While they were talking, dozens of owls swept in with the morning post.
They beat their wings beneath the Great Hall's ceiling, then dropped to perch beside the faces of eager young witches and wizards.
A huge number of them carried the same book, the title written in silvery, flowing script:
Green's Notes.
The students accepted it solemnly and tucked it away like a sacred treasure.
Other owls delivered all sorts of strange items.
When Whitey flew in, Sean realized he'd received more than one letter.
The first was from a stranger: Tina Goldstein.
Sean immediately recognized the name, and opened the envelope:
[Dear Mr. Sean Green,
Thank you for the fairy-tale biscuits you so generously sent—and thank you as well, little one, for letting me see what Newt looks like when he transforms into a Kneazle…
It's a shame I couldn't get his permission, or I would have enclosed a few magical photographs with this letter.
I've heard you're very interested in magical creatures, and I'm truly glad to hear it.
So I've included our address as well. During the holiday, perhaps our cottage would welcome a bit more life and warmth?
Yours,
Tina Goldstein
Copper Kettle Cottage, 3 Hollow Vale Lane,
Linden-by-the-Stour, Dorset]
Sean quickly folded the letter away. He hadn't expected Miss Tina Goldstein to write to him like this.
It was true—once he finished the Wampus Cat biscuits, he would need to look for more magical creatures.
Newt Scamander's suitcase was, frankly, an excellent option.
It was hard to imagine another place that held so many gentle creatures in one space.
"Whose letter is that?" Hermione asked, clearly noticing Sean had been thinking over it for quite a while.
The more they'd been through together, the deeper the bonds between them seemed to run.
They cared more—and asked more.
"Tina Goldstein. She invited me to visit," Sean answered.
"Tina Goldstein?" Justin leaned closer.
"Newt's wife? Merlin—Sean, you mean… people say hardly anyone can even find where Newt lives. Where are they? Oh—no—forget I said that."
Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth in excitement.
"What Newt? What Tina?" Ron craned his neck, fresh off another round of bragging.
While they were talking, Sean opened the second letter:
[My dear child of the McGonagall family,
Another Christmas has come, and yet the tree beneath the villa still hasn't seen a proper gathering.
I hope that even in far-off Ilvermorny, you can receive my blessing.
I remember I still held you last Christmas—outside the villa, the snow fell even heavier.
My dear child, come back soon.
I'm waiting for you the way an insomniac waits for sleep-talking dreams.
With love: Marcus]
Sean went a little still, as if he could see the tired softness of those eyes through the paper.
Grandpa Marcus didn't feel like "just" a country landlord—his words were gentle, polished.
The third letter was the one Whitey had just placed into Sean's hands.
The handwriting was as brief as ever:
[Come see me, child.]
Sean looked up and, sure enough, saw Professor McGonagall nodding to him from the staff table.
So going to the McGonagall villa before heading out to see Marcus became a certainty.
…
King's Cross Station.
That winter seemed to be ending all at once. January mornings were crisp and bright—golden as an apple, sharp as a bite.
With the city noise all around them, Sean and Professor McGonagall crossed the road briskly toward the massive, soot-dark station. Car exhaust and the mist of people's breath glittered in the cold air like a web.
Large cages rattled atop luggage trolleys; the owls inside complained loudly.
"Marcus's wife, Nai, works in publishing. Some of the papers you've been reading—she wrote them," Professor McGonagall said calmly. "And the letter you received today was also written in her hand. You haven't met her yet—last Christmas she was still in America for work, but now she's rushed back as fast as she can."
Sean nodded thoughtfully. So it had been Grandma Nai he'd never met, writing on Marcus's behalf.
"Mm… and what did you learn at Ilvermorny?" McGonagall asked.
Somewhere along the way, the strict, sparing professor had begun asking questions like this—small, almost casual ones.
"I learned the Undetectable Extension Charm," Sean listed.
"Excellent. And what else?"
McGonagall's hair was neat as ever; the curl at her temple sat beside the faint lift of her smile.
"I met Mr. Newt Scamander. I learned some spatial magic, and some weather magic," Sean continued, recalling them in order.
"Dangerous and precise magic," McGonagall paused, still not letting it spoil her mood. "Practice it in my Transfiguration office."
As she spoke, they climbed into a carriage. Under the pale winter sun, it jolted along, and she seemed to enjoy the simple rhythm of it.
"And?" she asked softly.
"Because of that, I brought back a Wampus Cat. It's Ilvermorny's mascot. And…" Sean didn't intend to hide anything.
"And?" McGonagall's expression shifted.
"And a Pukwudgie. It signed a contract with me and helps maintain the expanded space. Also, Professor—I helped send on Isolt Sayre's spirit. She'd been a ghost."
Minerva McGonagall's vision went dark—once, then twice.
A Pukwudgie—cousin to European goblins—famously hated humans, and used powerful magic to play cruel tricks. In some ways they sounded worse than Gringotts goblins.
But even that paled next to the other part.
Sending Isolt Sayre on—what did that even mean?
"What do you mean?" McGonagall asked sharply.
"I helped Isolt Sayre, who'd lingered for three centuries, finally move on. She thanked me, and gave me a book about ghosts," Sean answered honestly.
…
The carriage fell into silence.
Minerva McGonagall briefly suspected that her dear student—and Olivia—had escaped from Ilvermorny.
Her face went dark as she immediately sent a letter at top speed:
[Olivia—come see me. You'd better explain—]
Only after the carriage rocked on, and Sean—seeming to sense it—carefully explained everything he'd done at Ilvermorny, did McGonagall's expression ease back toward normal.
Only then did Sean finally get a chance to take in the McGonagall villa—small and sturdy—and Marcus beneath the beech tree, laughing with booming cheer.
It looked like, at the very tail end of this Christmas, he'd finally get to test the boundaries of his strength.
To know his own limits clearly—Sean believed that was necessary. Important.
And with that thought, even his steps as he climbed down from the carriage felt lighter.
"Welcome home!" Marcus called out under the tree, loud and joyful.