Night deepened. Outside, trucks rumbled over wet pavement, their headlights casting fleeting shadows through the thin curtains. London was financialising, Canary Wharf was rising with glass and steel, but the street where the orphanage stood was still piled with uncollected garbage bags, rotting in the autumn damp.
The house always reeked of disinfectant—sharp and chemical—but it couldn't mask the stale air that clung to every corner. The caretakers moved through their duties with exhausted indifference, and the children watched them with the wary alertness of wounded animals.
Shawn curled up in the old, cheap synthetic bedding, finally allowing himself to sleep. Just moments ago, he had tested his newly unlocked green-tier talent, and the results had left him stunned.
"What kind of suffering have I been through before?"
It turned out that three practice attempts could now yield one correct practice. It turned out that wizards could actually perceive the proper pronunciation of spells—not just memorise them blindly.
Take "Scourgify", for example. He had always thought the emphasis fell as "Scour—g—ify", but just moments ago, in a sudden flash of clarity, he'd wondered: Why couldn't it be "S—cour—g—ify"?
In a certain mysterious state of heightened awareness, he had achieved his first proficient practice. A full ten proficiency points. Progress that would have taken him five days before, he'd achieved in five seconds.
No wonder it was a world of talented magic. He finally understood the gulf between those with natural aptitude and those without.
Tomorrow was when Professor McGonagall would come to collect him. He hoped he could perform well enough to reach the minimum standard for the scholarship. What exactly were the scholarship standards for first-year students at Hogwarts? Shawn didn't know, but he was certain he would meet them.
No other reason—just sheer determination.
As long as he persisted in studying magic, he would stand at the pinnacle of the magical world. With beautiful fantasies about the future, Shawn fell into a deep sleep.
September 1, 1991.
This was a momentous day. Shawn was leaving the orphanage.
He swiftly packed his belongings—only two undershirts and two pairs of trousers were still usable. The rest were either too large from older children who'd outgrown them or too small from his own younger years. When he dragged a cheap suitcase to the door, he was surprised to discover how little actually belonged to him. Eleven years in this place, and everything he owned fit into one battered case.
"Shawn, you'd better not come crawling back because you can't pay your expenses! You'll be in for it then!"
Matron Anna twisted her bulk around the doorframe, her tone as sour and mean as ever. Her face was pinched with perpetual disapproval.
"Don't trouble yourself worrying, Matron! I hope you don't get sacked in the recent layoffs! Though given your performance, you'll definitely lose your job!"
With that, Shawn quickly ran toward the door, leaving behind only Matron Anna's shrill cursing. He didn't understand all the crude language, but he assumed she was damning him thoroughly.
Finally—he could talk back to that wretched woman properly. It was her wilful blindness to the original owner's serious illness that made her one of the culprits behind his death. In this world, no one knew about the original owner's death. Shawn, who had arrived from another world, was the only one who did.
Cursing her harshly was collecting interest for the boy whose body he now inhabited.
This was something he wouldn't have dared even think about normally, but now he'd done it. The freedom tasted sweet.
With a smile tugging at his lips, Shawn jogged to the peeling painted door. The faded "Oak Children's Home" nameplate hung crookedly, shaking loose dust in the morning breeze.
Below the nameplate stood Professor McGonagall, wearing square glasses, her dark hair curled and pinned in a high bun. She was dressed in a dark green robe paired with a Scottish plaid shirt, projecting her usual stern aura.
But when she saw the frail Shawn running toward her, the corners of her mouth lifted slightly.
"Professor McGonagall, I'm sorry to keep you waiting."
Shawn jogged the remaining distance, his poor health making him breathless after just those few steps. Yet he always ran to meet Professor McGonagall—never walked.
It had been the same during their shopping trip to Diagon Alley. When Professor McGonagall had asked why, the boy had responded in a barely audible voice: "Important people should be greeted by running to them."
The older witch had said nothing then, but her heart had melted completely.
"You can slow down, Mr Green. We have plenty of time."
Professor McGonagall's voice wasn't as stern as her expression suggested. She gently took Shawn's hand in hers.
But she suddenly noticed that this frail boy was looking at her carefully and intently, his gaze fixed on her hair.
"S—cour—g—ify."
As Shawn waved his wand, the dust on Professor McGonagall's hair disappeared, leaving the dark strands clean and glossy.
"Dirt shouldn't be on your head."
Shawn was still breathing heavily. After completing this small act of care, his breathing became even more laboured. His voice was soft but stubborn with determination.
Professor McGonagall stared at Shawn with undisguised surprise, comfort and warmth flashing in her eyes.
"A proper Scouring Charm. How long did it take you to learn it, Mr Green?"
Professor McGonagall asked while gently holding his hand and walking slowly forward, adjusting her pace to his shorter legs.
"I only learnt it yesterday, Professor."
Shawn had caught his breath. His head hung low, his tone revealing caution and lack of confidence—the habitual posture of a child accustomed to disappointment.
"You did very well, Mr Green. It seems you truly can obtain that scholarship."
Professor McGonagall noticed that caution and recognised it for what it was. She smiled and spoke these encouraging words with deliberate warmth.
Shawn remained silent, only raising his head to gaze at Professor McGonagall with bright, shining eyes before quickly averting his gaze.
Internally, he was already celebrating victory.
Given Professor McGonagall's character, when she said this, half of his scholarship was already secured. Although performing as a pitiful orphan carried a tinge of guilt, for the sake of the scholarship and escaping the deadly orphanage to survive, Shawn had no choice. His body still needed proper nutrition and care, and the scholarship was his best hope for earning enough money to sustain himself through seven years at Hogwarts.
Sure enough, in the next moment, Professor McGonagall revealed the scholarship details.
"Headmaster Dumbledore has approved it. If you can achieve Outstanding in all seven subjects within the first month, you'll be awarded a scholarship of six hundred Galleons."
Professor McGonagall calmly delivered news that made Shawn's heart surge with hope. She looked at the boy beside her, seemingly waiting for his smile.
Unexpectedly, Shawn only lowered his head further.
After a long while, his voice finally emerged, weak and small: "Thank you, Professor. Actually, I read in books that Hogwarts doesn't have scholarships for first-year students. Thank you for your efforts in allowing me to study magic."
After saying these words, he fell silent.
This was his sincere gratitude—not performance, but truth.
Professor McGonagall was stunned for a moment. Then her heart, like her smile, gradually softened into something tender and protective.
"This is what you deserve, Mr Green. You don't need to thank me for this."
She inadvertently glanced down at Shawn, only to catch his careful peek upward for the third time—as if checking to make sure she was still there, still real.
"How long have you been practising spells?"
Before reaching the platform entrance, Professor McGonagall asked her final question.
"Thirteen hours, Professor."
Shawn answered honestly.
"In total?"
The professor's gaze flickered, seeming somewhat heavy with concern.
"Every day."
The simple words hung in the air between them. Professor McGonagall's stride faltered for just a moment before she continued walking, her grip on his hand tightening almost imperceptibly.
The train station bustled with noise and movement. Shawn dragged his heavy suitcase, struggling through the crowded throng of travellers rushing for their morning trains.
"That platform is behind the wall—that's the Hogwarts Express. Don't be afraid; just run through, Mr Green."
Professor McGonagall's words echoed in his mind. Looking at that solid brick wall between platforms nine and ten, even knowing nothing would go wrong, Shawn still felt apprehension coil in his stomach. But thinking that Professor McGonagall might still be watching, he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and ran straight into the wall.
The barrier parted like mist.
But in the eyes of a certain older witch, Shawn hadn't hesitated at all before charging toward that seemingly solid wall—complete trust overriding all instinct for self-preservation.
"That child trusts you greatly, Minerva."
An aged voice appeared beside Professor McGonagall, warm with gentle amusement.
"Outstanding in all seven subjects is no simple task. Do you believe he can do it?"
For his own curiosity, a certain wizard with a long silver beard asked this question with a knowing chuckle.
"Albus, even if only one person in all of Hogwarts could do it, I believe that would be Shawn."
Professor McGonagall's gaze was firm as she stared at the wall where the boy had disappeared. She was still dwelling on that phrase: thirteen hours every day.
Even at her most devoted to studying magic, she couldn't have maintained such intense focus for two consecutive months. Let alone those children at Hogwarts who spent their days in foolish pranks and idle gossip.
"Shawn is a pitiable child and also a well-behaved and sensible one. He deserves that scholarship, Albus. He deserves far more than what this world has given him."
After a moment of silence, Professor McGonagall made this assessment, her voice carrying an edge of protective fierceness that made Dumbledore's eyes twinkle with approval behind his half-moon spectacles.