After the first Animagus transformation, if Sean wanted to return to human form, he had to picture his human body as clearly as possible.
Usually, that was enough. But sometimes the transformation wouldn't happen right away—at those times, you weren't supposed to panic.
With practice, you'd eventually be able to switch between human and animal forms just by imagining the creature clearly.
But… how long would the practice take?
That question bothered Sean, leaving him strangely uneasy.
Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore soon left, and the house quickly sank back into its usual silence and lifelessness.
Lightning streaked across the sky above Spinner's End. Even the Dursleys looked down on this miserable neighborhood—but in a cat's eyes, everything here was new.
After the black cat had prowled around for a bit, it found that it could even close its eyes and, guided by nothing but feel, slip quietly toward wherever it wanted to go.
It seemed to be gradually getting the hang of kneazle instincts.
But that brought a new problem.
He couldn't just go on living as a magical animal forever.
Before she left, McGonagall had told him not to worry—Animagus form was something wizards picked up fast.
At worst, she'd said, it might take a day.
But… he wasn't a normal Animagus.
If he still couldn't turn back after a full day, he was going to call the professors.
While Sean was working at it, the night passed quickly, and morning came.
The storm had left pools of standing water behind, now slowly draining into the filthy river.
The sun rose over the cluttered street, lighting up the tarnished house number at the end of Spinner's End. Light crept into the cramped sitting room as well.
Sean had fallen asleep curled on the Transfiguration-made cushion. When he woke, he heard an owl hooting outside the window.
That night, he'd had a dream.
The dream was full of mist, but within it he had perfect control over his kneazle body.
He remembered a passage from Soul Transfiguration:
[Those who do not know they possess a fetch will explain what they saw as a dream.
Those who do know are fully aware they have not dreamt at all, but manifested their fetch.
In Norse lore, such dreams allow the fetch to use the landscape of the dream and its corresponding place in the waking world, turning the owner's thoughts into reality.]
Sean thought of Harry—how he'd dreamed of Nagini attacking Mr. Weasley, and it came true.
How he'd dreamed of Wormtail and Voldemort's first contact, and that, too, became reality…
When he woke, the black cat shook its head and then sat completely still for a long moment. It was picturing his human body—and this time, he felt his own shape very quickly.
That meant that, in reality too, he had learned to control his Animagus form.
The success sent a jolt of excitement through him.
As he transformed back, there was a sharp crack overhead. Sean looked up to see an owl smash through the window, glass shattering across the floor.
Snape's expression didn't change. He simply grabbed the owl and made as if to throw it straight into the fireplace.
What stopped him was the name written on the envelope. That moment's distraction spared the heavy bird from being lobbed into the fire; it beat its wings furiously and escaped.
—"To Mr. Sean Green."
In a moment, Sean had taken and opened the letter.
Sunlight spilled over the page, smoothing out the creases and bringing the ink into view:
[Dear Mr. Green,
Hollysay hasn't had a sick orphan go without treatment for a long time now.
That can only be your doing. Do you know what I think about when I cry?
That there are always people who hold the truest kindness toward the world.
The children here are all doing well. Sean from the farm has written a little poem for you—I wanted you to see it:
[Dear Mr. Green,
If I send you a book,
it won't be a book of poems.
I'd send you one about plants,
about fields of grain.
To tell you the difference between rice and weeds,
to tell you how a weed's heart trembles,
longing to sprout
in the spring.
Spring has already passed. If you have time, will you come to Hollysay and see these seeds?
—Yours faithfully, Rowland Taylor]
Sean's gaze went unfocused for a long time. When he finally folded the letter away, he saw that Snape was standing right beside him.
Snape's face went cold. This idiot never bothered to guard himself around him; with a single stray glance he already knew the sort of "foolish" thing the boy had done.
Let his vault run dry… for this?
"Naïve… half-witted. Your head is clearly stuffed full of this childish nonsense," Snape sneered, his tone thick with frustrated contempt.
"Professor, may I go out for a while?" Sean asked.
"Heh—our self-righteous, softhearted Mr. Green," Snape drawled. "You think you're doing something meaningful? You think you're any different from—"
The words stuck in his throat. For a long moment he looked as though he'd snapped out of a nightmare.
How was he different from "those people," exactly?
He swallowed the rest of the sentence. Whenever he looked into those calm green eyes, he kept forgetting that this boy had once stood where he'd stood.
A home that was shattered or nearly nonexistent; poverty and frailty hanging on like shadows; ideas so naive they were almost painful to look at…
Snape's gaze roamed the familiar room. For a heartbeat, he saw an eagle-nosed man screaming at a cowering woman and a little boy sobbing in the corner.
His eyes flicked over the bedroom doorway and another image overlaid what was there: an oily-haired teenage boy alone in the dark, lying on his bed, shooting at flies on the ceiling with his wand…
He was repeating the story that had once happened to him. It was the one thing he was always good at.
Pain rose from somewhere deep inside his chest. In the end, he'd become no different from the people he despised.
He could almost hear a voice mocking him:
Severus, what a fine job you've done. You hated those people, fought them for so long—
and in the end you became just like them. What ideal in this world is worth that kind of ruin?
His throat trembled. Nothing came out.
When he finally forced sound through it, it was rough and strained:
"I'll… take you there."
Snape's face looked worse than ever. He stayed silent all the way.
"Professor, could we stop by Diagon Alley?" Sean asked.
He wanted to take out some Galleons. There were always better uses for them than sitting in a vault.
Again, Snape said nothing. He just gave Sean a long, searching look, then took his arm and Apparated them both to Diagon Alley.
Sunlit streets bustled around them; Gringotts' gleaming white façade loomed ahead.
Goblins were always unfailingly respectful to Hogwarts professors. Inside, one of them piloted a small cart down the narrow tracks, careening through the underground tunnels toward the vaults.
The wild ride didn't soften Snape's glower at all; if anything, the goblin shrank further into himself to avoid that oppressive aura.
When the vault door opened, the flash of gold within made Snape's expression change for the first time.
"This is your vault?! What have you been doing?!"