so much. And I realized—I've been waiting a very long time for that."