The distant sky was a hazy gray. A black cat pressed small prints into the snow, a lively blot of ink on white.
His strength was slowly returning; on the other side, the shouts from the Quidditch pitch grew louder.
"Let me tell you, we're taking the Quidditch Cup this year!"
Wood was roaring.
"This year our team is going to blaze with glory! We'll sweep aside every obstacle!"
His words had the entire Gryffindor team fired up.
The Ravenclaw team said nothing—just leveled them a cool look. Then Roger added, "We'll see."
But once outside the pitch, Roger couldn't hold it in.
"They keep baiting us, and the only thing we need to do is put those arrogant bastards down! Tell the Beaters to bring the hardest bats! We'll win the match—and crack a few skulls while we're at it!"
He sounded like a true fan of the Falmouth Falcons—that was their slogan.
On the pitch, Wood looked like he was issuing a challenge, but he was really staring fixedly at the Ravenclaw locker room.
"No one slipped in the back way—" Fred burst out of the changing room.
"No extra bodies at their final practice either, so there won't be any during the match—" George picked up.
"We crushed Slytherin, beat Hufflepuff even with Snape's bias—nothing can stop us now! Ravenclaw's lost their strongest backup, and we're the best—the best—team in the school."
He smacked one fist into his palm, eyes flashing with that old feral light.
"We've got the three best Chasers," Wood said, pointing to Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell.
"We've got two unbeatable Beaters."
"Enough, Oliver—you're making us blush," Fred and George chimed together, pretending to flush.
"And a Seeker who's never lost," Wood finished, glaring at Harry with fierce pride.
"And me," he added belatedly.
"We think you're great too, Oliver," George said.
"A cracking Keeper," Fred added.
"Crush them!" Wood concluded.
Not far from the pitch, Professor McGonagall listened to the rousing speech, eyes nearly alight with passion. But she didn't step onto the pitch as she once might have. Instead, while Sean had just learned to animate small stone plinths, she corrected a few fine mistakes for him and explained more efficient technique.
Sean had slipped into the Transfiguration office as a black cat—and slipped out the same way. He didn't understand how a cat's body could be so supple, and he equally didn't understand why Professor McGonagall loved Quidditch so much.
Odd, wasn't it?
A barn owl swept in through the stained glass, settled on Sean's shoulder, and dropped a bundle of letters. The larger owl told him immediately whose they were.
[Dear Green,
If you've time to see this, please tell me you've stowed that Portkey properly.
Hah—looks like Quidditch season's back at Hogwarts. Does Minerva still sit the northern stands?
Indulge an old man and tell me a few things, will you? How else is old Marcus to keep a hand on your life?
Love, Marcus]
Sean smoothed the page; the quill bobbed and began to write his reply.
The hall was a storm of wings and hoots. Some of the commotion belonged to Sean.
Once he'd finished, more letters came tumbling through. The three little McGonagalls had crammed theirs with writing. Inside were a few crystal-clear glass marbles, some glossy candy wrappers, and a "commission form":
[We offer up all our treasure to you, dear Wizard Green. Can you come back sooner? We've worked so hard waiting.]
The last line even ran together wrong.
Sean sent some biscuits back. Marcus's owl was shockingly swift; by evening it returned with a reply.
[About Quidditch—since you asked, I'm happy to tell you a little… It's a distant story now.
Isabel, our mother, was a witch of great talent and once a standout Quidditch player at Hogwarts.
She fell in love with our father, a man without magic—Robert—and chose, for love, to leave the wizarding world.
Their love was earnest and fervent, but a witch in the Muggle world rarely finds ease—especially after the three of us children showed magic.]
By here, Sean largely understood. He read on.
It was a long letter about a past deliberately left unspoken:
[We couldn't reveal even a trace of magic.
Minerva—she was very close to our father, and her temperament was much like his.
Watching him struggle with our family's "peculiarities" pained her.
She could also feel how tightly our mother lived, trying to fit a Muggle village, how she missed the freedom of her own kind, and the joy of unbridled magic.
She told us she'd never forget how her mother cried when Minerva's Hogwarts letter came at age eleven. It wasn't only pride; it was envy too.
So when Minerva later loved a man without magic, she chose to leave without a word—
The day after he proposed.
Because of the Statute of Secrecy, she couldn't even tell him why she left, and his heart broke.
Later… he died in the violence unleashed by Voldemort.]
By then Sean was stunned. He thought he understood why Professor McGonagall was always strict and unbending.
[You ask why Minerva loves Quidditch so much. All I can tell you is this:
Quidditch is a bond. When the gift she inherited from her mother took the field, perhaps both of them touched something extraordinary in magic.
Mother and daughter were both fine players—perhaps that is a kind of solace?]
Even at dusk the pitch was still a riot—Ravenclaw's training never stopped.
McGonagall gazed through the office window; from here, she could always see the Quidditch field.
She hadn't inherited much from childhood—only a fury at ordinary life, and a refusal to go quietly.
~~~
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