Sean was back to being penniless; by the time he returned to the McGonagall cottage, dusk had fallen.
Meanwhile, on the rubbish-strewn streets of Croydon, Hollesey Orphanage had, for the first time, a lavish supper.
The new, mysterious operator, Rowland Taylor, stood in the foyer watching the children step carefully onto the freshly waxed wood floor.
They wore clothes that weren't new but were clean and smart; the girls had ribbons in their hair—rare sights. No one shoved, no one cried; even the smallest child only gripped the hem of their shirt, eyes wide and round with dazed wonder.
One child stared at the heaping stew and pudding on his plate, then suddenly looked up and asked:
"Is this really for me?"
"Of course, dear," said Rowland Taylor.
"All of it?"
"All of it."
"I don't have to share it with someone else?"
"You don't."
That child—Leah—picked up a fork, put it down, then picked it up again. He repeated this three times, as if to confirm that this beautiful reality wouldn't vanish like a dream.
"We want to know—why… If it's like this from now on, no matter what you need us to do, we'll do it—we'll do lots of chores," a bigger boy ventured, his words echoed by the eager nods of other older kids crowding behind him.
Listening to them earnestly list the jobs they could do, Rowland Taylor felt her throat go rough.
"You don't need to, children…"
She looked at each small face glowing in the firelight, at their expectant eyes, and knew that once, there had been someone whose eyes burned with the same longing.
Back then, he did not get to receive—but now, they did.
"Because… someone came."
…
At night, the children of Hollesey Orphanage piled up gravestones. When they slipped away, everyone assumed no one cared, no one remembered.
But someone did remember.
Rowland Taylor dug the graves herself. As snowflakes melted on her feverish skin, many thin children rushed out of the orphanage.
"We can help dig," said the older ones.
"We can carry earth," said the younger.
And so Rowland's tears seared through the whole good night; when the stones were set, she had sunk to her knees.
She wasn't kneeling to any person—she knelt to all the suffering and goodness of humanity.
…
It was the last night at the McGonagall cottage.
Sarah didn't know why her grandfather came back from a brief trip and fell silent.
He and Grandma Minerva both gazed toward the distance for a long time; dust rose, and a carriage drew nearer.
"It's Brother Green!" Sarah finally relaxed enough to sneak the last biscuit. She knew that when that wizard—who looked cold but was easy to talk to—came back, she wouldn't have to flee her older siblings.
"Sarah! You stole it again! That was our last one!" Bud yelped.
The little girl's last words before turning into a cat were:
"The cat did the stealing—it has nothing to do with Sarah."
The feast began.
It was plentiful as ever, but when Marcus McGonagall announced that Professor Minerva McGonagall and Sean would be leaving, the little McGonagalls' wails nearly lifted the roof.
After supper.
Three pitiful little lumps were already piled outside the big upstairs room.
They rolled in through the door just like the first time—and landed on a soft mat transfigured from books.
Sean sighed. He'd planned to stop by Diagon Alley for some Animal Party Biscuits, but Emily Gurt wouldn't part with a single one.
She pointed at the inscription on each biscuit:
"My dear Mr. Green, every biscuit here is time-stamped—we've barely enough to last five days. If you were a master alchemist and had a head for business, surely you'd spare the poor Gurt manager a few more. Otherwise those angry wizards might turn me into a biscuit. Do I look like a biscuit to you?"
Emily Gurt had nearly shown him the door—thankfully, professionalism won over personal feeling.
Sean had to settle for some materials. That night in the cottage was busy and warm.
[You practiced Mrs. Norris Biscuit at an Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
[You practiced Mrs. Norris Biscuit at an Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
…
The three little McGonagalls watched, going "Waaah—" then "Oooh—" in the firelight.
Sean thought the room had three frogs in it.
Outside the door, at the bottom of the stairs, two voices always seemed to be talking:
"I need to know—Hogwarts… is it truly safe?" Marcus McGonagall's voice.
"It's the safest place in the world," Professor Minerva McGonagall said quietly.
"I'll give him this Portkey. You know where it leads, Minerva."
"Marcus, that will increase your danger…"
"We're family. I have no fear. My only uncertainty is whether a child like him will stay clear of danger…"
Silence fell over the hall.
At dawn, Professor McGonagall didn't pick up her suitcase; Sean was still examining the Portkey glove in his hand.
A Portkey is a magically enchanted object that transports anyone touching it to a designated location.
Usually, Portkeys are disguised as ordinary items to avoid attracting Muggle attention. Using a Portkey feels like a hook jerking you hard behind the navel and hauling you to your destination.
Hogwarts can use Portkeys. Before the Hogwarts Express was established, Portkeys were a way to bring students to school without alerting Muggles.
But Portkeys are strictly regulated by the Ministry; you must file an application before crafting one, and using an unauthorized Portkey carries severe consequences—in Lupin's words, "your life wouldn't be enough to pay for it."
And yet, just as Dumbledore brazenly used one right in front of Ministry officials to reach Hogwarts—
Some things are greater than rules.
As Sean examined it, a slip of paper fell out of the Portkey glove:
[Hide it somewhere you can reach easily. It will take you far from danger.]
Under the beeches, Marcus McGonagall called good-bye; the little McGonagalls wept in a chorus.
It was a morning where no one said goodbye; Sean and the professor returned to the cobbles of Diagon Alley.
This time, Sean didn't need to count a single Knut—because he didn't even have a purse anymore.
His robe pockets were empty—but when he stood in the sunlight, he seemed to carry a heavy weight.