The good news was that Sean had started preparing Christmas presents.
The bad news was that he hadn't seen Professor McGonagall for two days; even Professor Snape was nowhere to be found.
He guessed Professor McGonagall must be busy with that matter—but what about Snape?
For the first time, Sean went to the dungeons at the appointed time and didn't find the professor.
Where had he gone?
Only Sir Cadogan was still outside the dungeon, trying to mount his pony, his face black-and-blue; Sean had no idea when he'd been hurt.
"Oh! Little Green—how thrilling. I think there'll be good news this Christmas, yes?
"Of course the better news is, I persuaded a certain foolish fellow to do his penance in front of Gryffindor Tower—but now! Ha! At least he won't have to go to Ravenclaw Tower."
Sir Cadogan strutted off, full of himself.
Only the Fat Lady and Lady Violet knew what the knight meant.
It had been another night of lightning and storm; a single cry of "Mudblood" had shattered every possibility for two witches and wizards.
The knight, as furious as he'd been the night before, had charged into the dungeon and shouted a numb soul awake.
The waiting and the apology at the foot of Gryffindor Tower were perhaps among the bravest things that numb man had ever done.
The Fat Lady, biting into an apple, stuck out a foot to trip the knight and was still fuming: "It's so wretched—he, he, how could he ever compare to little McGonagall…"
Seeing her anger, Lady Violet could only chime in, "Don't fret, my lady—remember? He's someone the knight himself acknowledged…"
…
In many ways the Ministry of Magic is like a ramshackle troupe—especially when it comes to orphaned Muggle-born witches and wizards.
After a day of inquiries, on the second day Minerva McGonagall discovered—to her astonishment—that things were governed by Muggle rules.
For wizarding orphans born in the Muggle world with unclear status (especially Muggle-borns), before they are discovered by the wizarding world, they are temporarily under the care of the Muggle social system.
And even after discovery, they remain under the Muggle system; the Ministry only enforces the International Statute of Secrecy to prevent exposure of wizarding society.
If they're lucky, a young witch or wizard may find relatives in the magical world; if unlucky—like the young Tom—then better to stay quietly at Hogwarts.
There have been almost no cases of witches or wizards adopting Muggle-born wizarding orphans.
On a rubbish-strewn street in Croydon.
A look that was usually stern on Minerva McGonagall's face now held a trace of pent-up tension.
The head of the Hollesey orphanage broke out in a cold sweat; the "professor" before her radiated a pressure that was simply overwhelming.
Clad in green robes, eyes deep and arresting—at times the matron even felt as if her memories were being read.
"You mean this is a very long process?" McGonagall asked, uneasy on instinct.
"Of course, Madam. We'd be happy to let him leave with you today, but the application, probation period, and final adoption order will take at least a month."
Professor McGonagall left. She could not wait that long; if the Ministry failed to pass her proposal, then a few harmless Confundus Charms would be her answer.
Snow piled up again at Hollesey; the children gathered round the hearth. Although there were hardly any logs burning, the fire blazed up fiercely after the figure in green robes departed.
Sallow-faced boys and girls crowded close.
"Oh—it's the Christmas wish I made!" a little girl cried in delight. "Father Christmas came—he lit the fire!"
The head of Hollesey snorted outside the door—and failed to notice the sallow, hook-nosed man with a thunderous face appear before her. This time, her memories really did seem to be read.
And so the figure hurrying toward the Ministry went from one to two.
Leaving the head of Hollesey standing there, blank-faced, wondering if her eyes had deceived her…
By the hearth—
"It's Father Christmas!"
The room, forever smelling of disinfectant, was heavy with stale air. In that dim place, the appearance of a white-bearded old man astonished the children.
"Oh—yes. Yes indeed," said the long-bearded wizard with a smile.
"Can you grant our Christmas wishes?" a little boy piped up, eyes bright. "I… I'd like some coal…"
"Father Christmas" chuckled. "But of course. A fine Christmas wish—one that ought to be granted…"
And there, at the edge of the fireplace, real coal began to pile up.
"Jesus!" "Brilliant!"
Amid the children's excited cries, the white-bearded old man's smile grew ever kinder.
His deep blue eyes gazed into the distance.
By rights he shouldn't be here, but forgive an old man his curiosity—
Ah—he hadn't seen anything so interesting in decades…
Of course, that wasn't the only lively place.
In the last week before Christmas, the school grew louder and more festive by the day.
Rumors about the Christmas feast flew everywhere, most of which Sean didn't believe—such as the one that Dumbledore had bought eight hundred barrels of Madam Rosmerta's spiced mead from the Three Broomsticks.
Some teachers, like Professor Flitwick, seeing that students were obviously distracted, simply stopped lecturing.
He allowed them to play games in his Wednesday class, while he spent most of the time chatting with Sean about fine points of spell theory.
Everyone in the Hope Nook could come listen then; only now did Harry and Ron realize that Professor Flitwick knew about the Hope Nook.
Seeing everyone making progress, his eyes crinkled with delight.
Other teachers, of course, still stuck to their duties.
Professor Binns, for example, could not be distracted by anything; he continued plodding through his stack of notes on eccentrics—students surmised that since even death hadn't kept him from teaching, a trifle like Christmas was hardly going to make him lose focus.
One afternoon in the Great Hall, Sean and the others again heard the rumor about the spiced mead. Perhaps because Headmaster Dumbledore was at once so dignified and so kind, nobody wanted to miss any chance to weave a tale involving him, and the rumor spread and spread.
Sean was thinking about the howler he needed to finish that afternoon and wondering what his alchemical aptitude would turn out to be, so he paid it no mind.
Ron, on the other hand, flushed bright red. "I could drink five tankards!"
After he left the Hope Nook he found he could tell a lie—and it felt rather good.
It felt like when he played Wizard Chess with Hermione; only then did Hermione ever lose, and Ron and Harry agreed it did her good.
When Hermione lost, she would huff, clutch her book, and leave; but when Sean lost, it was different—he would say gently,
"Ron, you're really good at this."
Which made Ron go red with excitement.
~~~
Patreon(.)com/Bleam
— Currently You can Read 120 Chapters Ahead of Others!