"R-right… right."
A few wild ideas flickered through Quirrell's mind, but he still didn't ask anything. He only carefully placed the biscuit into a small box, trying to hide the faint worry in his tone.
He was poorly read in this field and couldn't really understand what this thing was—but if it was a kind of biscuit, how could it possibly compete with that joke shop?
As he spoke, Diagon Alley bustled as usual. No one spared a glance for the conversation at this empty storefront.
"Professor, you zoned out," Sean said, looking up at him.
"Ah—ah—"
Quirrell snapped back to himself and handed Sean a document.
"Mr Green, p-please have a look. Shop number 77, Diagon Alley—annual rent is five hundred Galleons."
Hearing the number, Sean nodded. It was actually lower than he'd expected.
This was the priciest wizarding high street in Britain; anywhere from several hundred to a thousand Galleons a year in rent would be normal.
The joke shop's rent was seven hundred Galleons. In comparison, this place was even cheaper—though who knew why.
Probably because it was so run-down.
Sean accepted the magical contract but didn't sign his name right away. Instead, he folded a paper airplane and sent it off, waiting for his teacher.
When magic was involved, you could never be too cautious about contracts.
He glanced toward Twilfitt and Tatting's. McGonagall's sharp brows had softened a little as she chatted with the impeccably coiffed blonde shopkeeper.
Sean let out a small breath. The question of "who gets to oversee this" had gone through some twists.
In the end, Professor Tayla had persuaded McGonagall with, "I've gone seventy years without a disciple," and, "A master sitting in on their apprentice's alchemy workshop is a long tradition in our field."
Soon enough, Tayla—summoned by Sean's paper message—would arrive.
Before that, there was another necessary task.
Sean took out a contract and handed it to Quirrell.
"Please have a look, Professor."
Quirrell accepted it with a somewhat dazed expression.
The word compensation on the page stabbed at his eyes.
He hadn't done anything paid in a very, very long time.
The last time, he'd even handed over his entire life savings as a "gift".
"An annual salary of fifteen hundred Galleons—th-this is far too much!"
Quirrell trembled.
"N-no, I don't need anything like that, Mr Green. Quirrell is not an ungrateful man… at least not anymore… With that kind of pay, you could hire any number of better wizards…"
He had never even considered payment. In fact, when Sean mentioned selling biscuits, he had already resigned himself to scraping by.
His body was slowly recovering. With his current ability, covering a year's rent and basic costs would not be hard.
But seeing such a high salary thrown in his face, he was completely rattled. Would the shop even earn it back?
The contract shimmered in the sunlight; inside, the terms were detailed but simple.
The principal, Sean, was obligated to pay his agent Quirrell fifteen hundred Galleons a year and to provide him with certain potions;
The agent, Quirrell, was obligated to vigorously protect the principal's interests, to guard his secrets, to help manage the business, and not to conceal or deceive him, and so on…
You could say it was quite fair. The principal had to pay a high wage, and the agent was expected to offer real loyalty.
"The only wizard I know who's truly suited for this," Sean said softly, "is you, Professor."
Faced with such a sincere request, Quirrell's eyes went red.
It had been… a very long time since he'd been treated that way.
Diagon Alley roared with voices; the rainy season had just passed, and clouds drifted in from all directions while streaks of sunlight broke through overhead.
He had so many choices now. Without death and fear hanging over him, he could do anything—go anywhere.
He stood at that crossroads for a long time, and in the end didn't even read the conditions. He simply signed—he didn't need to know.
"Professor, you haven't even read the requirements on the back…"
Sean said in surprise.
"That… won't be necessary, Mr Green."
Because there was no contract on earth that could demand more loyalty from him than he had already chosen to give.
A brief silence settled between them.
Quirrell stared at the shabby little shopfront, worry gathering in his features.
A few seconds later, a figure walking with brisk, purposeful strides appeared not far from the doorway.
"My disciple—this is a decent choice of location," Tayla said.
She approached from down the street, crouched to Sean's height and took the magical contract, reading it carefully before nodding at him in approval.
"Professor Quirrell, how unexpected to meet you here," she added.
They quickly fell into conversation—"conversation" in the loosest sense, given that both of their gazes rarely strayed far from Sean.
"What will you call your workshop?" Tayla suddenly asked, turning back to him.
"Fairy-Tale Workshop, Professor," Sean answered after a moment's thought.
"I should have guessed," she said.
She ruffled his hair once and then hurried off.
Sean also said quick goodbyes to Quirrell and returned to Twilfitt and Tatting's.
Professor McGonagall seemed to have just finished her shopping spree; she latched onto Sean and marched him off to buy a few more presents.
…
At the end of Diagon Alley, Sean and McGonagall stood laden with parcels. The professor flicked her wand and turned them into a handful of small objects.
"Apparition is quite unpleasant. Drink something, child," McGonagall said.
Sean nodded, flicked his wand, and a potion floated out of his bag—one of many Snape had given him, very effective against the nausea.
As the world twisted around them, Sean found himself standing between rolling hills and rich green fields.
Up ahead was a tall, crooked house, several stories high with a red roof and four or five chimneys, defying every law of Muggle engineering.
Very magical, though. After all, this was a house built entirely by magic.
At the front of the house stood a short, plump witch with a round figure and bright, kind blue eyes.
"Professor McGonagall, I can't tell you how grateful I am you brought the boy!" Mrs Weasley said earnestly.
"Come along, dear. I hear you're very interested in our old wreck of a house—wonderful! You've got a whole week to get to know it…"
Mrs Weasley took Sean's hand and bustled off, not noticing the odd flicker in McGonagall's eyes behind her.
"Goodbye, Professor," Sean called back.
"In the second week, I'll come for you. Marcus wanted you to know he's missed you far too long," McGonagall replied, and then Disapparated.
The Burrow was huge.
A slanted sign out front read The Burrow.
Behind it rose that ramshackle tower of joined rooms, crooked and lopsided.
Out back stood a small, dilapidated stone shed, with the faint outlines of brooms leaning inside.
~~~
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