The sky in the distance was a dull gray. A black cat padded through the snow, a lively blot of ink against the white.
My strength was coming back little by little, and over on the Quidditch pitch, the shouting was getting louder by the minute.
"No harm in telling you lot—we're absolutely taking the Quidditch Cup this year!"
That was Wood bellowing.
"This season, our team's gonna shine! We're gonna flatten anything in our way!"
His words had the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team buzzing with energy.
The Ravenclaw players didn't say a word, just gave them a cold stare. Then Roger spoke up:
"We'll see about that."
But the second they were off the pitch, Roger lost it:
"They keep poking at us, and the only thing we've gotta do is wipe the floor with those arrogant jerks! Tell the Beaters to bring the heaviest bats they've got!
We're winning this match and cracking a few skulls while we're at it!"
Sounded like he was a die-hard Falmouth Falcons fan; that was basically their motto.
Back on the pitch, Wood acted like he was throwing down a challenge, but his eyes never left the Ravenclaw changing room.
"No backdoor deals—"
Fred came barreling out of the locker room.
"No extra bodies at the last practice, so there won't be any surprises on game day—"
George picked right up.
"We crushed Slytherin, then beat Hufflepuff even with Snape stacking the deck. Nothing's stopping us now!
Ravenclaw's lost their big outside ringer, and we're the best—the absolute best—team in the school."
He slammed a fist into his palm, that wild glint back in his eyes.
"We've got the three best Chasers in the game."
Wood pointed at Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell.
"We've got two unbeatable Beaters."
"Easy, Oliver, you're making us blush," Fred and George said in unison, pretending to look bashful.
"And we've got a Seeker who's never lost a match!"
Wood went on, glaring at Harry with fierce pride.
"And me."
He tacked that on like an afterthought.
"We think you're pretty great too, Oliver," George said.
"Top-notch Keeper," Fred added.
"Crush them!"
Wood wrapped it up.
Professor McGonagall was standing not far from the pitch, listening to the pumped-up speech, her eyes practically glowing.
But instead of marching onto the field like she usually would, she took the chance to help Sean—who'd just learned the pebble-to-button transfiguration—fix a few small mistakes and pick up some slicker tricks.
Sean had slipped into the Transfiguration office as a black cat, and he slipped out the same way.
He couldn't figure out why a cat's body felt so bendy, and he was just as clueless about why McGonagall was nuts for Quidditch.
Weird, right?
Right then, a barn owl swooped in through the stained-glass window, landed on Sean's shoulder, and dropped a stack of letters.
The second Sean spotted that chunky owl, he knew who they were from.
Dear Green,
If you get this in time, please tell me—did you put your Portkey back in place?
Roar, looks like Hogwarts Quidditch season is rolling again. Is Minerva still parked in the north stands?
Call it a favor—you've gotta give me something, or how's an old codger like Marcus supposed to stay in your loop?
Love, Marcus
Sean smoothed out the letter, and his quill started hovering over the parchment.
In the Great Hall, owls were flapping like crazy, making a racket. One slice of that chaos belonged to Sean.
Once he finished his reply, the rest of the letters came flooding in—three little McGonagalls had stuffed theirs to the brim.
Inside were a handful of shiny glass marbles, some dazzling candy wrappers, and an order slip:
We're giving you all our treasure, dear wizard Green. Can you come back soon? We're waiting so hard.
The last line was even scrawled crooked.
So Sean sent off some biscuits. Marcus's owl was freakishly fast; by evening, it was back with a reply.
About that Quidditch stuff you asked—happy to chat.
It's an old story.
Isabel, our mum, was a brilliant witch and a star Quidditch player at Hogwarts.
She fell for our dad, Robert—a Muggle—and gave up the wizarding world for love.
Their love was the real deal, fierce and true, but a witch living among Muggles doesn't exactly get the red-carpet treatment.
Especially once all three of us kids started showing magic.
The letter went on—Sean was already piecing things together—and he kept reading.
It was a long one, laying out a past somebody had tried to bury:
We couldn't let a whisper of magic slip.
Minerva was super close with Dad; they even had the same vibe.
Watching him struggle with the weirdness of our family hurt her too.
Plus, she could tell how wound-up Mum was trying to fit into that Muggle village—how much she missed the freedom of being around her own kind, how bad she wanted to let her magic loose again.
She told us she'd never forget Mum crying on her eleventh birthday when the Hogwarts letter came. She knew those weren't just proud tears—there was envy mixed in.
So when Minerva fell for a non-magical guy, she left without a word.
The very day after he proposed.
The International Statute of Secrecy meant she couldn't even tell him why. Just left him heartbroken.
Later… he died in the chaos Voldemort kicked up.
Sean froze. He was starting to get it—why McGonagall was always so strict, why she never backed down.
You asked why Minerva loves Quidditch so much. All I can tell you is:
Quidditch is a bond. When she shows the talent she got from Mum, maybe they both touch something magical.
They were both amazing players. Maybe that's her way of holding on?
Even at dusk, the Quidditch pitch was still alive with noise; Ravenclaw's practice hadn't let up for a second.
Professor McGonagall stared out the window from her Transfiguration office—she could always see the pitch from there.
She hadn't inherited much from her childhood. Just a burning rage against an ordinary life, and a stubborn refusal to fade into the background.