Life on the farm was comfortable.
He'd wake when the sky was a pale blue, and by the time the horizon turned pink he'd be watching the sunset glow. Time slipped by in the melting snow.
White ground was constantly crossed by cat-like creatures—fat ones, agile ones, and the ones that never watched where they were going and smashed straight into rocks…
Whenever that happened, Sean would lean out from the upstairs room and look down.
Compared with Hogwarts, the McGonagall villa carried an extra scent in the air.
A faint, pine-resin kind of ease—like bed linens soaked through with sunlight.
"Just a bit more… not much."
Sean sat at the small worktable Marcus had built with his own hands and spoke the final line of the incantation over the fairy-tale biscuits.
Just like brewing potions, there came a stage in alchemy where a wizard had to inject magic into the work—either by moving the wand, or by speaking the spell.
Now, Sean had completed that step.
As for what was still missing—whatever parts of the ritual weren't perfect yet—most of it would be in the inscription work.
With something this delicate, inspiration wasn't enough. Rigorous, careful experimentation was one of the most crucial keys to an alchemist's success.
"My dearest, most outstanding—"
Marcus's voice drifted up from downstairs.
"I'm coming."
Sean cut him off. Otherwise the old wizard would tack on a dozen more adjectives without stopping for breath.
When Sean went downstairs, everyone in the McGonagall family was already gathered around the long table.
Minerva McGonagall, with eyes deep and gentle; Marcus McGonagall, buzzing with excitement and stubbornly vigorous despite his age; Nai McGonagall, who worked for the papers and, the first time they'd met, had hugged Sean until he could barely breathe…
And of course, the three little McGonagalls, jostling and shoving each other.
"No matter what you say, we're leaving, Marcus," Minerva McGonagall said now, flicking a glance at him without a shred of mercy.
"I ought to find a way to tie you all down—fine. But don't forget: McGonagall Manor will always be your home, my dear Sean.
Minerva, I want you to know that goes for you too."
Marcus lowered his newspaper. His voice was a little hoarse.
"There are some clever little inventions from the American wizarding world, Sean. I've already had them delivered to your room, child—I hope you'll like them.
That plan map you gave me is excellent. It's saved me a great deal of time."
Nai smiled warmly.
Sean still didn't know what Nana Nai had sent him—he'd spent the entire day buried in the cat-pard biscuit project, and hadn't even noticed the extra items in his room.
He frowned without thinking. Had he… gotten too relaxed?
In the wizarding world, relaxing your guard and stopping your thinking usually meant trouble was on the way.
"If this place makes you feel at ease, then let yourself feel happy," Nana Nai said. "Because that's exactly what we wanted."
As she spoke, steam rose from the red tea beside her.
And so, in Marcus's eyes—eyes packed with unspoken reluctance—the carriage arrived.
Through a gap in the carriage frame, Sean could see the little hills by the manor, and fields like an oil painting in the distance. His mouth lifted, almost imperceptibly.
…
The last dawn of Christmas break arrived—cold, with everything blanketed in white.
At Hogwarts, messages suddenly flooded in.
They were coming from newspapers across the wizarding world, not just Britain.
In the Great Hall, Justin and Hermione actually relaxed their studying for once and started reading.
The headlines were all over the place, but they all pointed to one person and one topic: an old Hogwarts murder case, and the truth that had been buried with it—now fully exposed.
That grabbed everyone's attention. What was more relaxing, at the end of Christmas break, than a juicy piece of Hogwarts secret history?
Especially over breakfast?
"Well, great—now everyone's going to know about our heroic deeds—" Ron had been holding it in for ages.
After Justin had learned the full story, he'd warned them not to broadcast anything until Hagrid was completely cleared.
Now it didn't matter. Ron didn't have to be a loudspeaker—nearly every paper was reporting it.
"If passing out cold in the Chamber counts as 'heroic,'" Hermione said briskly, puncturing him.
Everyone in the Hope Nook knew Ron was a strange kid.
He couldn't even bring himself to say Voldemort's name, always looked like he was attending a funeral—yet he'd still dared to face Voldemort with them.
"Go see Hagrid?" Harry asked at once.
"I'm fine with it. Sean—do you have time?" Justin looked to Sean.
Since returning to Hogwarts, Sean had spent most of his time in the dungeons. According to the knight's portrait hanging on the dungeon wall, the most entertaining show in Hogwarts happened there every day.
"Let's go together," Sean thought for a moment. He'd just brewed an Expert-level basic antidote. Snape's expression had improved a lot—and he'd even granted Sean a short break.
Once they'd agreed to go find Hagrid that afternoon, the Hope Nook fell back into everyone's usual busyness.
Justin and Hermione still didn't stop for a second, and their pace pulled Ron into something like a routine—he started showing up in the Hope Nook with them every day.
Which didn't match his usual "sleep in all winter" vibe at all.
That left Harry as the most "lazy" one in the Nook.
He trained on the Quidditch pitch every day, no matter the weather.
After their last loss, Wood had developed a new obsession: turning Harry into a Seeker who could surpass a certain Mr. Green.
And Harry had to admit—Wood's wish probably wasn't coming true. Especially since Sean never trained.
In other words, if Sean showed even the slightest interest in Quidditch, they'd never beat Ravenclaw.
Harry used to think that would crush him.
But now, to his surprise, it didn't feel impossible to accept anymore.
They'd been through so much—faced Voldemort so many times…
Whenever Harry flew across the Quidditch pitch, he'd remember those nights no one else knew about: a boy carrying the blood-stained Sword of Gryffindor, robes torn to shreds, walking silently through empty corridors swept by knife-cold wind.
And suddenly Quidditch didn't feel quite so important anymore.
He started to understand deeper things—heavier things.
Because if Sean ever asked him—
Harry, I'm going to fight Voldemort and protect everything at Hogwarts. Will you come with me?
—Harry knew he'd cancel every Quidditch practice without hesitation.
Lost in those thoughts, afternoon arrived.
And they finally headed out beyond the castle.
Winter sunlight fell over them, warm and gentle.