Dusk bled into the forest's edge, and at that tense moment a witch appeared—relief swept the group all at once.
Beneath the beech, the Forbidden Forest looked darker and more menacing than ever.
Tall, severe, and robed in green, Professor McGonagall simply stood there, and every tight-strung heart eased.
"N-Neville… you actually called Professor McGonagall—"
Hermione's eyes glittered as she stared at the shrinking Neville.
"N-no… I—"
Neville's face flushed. He remembered the afternoon in the corridor:
"Mr. Longbottom, you must not use nonsense to deceive others—"
Professor McGonagall's stern expression pressed even heavier.
"N-not… nonsense, everyone knows…"
Neville stammered.
"Who is 'everyone'?"
Her gaze swept once, and Neville gave them all away.
Sean clearly hadn't expected to meet Professor McGonagall here; he started, at a loss for words.
"You're being foolish."
Only Sean heard it; no one else reacted. It was as though McGonagall had sent the words directly to him.
"You should have told me…"
Her stern eyes cut toward him. Worry flickered there and vanished.
She did not believe in mystical prophecy—no more rigorous or convincing than Professor Trelawney's annual prediction of death. Nor could she immediately accept He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's return.
But she believed in her children more than ever before.
"I will watch here for two nights. If I see nothing, I'll put you and Longbottom in detention until exams!"
Her severity sounded like music to the students; they all thought they'd never complain about Transfiguration again.
Hagrid came up in his mole-skin coat and spoke with her:
"Professor McGonagall… oh, yes… a unicorn's been badly hurt—never seen that before in the Forest… the centaurs' prophecy… Mars is— bright? Very bright…"
Harry had said Hagrid hadn't heard what Firenze told him—or Hagrid could've backed them up at once.
A chill wind passed through the Forest; that night, they heard nothing strange. The thing lurking within seemed to sense someone was there and made not a sound.
McGonagall's face grew even more grave.
She withdrew without a whisper.
At that moment, pale light showed in the east—they finally saw dawn.
"Day one—we made it! We'll find him sooner or later and drive him out of Hogwarts!"
Justin exclaimed, delighted.
Harry shook with excitement; Hermione pumped her fist.
Ron, on the other hand, was utterly spent—he'd been tense all night.
"Brilliant, Sean—and Harry, Justin, Neville, Hermione…"
With each name he spoke, his eyelids sank a little more.
"I'm going to bed. Any chance we know how long we can sleep?"
Only then did the exhaustion crash down on them. They'd never felt so tired; the moment they touched a mattress, they nearly blacked out.
Neville was already drifting, swaying—together they hauled him back to the Room.
Half the room fell asleep where they lay.
Morning broke, but the rain hadn't fully stopped. The fire roared in the grate. Sean did not sleep; he thought on and on.
"Still worried… Sean?"
Justin sat beside him. He was bone-tired, too, but he always checked that his friends were resting.
"Two days…"
Sean murmured.
"Two days? You mean Professor McGonagall will stay two days? Then haul you to detention? Sean, you forget—she said detention is with Hagrid. And when Professor Dumbledore returns, Hogwarts will be far safer."
Justin tried to comfort him.
Sean—rarely—looked deeply troubled, right up until he finally dozed, just before afternoon classes.
Why hadn't Voldemort come to the Forest? Why?
The Forest was vast; even Professor McGonagall couldn't watch every part at once.
In the original events, even with Dumbledore at school, Voldemort killed unicorns for weeks.
He was greedy and cunning—bold enough to breach a Hogwarts guarded by Dumbledore himself.
So why would he balk at McGonagall simply sitting—not even patrolling—the Forest?
Think more… think more…
Sean kept reminding himself.
Night fell again. This time the students were calmer: Harry and Justin went with Firenze, Hermione, Neville, and Ron with Hagrid.
Sean alone watched over the wounded unicorn; nothing had stirred for a long while.
Suddenly, understanding struck. He shot toward the castle.
The Map shuddered in his hands. Sean streaked across the night on his broom.
How could he have forgotten!
Quirrell—and Voldemort—couldn't reach the Stone because what they most desired was the Stone.
So now—did Professor Quirrell still desire the Stone above all?
Quirrell had made the right choice; in his second despair, he had glimpsed hope again.
Whether it was seeing Sean and the others guarding the Forest, or the squirrel biscuit in his own hand—he wouldn't be wholly bent on winning the Stone for Voldemort any longer.
If Voldemort saw no chance in the Forest and turned to the fourth-floor chamber, under his pressure Quirrell might reach a new state—
Hope to find the Stone without using it.
That would mean Voldemort getting the Stone, and whether it could restore a body or not—none of it would be good.
A paper airplane sliced the night and dropped into Justin's hand. The short message inside made his blood run cold. He grabbed a broom hidden in the corner and shot across the Forest's canopy toward Professor McGonagall.
At the same time, another paper plane sped toward the far-off Congress.
Professor Tayra's gold-prize paper plane was a near-perfect emergency courier—ignoring terrain, ignoring distance, impossibly fast.
With everything set, Sean reached the fourth-floor corridor.
In a place he hadn't expected, Mr. Owl appeared in a frame.
"You have been drawn to magic's splendor, and always you see the small and even the impure lives as well. In holding those two feelings, you have measured the breadth a wizard's life can contain.
That is Ravenclaw's wisdom.
May you know Ravenclaw will always be proud of you."
Mr. Owl bowed deeply. Sean saw the trapdoor open; he took a single step and dropped through.