When Sean returned, the voices in the little villa resumed:
"Minerva, let him decide, all right? Before that, I'd like to teach him a few things."
"As you say, Marcus."
Then the two parted.
Caught downstairs and at a loss, Sean went upstairs too.
"Hm? How did the house gain a cat?" he heard one last puzzled remark from below as he left.
…
One of the best ways for an old wizard to bond with a young one is to teach him magic. But Marcus McGonagall found he seemed to have lost the chance.
"What have you been teaching him?!"
Marcus burst from the room, utterly chagrined.
"He's gifted," Minerva McGonagall said, sipping tea. She'd been away a long time; it had been ages since she'd had her brother's brew.
"Really…" Marcus started to say—then couldn't stop the smile tugging at his lips.
"Good thing I've got a few things tucked away…"
He plopped down beside Minerva, watching the steam blur the elm window and the view of the farm.
The largest room upstairs.
"Mr. Green?" Bud knocked.
"If you're in there, we're coming in," Sarah whispered.
"You still need his permission, Sarah," Zoë corrected.
"Oh, I forgot—if you're in there and you say yes—" Sarah amended brightly.
But the room was already empty.
In the fifteen waking hours of their day, the little McGonagalls wanted to see him for fourteen of them, so Sean slipped out—naturally, as a cat.
As his biscuit use increased and his understanding of transformation deepened, he could now stay a black cat for half an hour straight.
He also discovered he was gaining control of his body—and seemed to surpass ordinary cats.
"Green?"
He was scooped up without warning; he sprang and turned back into a wizard.
"Professor McGonagall."
Here, the professor seemed much more relaxed—far from the strictness she showed at the castle—but when she saw him change back, she looked almost… disappointed.
"Do you feel it? A wizard's Animagus is not simply a matter of turning into an animal.
"A cat runs about twenty-five miles an hour (forty kilometers), but a wizard's Animagus can easily reach a top speed of thirty (forty-eight). Sometimes more—magic does not vanish entirely, child.
"You should learn to master that power. Sometimes it will give you surprising effects."
She explained gently.
Soon two cats appeared beneath the beeches—Sean, following the professor, was learning techniques for handling an animal form.
For instance: a cat can slip through a tiny gap—Sean could not; a cat can use whiskers to heighten its senses—Sean could not; the professor could even outrun cars on the road (about fifty kilometers per hour)—Sean, of course, could not.
Sunlight pooled warm as honey across the fields; a black cat lay panting atop a bale of straw. The light bathed him until he felt he might melt.
Beside him, the tabby watched, elegant, slit pupils soft with a distinctly human delight.
In winter, sunlight is dearer than in any other season, and it painted the fields like one of the oil portraits in Hogwarts.
Marcus McGonagall didn't dare blink. He held his breath, hiding behind a forklift.
…
Days at the McGonagall farm slipped by quickly.
One morning, an owl flew through the window, beak clamped around a thick bundle of papers—not only The Daily Prophet, but Muggle papers too: The Guardian, The Independent, The Times.
There was always a copy for Sean among the McGonagalls' things—whether he needed it or not—so he would take a little time to read.
The Times ran a serious front page: a large photo of Gulf War aircraft and a solemn headline analyzing and shaping opinion.
Below was a report on how the traditional "orphanage" model had entirely shifted to "small family-style care."
Beneath the lofty language, everyone knew this was a classic "passing the buck": for poor local authorities, shutting down expensive, hard-to-run institutions and outsourcing care was a way to dump a heavy fiscal burden.
Even if they knew private providers might cut quality for profit, under the fiscal and political pressures of the time, it was what they called the only choice.
"Heh—those swine-like beasts—they don't care, of course they don't," Marcus McGonagall said, indignant.
Sean turned the page—there was news of Hollesey.
There was one day left with the McGonagalls; tomorrow he would return to Hogwarts.
Time felt tight. He stroked the silver-white owl's plush head.
"Be quick."
The owl nuzzled his palm and took wing.
"White Owl"—Sean's owl—flew faster than most. When it alit on a derelict street in London—back in its former owner's hands—the sun had yet to reach its zenith.
"Be quick," its former owner told it too.
By midday, Sean had his reply from Rowland Taylor:
[Dear Sean Green,
Child, are you sure you want to do this?
I'll be at London King's Cross for the afternoon—hoping for your coming, or your refusal.
—Yours faithfully, Rowland Taylor]
Sean folded the letter away. The McGonagall farm wasn't far from London; with a few transport charms, he could make a quick round trip.
So he set out. Wind roared past his ears—he was in a carriage already.
He was completely free at the McGonagalls'—in every respect.
Croydon District.
Trash always piled in the streets; next to a door with peeling paint, the faded "Oak Tree Children's Home" plaque hung at an angle, shedding dust in the wind.
Sean went by way of Diagon Alley, then reached London King's Cross; at last he appeared here with Mrs. Rowland Taylor.
He gave the place one last look, and left under Mrs. Taylor's blurring gaze.
His coin purse was flattened—he'd even sold his Undetectable Extension bag to scrape together the funds.
It wasn't a hard decision—just like the exchange at King's Cross:
"Are you sure about this? Child, if I run this orphanage, you can't make any profit—perhaps even…"
Sean's eyes were bright; he smiled a little and said:
"I'm only repeating what once happened."
Rowland Taylor's vision washed out entirely. She had not expected that hope always comes from the most barren soil.
~~~
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