Chapter 153: Roland
"My Lord—!"
Peeves zoomed through corridors and classrooms, but there was no escaping the Bloody Baron. The terrifying ghost cornered him in a dead end.
"I was wrong, My Lord! Forgive little Peeves just this once—!"
The Baron stared at him with cold, dead eyes. Only after Peeves had finished his ear-splitting wailing did the ghost speak, his voice a hollow rasp.
"That little wizard... the Green boy..."
The Baron continued to stare at him silently. After a long, agonizing minute, he simply turned and drifted through the wall, leaving a very confused poltergeist behind.
Peeves, realizing he was free, instantly regained his chaotic cheer. He bounced up the stairs, humming a new tune.
"Oh—little wizard, mustn't touch—"
As he sang, he mischievously loosened a carpet on the staircase, hoping to trip an unsuspecting student.
Transfiguration Office.
Sean knocked on the heavy door. A gentle voice called out, "Come in, my... child."
He pushed the door open. With a flick of her wand, Professor McGonagall sent a flurry of scattered letters flying neatly into their envelopes.
"Good afternoon, Professor."
Sean placed his notebook on her desk. He believed the greatest joy for a teacher was seeing their student progress. His diligent record-keeping of his insights and practice was a testament to that progress, and unsurprisingly, the professor seemed pleased.
December had brought heavy snow. From the office window, the view was a winter wonderland.
Suddenly, a beetle on the desk whooshed into the form of a tawny owl. It launched itself out the window, wings spreading against the icy wind. It soared over the frosted turrets, clutching a scroll of parchment in its talons, vanishing from sight.
A few moments later, it returned, coo-cooing softly as it flew back through the window, snow clinging to the letter it carried.
[You have practiced an Advanced Transfiguration to the Adept standard. Proficiency +300]
Sean stroked the owl's feathers. With another wave of his wand, it shrank back into a small beetle, buzzing its translucent wings as it flew towards the fireplace.
He jotted down his observations. Transfiguration was always his strongest subject.
His eyes shone as he raised his wand again.
[You have practiced an Advanced Transfiguration to the Adept standard. Proficiency +300]
[You have practiced an Advanced Transfiguration to the Adept standard. Proficiency +300]
...
He didn't notice McGonagall's hand trembling slightly as she held a letter, watching him work.
"I should have known..." she whispered, her voice as faint as the dim light in her eyes when she was alone.
...He never lets anyone worry.
After a sip of the professor's honey-lemon tea, Sean felt his fatigue recede. With his body mostly recovered, his magical stamina replenished quickly.
He had stabilized his proficiency in animate-to-animate Transfiguration at the 'Adept' level. Now, he just needed to inscribe the runes according to Professor Terra's instructions, and his preparations would be complete.
Fortuitously, Leon's accidental transformation had provided him with a perfect case study. He suspected the Weasley twins were selling their Canary Creams... which explained Bruce's misfortune.
Leaving the Transfiguration office, Sean decided to visit the library for more books on Ancient Runes. He had finished the texts Professor Terra gave him, but felt something was still missing. Even Terra hadn't set him a particularly ambitious goal; the Howler assignment was relatively simple.
Yet, she seemed to have higher expectations, hence letting him choose his own project. Sean didn't know that even the Weasleys' Canary Creams had required the professor's help with the runic inscriptions.
Sean, however, intended to do it all himself.
As he stepped into the corridor, the Fat Lady and Lady Violet appeared in a nearby frame, looking at him with a mixture of caution and expectation.
"Fat Lady, Lady Violet," he greeted them politely.
"Oh, oh, of course! Little Green, you and Roland Taylor... oh no! I mean, little McGonagall..." The Fat Lady stammered nervously.
"Come along! You're hopeless!" Lady Violet grabbed her arm and dragged her away.
Roland Taylor?
This was the second time Sean had heard the name.
Taylor...
He froze, the surname triggering a memory. Slowly, he pulled the thick, yellowed letter from his bag – the one with the dried violet pressed in the corner.
His mind drifted back to the previous winter. There wasn't much to remember. Just three months of lying in bed, dragging his sick body through the cold days, clinging to life by sheer force of will.
Then, the Panel had chimed, and he had finally, painfully, been able to get out of bed.
The person who had cared for him during that time was a kind, elderly volunteer.
Transfiguration Office. Evening.
The lamplight reflected off Minerva McGonagall's square spectacles, mingling with the dying embers in the grate. Her hand fell to her side, the letter she had just read trembling in her fingers. The ink on the parchment shone in the firelight.
Her quill lay beside Sean's open notebook, an annotation half-finished. Her gaze drifted to a framed photograph on the corner of her desk—things she had never imagined, never known...
Outside, the blizzard intensified, the Highland wind howling around the castle towers.
She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. When she looked up again, her usually sharp eyes were glistening. The dancing flames reflected in the unshed tears, fragmenting into sparks of gentle pain.
Her desk was empty save for a small silver cat figurine and a stack of letters.
The content of the letters was neither long nor short, yet they fell with the weight of boulders crashing through the snow.
I am so sorry, Minerva. You know the orphanage wouldn't bother with a child that sick... it wasn't in the governors' interests.
For three months, he was so quiet. God bless him, he survived. I don't mean to impose, but he is such a good boy. If you do not intend to adopt him, please, do not send him back to the orphanage. I cannot do much, but please accept this fifty pounds and a winter coat.
Five pounds will buy a ticket to St. Katharine Docks. Please give him the remaining five.
The child told my mother that with a thick coat and five pounds, he could survive.
I am speechless.
I am poor, humble, and plain, but when my soul passes through the grave, my heart will be lighter than a feather.
May God deliver everything into his hands.
—Roland Taylor
(End of Chapter)
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