Night deepened. Outside the orphanage, a lorry thundered past, tires grinding against rain-soaked asphalt.
London was racing into the age of finance; Canary Wharf was rising.
Yet the street where this orphanage stood was still littered with uncollected bags of trash.
The halls smelled permanently of disinfectant, but it couldn't cover the stench of damp rot.
The caretakers were exhausted, and the children lived like wounded strays—narrow-eyed, silent, always on guard.
Sean curled beneath the thin, synthetic blanket and slept heavily.
Just moments earlier, he had tested the effects of his newly upgraded green-tier talent.
There was only one thing he wanted to say about it:
"What kind of hell was I living in before this?"
Turns out that now, once every three attempts counted as a successful practice.
Turns out that a wizard could actually feel how a spell should be pronounced.
For example, Scourgify.
He had always believed it should sound like Scour—g—ify.
But suddenly, a thought struck him:
Why couldn't it be S—cour—g—ify?
And just like that, in a strange state of clarity, he earned his first "Skilled Cast".
+10 proficiency.
Five days of progress… achieved in five seconds.
Ah—so this was the world of talent-blessed magic.
He finally understood.
Tomorrow, Professor McGonagall would come to take him to Hogwarts.
Hopefully, he would perform well enough—at least well enough to reach the scholarship's minimum qualification.
What were the requirements for a first-year Hogwarts scholarship?
Sean had no idea.
But he was sure he would meet them.
No reason, except one:
Grit.
If he persisted, if he practiced, he would one day stand at the summit of the wizarding world.
With that belief, Sean drifted into sleep.
September 1st, 1991
A special day—
The day Sean finally left the orphanage.
He packed quickly.
Only two worn undershirts and two pairs of trousers were still usable.
Everything else was either too large or too small.
Dragging a cheap suitcase to the doorway, he suddenly realized how little in this world truly belonged to him.
"Sean! If you crawl back because you can't afford school supplies, don't expect any sympathy! You'll get what you deserve!"
Matron Anna's voice was as sharp and unpleasant as always.
"No need to worry about me, Aunt Square. I just hope you don't get sacked after the recent layoffs.
But judging by your performance… unemployment seems certain."
Sean darted toward the front gate before she could react, leaving behind a storm of shrill curses—most of which he didn't understand, but he assumed they were aimed at him.
Finally. He had wanted to say that for a long time.
That woman had ignored the original Sean's illness, becoming one of the direct causes of his death.
No one in this world knew about that death—except the Sean who had arrived from another world.
A few harsh words were interest paid on a life taken.
Normally, he would never have dared.
But today was different.
Well done, Sean. That was spectacular.
Still smiling faintly, he jogged to the peeling front door, where a faded plaque reading Oak Tree Children's Home hung crookedly and shed dust in the wind.
Beneath the plaque stood Professor Minerva McGonagall—square spectacles, dark hair twisted into a high bun, deep emerald robes over a tartan blouse, radiating quiet authority.
But when she saw the thin boy running toward her, her expression softened.
"Professor McGonagall, sorry to keep you waiting."
Sean stopped in front of her, breathless from the short run. His body was weak—running even a few dozen meters drained him. But he always ran to meet McGonagall.
He had done the same during their shopping trip.
When she'd asked why, he had murmured, barely audible:
"You run to meet important people."
The stern cat Animagus did not say anything aloud…
but her heart had melted completely.
"You may slow down, Mr. Greene. We have plenty of time."
Her voice was nothing like her rigid appearance—gentle and warm, as she lightly took Sean's hand.
Then she noticed him watching her intently—serious, nervous, focused.
"S—cour—g—ify."
A clean arc of the wand—
the dust vanished from her hair.
"Dirty things… don't belong… on your head."
Still panting, Sean spoke quietly, stubbornly, as if the sentence cost him great effort.
McGonagall stared at him, stunned.
Surprise and admiration flickered in her eyes.
"A correct Cleaning Charm. How long did it take you to learn, Mr. Greene?"
She walked slowly with him, still holding his hand.
"Yesterday, Professor."
Sean lowered his head again, voice small and unsure.
"You did very well, Mr. Greene. It seems you truly have a chance at earning that scholarship."
She had seen his uncertainty.
Her tone softened.
Sean said nothing—only lifted his bright eyes to meet hers briefly, then retreated again.
Inside, he was already popping champagne.
Given McGonagall's character,
when she said such a sentence,
the scholarship was already half in his pocket.
Playing the pitiful orphan felt morally questionable, yes—
but survival demanded it.
Escaping a death trap like the orphanage demanded it.
His body needed rest.
The scholarship was the only money he could realistically earn.
And as expected, McGonagall continued:
"Headmaster Dumbledore has approved it. If you achieve Outstanding in all seven first-year subjects within the first month, you will be awarded a scholarship of six hundred Galleons."
Her tone was calm, but Sean's heart surged like a tidal wave.
Yet instead of smiling, he bowed his head even lower.
After a long silence, he whispered:
"…Thank you, Professor. I read in a book that Hogwarts doesn't offer scholarships for first-year students. Thank you for fighting for this chance… so I can learn magic."
McGonagall froze—
then her heart softened again.
"You deserve it, Mr. Greene. You never need to thank anyone for what you've earned."
She glanced at him—
and they locked eyes again, for the third time.
"How long have you practiced spells?" she asked, before they reached the platform entrance.
"Thirteen hours, Professor."
"In total?"
"Every day."
The station roared with sound—whistles, footsteps, voices blending into chaos.
Dragging his heavy suitcase, Sean squeezed through the crowd.
"Behind that barrier is the Hogwarts Express. Don't be afraid. Just walk straight through, Mr. Greene."
McGonagall's voice echoed in his mind.
The brick wall loomed.
Even knowing it was safe, fear tightened his chest.
But thinking she might still be watching—
Sean clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and ran straight in.
To McGonagall, it looked like the boy didn't hesitate for a second.
"That child trusts you, Minerva."
A warm, ancient voice appeared at her side.
"Seven Outstandings is no small challenge. Do you believe he can do it?"
For his own amusement, the white wizard chuckled gently.
"If there is only one child in Hogwarts who could… it will be Sean," McGonagall replied without hesitation.
She was still shaken by thirteen hours. Every day.
Not even she, in her fiercest years of study, could sustain such effort for two straight months.
Let alone the chaos-loving students currently enrolled.
"Sean is a poor child," she murmured, "but he is also… good, hardworking, and deserving."
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