Don't judge your past self so harshly from where you stand now.
That was the only thing Sean truly wanted to say.
Dumbledore lifted those pale blue eyes, and at last he fully understood the emotions Minerva and Severus had once carried.
What a good child, he thought.
If someone wields immense power and talent, yet remains humble…
If someone grew up struggling in barren soil, clawing their way toward life from the edge of death, and still allows themselves to be moved by every small, fragile fight for survival…
If someone has never really known much kindness, and still holds the world with the most genuine goodwill, doing everything they can for everyone in need…
Then perhaps only such a person deserves to be called great.
Because when he was in that place, there was no one who could have done better than he did.
The Daily Prophet had called him the successor to the greatest wizard. But whose place is he meant to take? In some sense, he isn't really anyone's student.
"If you knew how terrible the things I've done are…" Dumbledore said, sounding like a boy again, speaking to a great soul that the soul-relic itself had recognized.
"That doesn't matter, does it? If the one you want to bring back is a soul…"
Sean looked straight at him. "Then please don't pity the dead, Headmaster. Pity the living. Above all, pity those who live their lives without love."
His gaze told Dumbledore plainly: There is someone here who needs pity.
"Child…"
Dumbledore's long beard trembled. He suddenly realized that this was exactly what he'd been trying to say for a lifetime and never managed to shape into words.
Or rather, it was what he'd never had the face to say before ending what he considered a shameful life.
"I'll do it, Headmaster," Sean said.
He heard the rasp in his own voice. Everyone wanted Dumbledore to be the unshakable wall protecting the world—Dumbledore included.
But how many people had ever cared about that old man's broken, lonely heart?
Did he truly only want wool socks? Maybe…
Dumbledore simply stared at him. He couldn't describe what he felt; at that moment his command of language was no better than anyone else's.
He was sending this kind of child into the dangers of the borderland, and even though he knew what such a wizard might bring to the magical world, it still tore at him.
"Forget…"
He tried several times to begin, but the words wouldn't come.
"Forget my request, child. Forget me…"
When, later, an owl flew out of the headmaster's office carrying a Hogwarts letter to Sean, it was as if something inside Dumbledore had finally loosened.
His blue eyes narrowed, regaining their usual kind warmth.
"There are many people in the magical world who deserve help," he said softly, "but I do not number myself among them."
He met Sean's eyes again.
Only now did he truly see what surged beneath that calm green surface.
Even he could be scalded by such an honest soul.
Sean said nothing. Of course he knew what Dumbledore was thinking. He knew the borderland was extremely dangerous—most of all because wizards are so powerless when it comes to the realm of the soul.
But Sean was not like most wizards. He always had an edge when it came to learning magic. Sooner or later, he would accomplish everything that could be done.
If the borderland really did hold a lost Ariana… then trusting this to Sean was like raising the odds from nearly zero to something closer to ninety-nine percent—far better than pinning everything on the Resurrection Stone.
"Forget our conversation, my boy," Dumbledore went on. "Every Saturday this summer, I still hope to see you here.
I'm not as clever as you think, but time, you know… time will let even the most foolish person glean something.
For example, figuring out how to speak in the borderland—that's only a small problem, really."
When Sean stepped out of the headmaster's office, Dumbledore could still see something in those steady green eyes.
"There's no such thing as coincidence in this world, Albus. If that child is meant to find something, he will find it."
He remembered Minerva saying that.
He's a stubborn child, she'd said, and once he finds the right path, he never turns aside.
So… had he just made another decision to regret?
…
Sunlight slanted across the corridor, laying a thin halo over Sean's shoulders.
Quietly, he moved the importance of soul-transfiguration up a few steps in his plans. The plea of an old man who had guarded the magical world for decades—anyone would be moved by that.
For now, though, Professor McGonagall was still waiting.
He pulled out the letter in his hand. The ink shimmered in the light:
Come see me, child.
—Minerva
Outside the Transfiguration office, Professor McGonagall stood by the window.
Why do Hogwarts wizards all like standing at windows? Sean wondered, mind wandering for a moment.
"Come here, child," McGonagall called softly.
"When you're happy, you ought to remember there's someone waiting for you to share it with…"
Sean blinked. What did that mean?
"You… actually think this is a small matter?" she said, reading his confusion at a glance.
She remembered Olivia Tayla sharing that astonishing result with her in the Great Hall, and now she was both shocked and amused.
"You've taken a step in Transfiguration no one has ever taken before. Anyone would remember the boy who turned himself into a magical creature…"
McGonagall said with a smile.
"In truth, Professor, I don't fully understand the principles yet," Sean admitted. "I don't know the ancient runes for self-transfiguration. And right now it's still an irreproducible, purely self-driven transformation…"
Only then did he realize what she meant.
It was his strange, accidental breakthrough: an Animagus form that was actually a magical creature.
For the rest of the afternoon, Sean stayed with McGonagall, working on mastering his kneazle form.
He ran up against the same issue as before—he didn't yet have deep control over his body. This time, though, McGonagall's guidance arrived at exactly the right moment.
As a kneazle, after practice, Sean could even use his whiskers to sense his surroundings.
With his eyes closed, he could run and leap by feeling how the air flowed around him, though right now it mostly meant crashing headlong into things.
The tabby cat watched as the black kneazle slammed into a wall McGonagall had conveniently softened; then she covered her head with a paw, whiskers quivering with amusement.
Sun poured through the castle windows, flowers on the sills perfumed the air, and from the warm Transfiguration office there came, from time to time, the sound of soft mews and muffled thumps.
…
Sean's head was still spinning when he left the office.
He didn't give up, though. If he could sprint blind at that kind of speed and still stay upright, he'd have one more way to retreat safely when the time came to face the basilisk.
A kneazle, as a magical creature, was always going to have more uncanny abilities than an ordinary cat.
And Sean couldn't shake the feeling that even among kneazles, his own second self might be on the stronger side.
Now, he needed to find another magical beast—a good opponent for the basilisk.
"Hagrid!"
At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Sean called out.