As they spoke, dozens of owls descended into the Great Hall, wings flapping rhythmically beneath the enchanted ceiling. They swooped low, delivering the morning post to a sea of expectant young faces.
A significant number of the birds carried heavy, rectangular parcels bound in twine, the silver-embossed title Green's Notes visible through the wrapping. The students received them with a near-religious reverence, tucking them safely into their bags. Other owls carried more eccentric burdens—bulky crates, delicate jars, and the occasional lumpy sweater from ho.
When Snowy glided down, Sean found himself receiving more than one envelope.
The first was from an unfamiliar hand. He broke the seal and saw the signature: Tina Goldstein. Sean realized imdiately who she was and began to read:
Dear Mr. Sean Green,
I wish to thank you for your extraordinary generosity regarding the Fairy Tale Biscuits. Truly, child, I cannot thank you enough—being able to see Newt as a Kneazle was a delight I never expected to experience at our age...
It is a pity I could not obtain his permission, or I would have enclosed a few of the magical photographs with this letter. However, he ntioned your profound interest in magical creatures. I should very much like to encourage that passion.
I have enclosed our ho address. Perhaps during the next holiday, this old cottage might benefit from a bit of youthful energy?
Yours truly,
Tina Goldstein
[Copper Kettle Cottage, 3 Hollow Valley Lane, Lynden-on-Stour, Dorset]
Sean tucked the letter away carefully. He hadn't expected such an invitation from Madam Goldstein. With the Wampus Biscuits nearing completion, he definitely needed to seek out more unique species. Master Newt's personal nagerie was arguably the best sanctuary in the world for such a pursuit; outside of his leather case, it was nearly impossible to find so many gentle, well-cared-for beasts in one place.
"Who's the letter from?" Hermione asked. She had noticed Sean dwelling on the parchnt for several minutes.
It was a mark of how much they had endured together that the mbers of the Room of Hope had beco increasingly protective and curious about one another's lives.
"Tina Goldstein," Sean replied. "She's invited to visit them in Dorset."
"Tina Goldstein?" Justin leaned in, his interest piqued.
"Master Scamander's wife? Bliy, Sean!" Hermione gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. "People say their ho is one of the most well-guarded secrets in England. No one ever finds where they've retired to! Are you really going? Oh, wait—ignore , I'm prying."
"Who's Newt? Who's Tina?" Ron asked, craning his neck as he returned from a successful session of gloating to his fellow Gryffindors.
Sean didn't answer imdiately; he was already opening the second envelope.
To my dear child of the McGonagall line:
Another Christmas has passed, yet the space beneath the tree at the Villa remained empty of our gathering. I trust that even in distant Ilvermorny, my blessings found you.
I still rember our embrace from last year. Outside the window, the snow falls heavier now. Co ho quickly, dear boy.
I wait for you, as an insomniac waits for the peace of a dream.
With love,
Marcus
Sean felt a brief sense of vertigo. He could almost see the weary, gentle eyes of the old man through the elegant script. Uncle Marcus seed to be more than just a retired Auror and a farm owner; he possessed a surprisingly poetic touch.
The third letter was delivered by Snowy just as she finished a small dish of bacon. It was a brief, familiar scrawl:
[Co see , child.]
Sean looked up and caught Professor McGonagall's eye at the High Table. She offered a single, sharp nod.
And so, his departure for the McGonagall Villa beca an established fact.
King's Cross Station.
Winter seed to be losing its grip on London. The January morning was crisp and golden, like a fresh apple. Sean and Professor McGonagall navigated the busy streets toward the soot-stained facade of the station. The exhaust from the cars and the mist from the pedestrians' breath hung in the air like shimring spiderwebs.
A few large cages rattled atop the luggage carts nearby, their owl occupants hooting indignantly at the Muggle commotion.
"Marcus's wife, Nai, works for a prominent publishing house," McGonagall explained as they walked. "In fact, so of the very reports you've been reading in the Prophet were drafted by her hand. She was the one who actually wrote the letter you received today—Marcus rely dictated it. You haven't t her yet; she was away in the States on business last Christmas, but she was desperate to return this year to et you."
Sean nodded thoughtfully. So it was Great-Aunt Nai who provided the poetic flair, he mused.
"Mmm... and what exactly did you learn at Ilvermorny?"
Sean noticed that the usually stern and laconic Professor McGonagall had developed a habit of asking after his studies with an almost maternal curiosity.
"I mastered the Undetectable Extension Charm," Sean listed.
"Excellent. A very practical tool. And?" McGonagall's hair was pinned back with her usual surgical precision, the stray curls at her neck softening the slight smile on her lips.
"I t Master Newt Scamander. He taught the foundations of Spatial and Weather-Working magic," Sean continued.
"Dangerous and exacting branches of magic," McGonagall noted, though her good mood remained intact. "You shall practice them in the safety of my office."
They boarded a waiting carriage. As they jostled along the road under the winter sun, the Professor seed to be genuinely enjoying the outing.
"Was that all?" she asked softly.
"Using that foundation, I was able to bring ho a Wampus Cat—the Ilvermorny mascot," Sean said, seeing no reason for concealnt.
"I see..." McGonagall's expression shifted.
"And a Pukwudgie," Sean added. "He's signed a thirty-year service contract to manage my To. Oh, and I assisted in the Final Rest of Madam Isolt Sayre."
Minerva McGonagall felt the world go dark for a mont. Then it went dark again.
Pukwudgies. They were the fierce, humanoid cousins of European goblins. They detested humans and were legendary for the lethal magical pranks they played on intruders. They were considered more volatile than Gringotts goblins.
But compared to a Pukwudgie... sending off the soul of Isolt Sayre?
"What exactly do you an by that?" she asked, her voice tight with urgency.
"I helped Madam Sayre move on from her existence as a ghost. She had lingered for three centuries. She was quite grateful—she even gifted a copy of The Book of Ghosts before she departed," Sean explained truthfully.
"..."
The interior of the carriage fell into a heavy, stunned silence.
Minerva McGonagall began to seriously wonder if her "dear child" and Olivia Terra had actually been expelled from the United States. Her face clouded over as she whipped out a piece of parchnt and began scrawling a frantic note:
[Olivia, co see imdiately. You had better have an explanation for this—]
It wasn't until Sean noticed her distress and gave a more detailed, diplomatic account of the events that McGonagall's complexion returned to its normal shade.
By then, the carriage was turning into the drive of the McGonagall Villa. Sean spotted the broad-shouldered silhouette of Marcus standing beneath a massive beech tree, a boisterous grin splitting his face.
Sean felt a surge of anticipation. This was the end of the Christmas break, and the perfect opportunity to test his "Combat Interval." Understanding his true strength was a vital part of his plan.
His steps were light as he hopped down from the carriage.
"Welco ho!" Marcus bellowed, his voice full of warmth and health.
[End of Chapter 384]
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