Chapter 617: One Family
"Five-oh-seven, arriving from the London outskirts."
As the world snapped back into focus after the Apparition, a tired voice
announced their arrival. Sean stepped out from behind Professor McGonagall's
shadow, taking in his surroundings.
They were standing in a vast, desolate stretch of misty moorland. Ahead of them,
two wizards stood looking thoroughly exhausted and irritable. One clutched a
massive gold pocket watch, while the other held a thick roll of parchment and a
long eagle-feather quill.
Both were dressed in Muggle clothing, though neither had quite mastered the
"aesthetic." The man with the watch wore a tweed suit jacket paired with bright
yellow, thigh-high galoshes. His colleague was even more bizarre, sporting a
traditional Highland kilt over a South American poncho.
"Old Marcus! You've arrived!" the wizard with the watch said, his face
brightening slightly.
"Basil, lad! You're on the early shift?" Grandpa Marcus stepped forward and
clapped the man on the shoulder with enough force to make his teeth rattle.
"I am, I am. Thank Merlin you Apparated," Basil said, trying to regain his
balance.
Without needing to ask, the group understood why Basil was so anti-Portkey
today. Scattered behind him was a collection of "anchor" objects: a filthy old
rag, a moldy leather boot, and a rusted tin can that smelled faintly of rotting
eggs.
"Ugh..." Hermione muttered, wrinkling her nose.
"Your site is half a mile up, the second field on the left. The site manager is
a Mr. Payne," Basil instructed.
"Thanks, lad. Keep a sharp eye out, eh?" Marcus laughed heartily.
"Of course, Mr. McGonagall," Basil said, forcing his tired eyes to stay open.
"'Teacher'?" Hermione whispered to herself, catching the note of reverence in
Basil's voice.
"Basil's a capable lad," Marcus noted, leaning down to whisper to her. "He
didn't quite have the stomach for the Auror trials, but he's a good man."
"You were an examiner for the Auror Office?" Hermione asked, her eyes widening.
"Once upon a time," Marcus grinned, his large teeth gleaming.
"That's incredible," Hermione said sincerely.
"It's a living," Marcus chuckled, striding ahead.
"Sean, you never told us your grandfather was that Marcus McGonagall," Hermione
whispered as they fell behind.
Sean looked at her with a blank, slightly confused expression. He didn't answer,
and Hermione allowed the rest of her questions to die in her throat.
Something is off, Hermione thought. It was obvious the entire McGonagall
household adored Sean—anyone with eyes could see that. But Sean acted as if he
were a guest who had only recently arrived, rather than someone who had been
raised there.
She thought of Sean's incredible talent and his occasionally detached nature.
The gears in her head turned, and her mouth fell open in a silent 'O'.
"You've figured it out?" Justin asked softly, his voice mild.
"You knew all along?" Hermione countered, looking at him with renewed respect.
"Mmm," Justin nodded.
The two shared a silent, cryptic look. Sean, whose enhanced senses were
currently picking up their "secret" conversation with perfect clarity, simply
watched the mist. He wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but his biological
"Wampus-Kneazle" traits didn't exactly have an off-switch.
They trudged across the moor for twenty minutes, the fog so thick they could
barely see their own feet. Eventually, a gate appeared through the gloom,
followed by a small stone cottage. Beyond the house, Sean could sense the
silhouettes of thousands of strange, magically-enhanced tents.
A man stood by the gate, staring out at the fields. He turned as he heard their
footsteps.
"Morning, Mr. Payne," Marcus called out.
"Morning," the man replied. "And you are?"
"McGonagall. Two tents, booked two days ago. Everything in order?"
"Right. Payment now, if you please," Mr. Payne said.
Marcus produced a stack of Muggle pounds.
It was a curious arrangement. The site manager was a Muggle. Apparently, the
Ministry hadn't purchased this land; they were merely leasing it for the
duration of the Cup. Thus, they had to pay rent in local currency. Sean
suspected the Ministry could have easily bypassed the logistics, but for some
reason, they had chosen to involve a handful of Muggles in the process.
"Ah, lucky for me you've got the right paper," Mr. Payne said, looking at the
pounds with relief. "I've had a dozen foreigners through here today trying to
pay with heavy gold coins. And the tents! Some lot tried to book three hundred
at once."
"Is that so? How very peculiar," Marcus said, leaning in like an old friend.
"You're telling me! People from everywhere. Strange folk, too. Had one bloke
walking around in a kilt and a poncho earlier. Right weirdo, that one."
Payne was clearly happy to have someone "normal" to talk to.
"I bet it's hard to understand a word they say, eh?" Marcus prompted.
"Too right. I get the feeling they're all here for some massive... convention or
summat..."
Suddenly, a wizard in pinstriped trousers dropped out of the sky, landing
silently beside the cottage door.
"Obliviate!"
He pointed his wand at Mr. Payne, his voice sharp.
Instantly, the site manager's eyes went vacant. His brow smoothed over, and a
look of total, dazed indifference settled on his face—the tell-tale sign of a
modified memory.
The three students were stunned. It was the first time they had seen a Memory
Charm performed on an innocent person in real-time.
Sean stared at Mr. Payne. Through his "Inner Eye," the white vapors of the Lands
Between began to swirl around his pupils. He saw it clearly: Payne's "Mist"—the
spiritual fragments of his emotions and memories—were being torn away, turning
into the dark, thin smoke of the Veil.
"Here's a map of the grounds," Mr. Payne said calmly to Marcus, as if nothing
had happened. "And here is your change."
"Ah... thank you," Marcus said, his brow furrowed.
The wizard in pinstripes began walking them toward the main gate. He looked
haggard—his jaw was shadowed with stubble, and his eyes were ringed with dark
purple circles of fatigue. Once they were out of Payne's earshot, he muttered to
Marcus:
"Mr. McGonagall, sir? Glad you're here. I hate doing this. You have no idea how
much trouble that Muggle is. To keep him 'happy,' we're having to hit him with a
Memory Charm a dozen times a day. God, I wish this was over."
With a sharp crack, the wizard Apparated away.
"Using the charm that frequently..." Sean whispered.
"The Ministry doesn't care about a Muggle's long-term health," Marcus grumbled.
"He'll end up forgetful at best, a shell at worst. St. Mungo's could fix the
damage, but a Muggle won't ever find the entrance. I suppose the Dark Lord did
one thing right... he reminded wizards that we only get one life, same as the
Muggles."
The group went silent.
Sean continued to watch Mr. Payne. A few wisps of the man's soul-mist were still
drifting, trying to reconnect. Instinctively, Sean reached out with his mind,
using the Mists of Forgiveness and Mercy to anchor the stray fragments.
He felt a sudden, violent shudder in his chest.
CRACK.
The Void Rune fractured again.
The fifth one, Sean thought, his jaw tightening. He remembered Madam Brock's
words: "It will crack seven times..." And Trelawney's prophecy: "The Rune
shatters and the Legend appears."
He shook his head, letting the theories drift away like birds. He managed to
weave the soul-mist back into Mr. Payne, stabilizing the man's spirit without
restoring the forbidden memories. Before he left, he anchored a single thread of
white vapor to prevent further soul-drainage.
"There. That should do it," Sean whispered as Payne's eyes regained a natural
clarity.
They navigated the misty grounds, weaving through long rows of tents. Most were
unremarkable, their owners having made an effort to look "Muggle-ish." However,
many had overshot the mark, adding chimneys, bell-pulls, or weather vanes,
making them look like architectural absurdities.
Occasionally, they passed a tent that was obviously magical. In the center of
the field stood one made of several acres of striped silk, resembling a
miniature palace, with live peacocks tethered at the entrance. Further along,
another tent was shaped like a four-story tower with crenelated battlements.
"Always the same," Marcus noted with a scoff. "Wizards can't help but show off.
Ah, here we are."
The group stopped dead. Before them sat a tent so massive it took up the space
of three regular sites. Several other wizards were already standing nearby,
staring at it with envy.
"Fudge insisted," Marcus said, though he didn't look particularly upset. In
fact, he looked like he was barely suppressing a boastful grin. "He knows who to
keep happy."
"Merlin's beard..." Hermione breathed. The thing was a pavilion.
"It wasn't my doing," Marcus beamed. He looked at Sean, and then at Hermione and
Justin.
"Right then. We're all staying together. Later, I'll head out to fetch Miss
Granger's parents. They were quite worried about you, so I secured a few extra
seats for them from the Minister's private box..."
"Really?!" Hermione gasped. "But... my parents are Muggles!"
"So? Muggles and wizards are both human. Often as not, the Muggles are the ones
with the brains," Marcus said, huffing his chest out. "Besides, you'll meet my
own children soon enough. Every last one of 'em is a Muggle."
"Oh..." Hermione smiled. She decided this was the wisest old wizard she had ever
met.
"Wait... then where is Sean staying?" Justin asked, sensing a divide.
"Little Green is in the next tent over. With Minerva and the others. You can
visit him whenever you like... Now, come on. To Diagon Alley!"
Marcus gave his robes a flourish. Hermione and Justin took his hands, and the
three of them vanished in a swirl of air.
"We need to set up the tent," Professor McGonagall said, looking at the pile of
poles and canvas.
Sean nodded. He reached for his wand but then stopped himself, tucking it back
into his belt. The Ministry had designated this a "No-Magic Zone" to maintain
the masquerade. While many wizards ignored the rule, Sean wasn't one to break
protocol for convenience.
He grabbed a support beam and hauled it into place. He was no longer the thin,
scrawny boy he had been in first year; his training and growth meant he could
handle Muggle labor without much effort.
Suddenly, he saw a second set of poles being hoisted into place opposite him.
Sean looked up to see the expressionless face of Professor Snape.
"I'll handle the water supply," McGonagall said, checking her map. She looked
relaxed, her sharp features softened by the holiday spirit. She headed toward
the designated tap.
When she returned, she found Sean hammered nails into the stakes while Snape
held them steady. Every time Sean's hammer fell, Snape's eyebrow gave a tiny,
involuntary twitch.
"Done already?" Minerva asked, setting down a heavy iron bucket (which was
secretly being assisted by a Hovering Charm).
"Mmm," Sean nodded. He had almost forgotten how to live without magic.
Judging by the way Snape was breathing slightly harder than usual, the Potions
Master had forgotten even more than he had.
"Light the fire, Severus. I'll start on the ingredients," Minerva commanded,
pulling a variety of food items from her bag with a practiced flourish.
Sean looked back. Snape was currently staring at a box of Muggle matches with
deep suspicion.
"Do you know how to use them, sir?" Sean asked hesitantly.
Snape didn't answer. He carefully struck a match. A small, cold smirk touched
his lips as it flared to life.
Then, he burnt his finger.
He stared at his twitching hand for a second with a look of absolute, stony
indifference, as if the appendage belonged to someone else.
By the time Minerva emerged from the tent, the fire was roaring and the stove
was putting out a steady, inviting heat. The two wizards—one large, one
small—were sitting on a blanket on the ground, roasting sweet potatoes and
pumpkins in the embers.
The scent of sweetness and smoke filled the air.
"Breakfast is ready," Minerva called softly.
The two wizards stood up in perfect unison, walked toward the table with the
same measured stride, and sat down at the exact same moment. They caught each
other's eyes and shared a look of synchronized bewilderment.
Minerva sipped her tea, her eyes crinkling with a joy she couldn't hide. The
morning sun touched the edges of the tent, illuminating the three of them—a
teacher, an assistant, and a boy. Or perhaps, for the first time, a family.