Night deepened. Trucks rumbled on wet London pavement, a city modernizing, Canary Wharf rising. But here, on the orphanage's street, trash bags still piled high. Disinfectant couldn't mask the decay inside. Caregivers were exhausted, children as wary as wounded animals.
Sean curled deep into his cheap, synthetic quilt, fast asleep. He'd just tested his newly unlocked green talent. One thought echoed in his mind: 'What kind of miserable life was I living before?'
Three practice sessions for one correct spell. Wizards could *sense* pronunciation. He'd always thought 'Scourgify' was 'Scour—g—ify'.
Then, a sudden thought: 'Why not S—cour—g—ify?'
In that mysterious state, his first [Proficient] status popped up. A full ten points of proficiency!
Five days of progress, achieved in five seconds. This was a world of talents, he finally understood.
Tomorrow, Professor McGonagall would arrive. He had to perform well enough for that scholarship—at least the minimum standard. What *was* the standard for a first-year at Hogwarts? Sean didn't know, but he'd meet it.
Grit alone would carry him. With persistence, he'd stand at the peak of the magical world. Fantasies of the future pulled Sean into a deep sleep.
September 1, 1991.
A special day: Sean was leaving the orphanage. He packed efficiently. Only two undershirts and two pairs of trousers were usable; everything else was too big or too small. Dragging his cheap suitcase to the door, he realized how little truly belonged to him.
"Sean, don't come crawling back when you can't afford tuition! You'll be sorry!" Caregiver Anna twisted her fat body, her tone as sharp and mean as ever.
"Don't you worry, you square-shaped auntie! I hope *you* don't get fired in the layoffs! Judging by your performance, you're definitely headed for unemployment!"
Sean scurried to the door, leaving Anna's shrill curses in his wake. He didn't understand the slang, but assumed she was swearing at him.
'Whew.' He'd finally talked back to that cylinder. She'd ignored the original Sean's severe illness, a culprit in his death. No one in this world knew the truth, only Sean, the transmigrator. Scolding her was, in a way, collecting interest for the original owner. He'd never dared imagine it before, but now he had. 'Goodness, Sean, how did you do that? You're truly amazing, you guy!'
A smile on his face, Sean trotted to the peeling door. The faded "Oak Children's Home" sign hung crookedly, shedding dust. Below it stood Professor McGonagall. Square glasses, black hair in a tight bun, deep green robes over a tartan shirt—a stern aura. Yet, seeing the frail Sean run towards her, the corners of her mouth softened.
"Professor McGonagall, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting." Sean ran the whole way. His poor health left him panting after mere steps, but he always ran to her. It had been the same during their last shopping trip. When she'd asked why, the little guy had whispered, "Important people should be met by running."
The elderly cat-lady didn't say it aloud, but her heart melted.
"You can slow down, Mr. Green. We have plenty of time." Professor McGonagall's voice wasn't as stern as her expression. She gently took Sean's hand, then noticed the frail boy watching her with careful, focused eyes.
"S—cour—g—ify."
Sean waved his wand. The dust on Professor McGonagall's hair vanished. "Dirty things… shouldn't be on top of your head." He was still panting, his breathing labored from the effort. His voice was soft, yet stubborn.
Professor McGonagall stared, lost in thought, surprise and gratification flashing in her eyes. "A qualified Scourgify. How long did that take you to learn, Mr. Green?" she asked, gently leading him forward.
"I learned it yesterday, Professor." Sean stopped panting. He lowered his head, his tone cautious and insecure.
"You did very well, Mr. Green. It seems you really might earn that scholarship." Professor McGonagall noticed his caution, offering encouraging words with a smile.
Sean remained silent, lifting his head only to meet her gaze with bright, shining eyes before quickly looking away. 'Inside, I'm popping champagne,' he thought. With Professor McGonagall, those words meant half his scholarship was secured. Acting the pitiful orphan felt immoral, but for the scholarship—for escape from this deadly orphanage—he had no choice. His body needed recovery, and this was his best hope for funds.
Sure enough, the next sentence delivered the scholarship news.
"Headmaster Dumbledore has approved it. Achieve 'Exemplary' in all seven subjects within the first month, and you'll be granted a scholarship of six hundred Galleons." Professor McGonagall spoke the words that made Sean's heart race. She watched the little boy beside her, waiting for his smile.
Unexpectedly, Sean only lowered his head further. After a long while, his voice came out weakly: "...Thank you, Professor. Actually, I read that Hogwarts doesn't offer scholarships for first-year students. Thank you for your efforts in letting me study magic."
He said no more. These were his true feelings.
Professor McGonagall was stunned, then her heart, like her smile, slowly softened. "This is what you deserve, Mr. Green. You don't need to thank me for such things." She glanced at Sean, catching him stealing a careful peek for the third time. "How long have you been practicing the spell?" she asked as they reached the platform.
"Thirteen hours, Professor," Sean answered honestly.
"In total?" The professor's gaze flickered, heavy with thought.
"Every day."
The train station bustled. Sean dragged his heavy suitcase, struggling through the throng.
"The Hogwarts Express is behind that platform. Don't be afraid; just run through it, Mr. Green." Professor McGonagall's words echoed. He stared at the solid wall. He knew it wasn't a problem, yet worry gnawed. But with McGonagall possibly watching, he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and merged into the brick.
To the elderly cat-lady, it looked like Sean had charged the wall without a hint of hesitation.
"That child trusts you, Minerva," an old voice appeared beside her. "Top marks in all seven subjects is no simple task. Do you believe he can do it?" A certain White Wizard chuckled, seeking amusement.
"Albus, if only one person in all of Hogwarts can do it, I believe it will be Sean." Professor McGonagall's gaze was firm. She still dwelled on 'thirteen hours a day.' Even in her most tireless days, she couldn't have maintained that intensity for two months straight. Especially not with Hogwarts' rowdy little wizards.
"Sean is a pitiful child, and also a… well-behaved and sensible child. He deserves that scholarship." Professor McGonagall fell silent, offering her assessment.