"No letters arriving, no one to contact, not even knowing his own birthday…"
At the long table, Justin murmured to Hermione. The first shaft of sunlight had already pierced the tall stained-glass windows, scattercasting light across the House tables. The sweet smell of toast, bacon, and pumpkin juice mingled in the air—almost drowned by the din.
Not far from Sean, a clutch of second-years were hotly debating a wand flourish, hands windmilling and nearly knocking over the jam. At the Hufflepuff table an excited squeal went up as a round-faced boy pulled a Cauldron Cake from a parcel, and the "Never Go Hungry" badgers practically pounced. Gryffindor's table was louder still, a knot of students chirping around their Quidditch captain showing off a new broom-care gadget.
Suddenly a rush of fluttering swelled from far to near—like a thousand tiny drums at once.
"Owls!"
Someone shouted. The noise spiked and turned into a buzz of tense excitement as dozens of owls poured into the Hall like a gray tide, sweeping in through the high windows and circling under the enchanted ceiling. Letters, parcels, and magazines pattered down like rain.
"A reply." Hermione tucked away the letter from home. Owl post is rolling delivery, but it isn't immediate. The influx rarely clogs things—owls come daily, so mail doesn't pile up. Once in Hogwarts history it had—when Gilderoy Lockhart, while a student, mailed himself eight hundred valentines.
"A reply." Justin slipped his away too, voice low. He looked at the boy beside him, whose quill never stopped scratching—ice pack on his brow, steam still curling from his ears after the stimulant, study unbroken. And up at the staff table, more than one pair of eyes watched the same boy.
Justin's brow dipped; his hand unconsciously clenched his robe. In the hush between them he said:
"Scottish winters are brutal. I… have never seen him with a proper coat."
"What I mean is… it's the losses that made him, isn't it?" Hermione said, meaning coats and not-coats. When she tried to tidy the thought, she looked up into those tired green eyes and pale face—and couldn't quite come back to herself.
"No, Hermione," Justin said, turning. His face in the half light was hard to read. "In those winters, what he needed wasn't strength. It was safety."
…
When the owl said it, Justin felt his blood boil.
"No one to contact… nonsense! Ha—there's a witch who very much wants to speak to him—"
"Mr. Owl, you mean—!"
"I do not stoop to low lies!"
"Merlin—Merlin's owl!"
"I am Lady Ravenclaw's owl!"
"Oh—sorry, sorry, Mr. Owl."
Justin's brain shorted out. Of course—someone as gifted as Sean wouldn't be discarded. There must be a reason he ended up alone.
He wouldn't doubt Mr. Owl; the old bird has been in Hogwarts since the beginning. Its tossed-off Godric stories are the best jokes he's ever heard. If it says a witch wants to contact Sean, then one does—and very likely…
Justin—Merlin! You've done something splendid! Liliana Finch-Fletchley will be proud!
"Mr. Owl, please—"
"I have only one question—"
"A hundred if you like!"
"Is an owl a hawk?"
"Of course!"
"Then I shall act—go find your friend!"
Mr. Owl shook out his wings—Justin had never imagined an owl could shine.
…
"Sean, Sean—you have to come," Justin blurted, barging into the classroom. Sean was reading The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection and his notes, planning for the looming lesson. Knockback Jinx—a form of Dark magic. Of the four families—Charms, Curses, Jinxes, Hexes—Jinxes rank as the lightest of the "dark," annoying but useful. Even so, Flitwick taught it warily; he'd given Sean a notebook mostly full of side effects, the cover reading:
Caution and restraint are the first rules in learning Dark magic.
"Sean—come on, faster…" Justin's eager smile barely held, and the flood of care from him and Hermione since Sean's illness left Sean abashed. He'd only closed his eyes for two seconds, and they'd tucked a blanket around him and turned off the lamp.
"Mm." Whatever it was, he nodded.
The hearth roared; beyond it three faces waited—Justin and Hermione wound tight and breathless, Sean a little confused. They'd called him… to warm his hands together? Not a bad idea, actually.
"Yes, Hermione—family—real family…" he heard Justin murmur. Hermione sat ramrod straight, cheeks pink—heat of the fire or nerves—who could say…
A swirl of powder burst into the flames. Justin and Hermione held their breath; even Sean looked at the hearth with some hope.
A stern face resolved in the fire.
"How… how could it be…"
Justin was stunned. "Mr. Owl—what did you do—"
"Professor."
"Professor."
"Professor McGonagall."
Sean wasn't disappointed. He'd never seen a professor in the fire before. Smaller McGonagall—quite a sight. One glance and she knew the owl's handiwork. Two brief replies—and then she met a pair of curious, honest eyes. Her gaze softened completely.
"Mr. Sean Green."
…
"I mean, I'm surprised to see such a gentle Professor McGonagall—worth it—but that's not what I asked for," Justin muttered, aggrieved.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's common knowledge McGonagall has her eye on Sean. Wanting to contact him is perfectly normal. Only one of us is being a fool."
As Sean sealed the hearth he heard Justin whisper, "I'm sorry, Sean—I thought…"
"Justin, this wasn't your fault. You've done enough—and I'm grateful," Sean said, lifting Flitwick's notebook. "What I've lost doesn't matter. What remains—friends—does."
Friendship is two hearts shaking each other. Justin could almost hear his mother's voice. This time, it shattered his.
~~~
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