Night had deepened. Outside, trucks thundered over the wet road.
London was financializing; Canary Wharf was on the rise. But the street where the orphanage stood was still piled with uncollected trash bags.
Inside, the air always reeked of disinfectant, never quite masking the stale odor. The carers were bone-tired; the children skittish like wounded animals.
Sean curled up beneath a threadbare, cheap synthetic quilt, fast asleep.
Just earlier, he'd tested his newly unlocked green-tier talent.
About that, he had only one thing to say:
"What kind of miserable grind was I living with before?"
Turns out three attempts could now yield one correct cast.
Turns out a wizard can actually "feel" the pronunciation of a charm.
Take "Scourgify." He'd always thought it was "Scour—g—ify," but just now a thought struck him: why couldn't it be "S—cour—g—ify"?
In that odd, liminal state, he gained his first [Adept].
A full +10 proficiency!
What used to take him five days,
he hit in five seconds.
So this is a world where talent matters—he was starting to get it.
Tomorrow Professor McGonagall would come to fetch him. He hoped he could perform well enough, at least to meet the minimum for the scholarship.
By the way, what even is the first-year scholarship standard at Hogwarts?
Sean didn't know, but he was sure he'd reach it.
For no special reason—just the cheat.
As long as he kept grinding at magic, he'd someday stand at the very top.
Buoyed by bright thoughts of the future, Sean drifted off.
…
September 1, 1991.
A special day: Sean was leaving the orphanage.
He packed quickly. Only two undershirts and two pairs of trousers still barely fit; everything else was either too big or too small.
Dragging a cheap suitcase to the doorway, he was startled by how little in this place had ever actually been his.
"Sean, you'd better not come crawling back because you can't pay your fees! You'll be sorry if you do!"
Matron Anna sashayed her heavy frame, voice as barbed as ever.
"Don't you worry about me, Square Auntie! Let's hope those recent layoffs don't toss you out. With your numbers, you're definitely getting fired!"
With that, Sean bolted for the door, leaving behind Anna's piercing stream of curses.
He couldn't make out the slang; he just assumed it was all at his expense.
Finally—he'd managed a proper clap-back at that walking cylinder. She'd ignored the original body's serious illness; she was one of the culprits in its death.
In this world, no one knew how the original had died; only Sean, who'd crossed over from another, did.
Cussing her out—consider it interest collected on the original's behalf.
On a normal day he wouldn't have dared; today he just did it.
Good grief, Sean—look at you. Not bad at all.
Smiling, he jogged to the flaking door. The faded "Oak Children's Home" plaque hung there at a tilt, shaking dust into the wind.
Beneath it,
Professor McGonagall stood with square-rimmed glasses, dark hair piled in a high bun, deep-green robes over a tartan blouse—an aura of gravity.
But when she saw the scrawny boy running toward her, the corners of her mouth lifted.
"Professor McGonagall—sorry to keep you waiting."
He trotted up to her. His health was poor—just a few steps left him breathless—but he always ran to reach Professor McGonagall.
He'd done the same on their shopping trip. When she'd asked why, the little fellow had murmured, barely audible:
"You run to meet the important people."
The not-so-young cat-lady said nothing, but inside, she melted.
"You can slow down, Mr. Green. We have plenty of time."
Her voice didn't match her stern expression. She gently took Sean's hand—
and suddenly noticed the frail boy watching her with careful focus.
"S—cour—g—ify."
With a flick of Sean's wand, the dust in her hair vanished.
"Dirt… doesn't belong… on your head."
Still panting, the spell left him even more winded. His voice was soft, but stubborn.
McGonagall gazed at him, momentarily lost, surprise and warmth flickering in her eyes.
"A proper Scouring Charm. How long did it take you to learn it, Mr. Green?"
She led him forward by the hand as she asked.
"Only learned it yesterday, Professor."
His breathing had settled; his head was bowed, his tone cautious and unsure.
"You've done very well, Mr. Green. It seems you truly can win that scholarship."
She'd caught that timidity, and offered the encouragement with a smile.
Sean kept silent—just looked up at her with bright eyes, then quickly looked away.
Inside, he was already popping champagne.
Given Professor McGonagall's temperament, once she said that, the scholarship was already half in his pocket. Playing the pitiable orphan felt a bit immoral, but to get the scholarship, escape that deadly orphanage, and live—Sean had no choice.
His body still needed time to mend. The scholarship was the only money he had a real shot at.
Sure enough, her next words laid out the terms.
"Headmaster Dumbledore has approved it. If, within the first month, you achieve 'Outstanding' in all seven subjects, you'll be awarded a six-hundred-Galleon scholarship."
She delivered the swell of news in an even tone, watching the boy beside her, as though waiting for his smile.
Instead, Sean only lowered his head further.
After a long moment, his voice came, barely above a whisper:
"…Thank you, Professor. I know from the books that Hogwarts doesn't give scholarships to first-years. Thank you for making it possible for me to study magic."
He said no more.
He meant every word.
McGonagall froze for a heartbeat; then, like her smile, her heart slowly softened.
"You've earned it, Mr. Green. You don't need to thank me for this."
She glanced at him sidelong—and for the third time, caught him peeking back at her.
"How long have you been practicing charms?"
It was her last question before they reached the platform.
"Thirteen hours, Professor."
He answered honestly.
"In total?"
Her eyes flickered—suddenly heavy.
"Every day."
…
The station was a wall of sound. Sean hauled his heavy case, forcing a path through the crowd.
"The Hogwarts Express is behind that barrier. Don't be afraid—just walk straight through, Mr. Green."
Her words echoed as he stared at the solid wall. He knew it wouldn't fail, but still—nerves. Then he thought she might be watching, clenched his teeth, and slipped through with his eyes shut.
To a certain not-so-young cat-lady, though, it looked like he didn't hesitate at all before charging the wall.
"That child trusts you, Minerva."
An old voice sounded at her side.
"All seven at Outstanding isn't a simple task. Do you believe he can do it?"
Out of a private amusement, a certain "White Dark Lord" asked, smiling.
"Albus, even if only one student in all of Hogwarts could, I'd still believe it would be Sean."
McGonagall's gaze was steady; she was still stuck on "thirteen hours a day."
Even at her most single-minded, she'd never kept that pace for two straight months.
Let alone the gang of mischief-makers that passed for Hogwarts students.
"Sean is a poor child, and a… considerate, well-behaved one. He deserves that scholarship."
After a pause, McGonagall said it plainly.