Madam Pomfrey would never have allowed visitors under normal circumstances, but from inside came Dumbledore's voice:
"Let the brave children come in."
Only then did Madam Pomfrey relent—though she fixed them with a stern look.
"Ten minutes. One minute more and I'll throw you out!"
The five slipped inside.
The ward's beds were made up in crisp white sheets; small tables stood beside them, and privacy curtains had been drawn all around. When they slipped behind one set, they found Harry and Professor Quirrell still asleep.
Dumbledore stood nearby, twinkling.
"Seems you've picked a poor time."
The children tiptoed back out.
Only Sean was stopped.
"Mr. Green, would you stay a moment?"
Sean had been last in line; he turned and found himself separated from the Headmaster by only a curtain.
"Come here, Mr. Green. You may sit."
Sean came to Dumbledore's side. Like an old grandfather ready for a quiet talk, Dumbledore offered him a sherbet lemon.
"A sliver of hope is enough to give courage against the dark… Mr. Green, how did you know poor Professor Quirrell needed saving?"
Dumbledore smiled.
"I didn't know, Headmaster… I wasn't the one who chose. I only did what I could—to offer a choice."
"An unexpected answer. Where everyone else overlooked it, you saw poor Quirrell's struggle… child, that's something many cannot do. I hear you sold the purse of Galleons I sent you?"
Sean didn't respond at first; then embarrassment prickled—selling a gift sounded dreadful.
Seeing the boy's fluster, Dumbledore hummed a snatch of a tune and gazed cheerfully at the ceiling.
"I suppose I must send another—then next time you can decide whether to sell mine, or Minerva's."
He placed a small pouch in Sean's hand, clearly delighted with the boy's discomfort.
"Off you go, child. I think there's someone waiting outside."
Sean thought it would be Justin and the others, peering through the crack, only to be repelled by Madam Pomfrey.
He hadn't expected—
"Come with me, Sean Green."
Hearing his full name, Sean felt a pressure like blood pounding, and obediently followed Professor McGonagall to the Transfiguration office.
Justin and the others tried to speak on Sean's behalf, but after a single glance from McGonagall, they, too, behaved.
Strict and just, Professor McGonagall was always thus—both loved and feared.
The office fire roared, as ever.
Minerva McGonagall's mind still reeled…
When she reached the fourth-floor chamber, the truth struck her like a blow: what the children had said was true.
The Dark Lord had not died; he had driven Quirrell to steal the Stone, to rise again.
And the professors had not noticed—had let brave children stand guard in the Forest, had let them go down to stop Quirrell.
If anyone understood the danger best, it was the small wizard before her.
"This was too reckless—Sean Green! How dare you stand watch in the Forbidden Forest, break into the fourth floor, face Quirrell alone—do you know what you're doing?!"
She growled, shaking with fury.
Sean could only keep silent. Looking at him, she felt as though she stood again in the McGonagall family house.
Marcus's judgment had outstripped hers. He'd given the boy a Portkey early—and foreseen the choice laid before him.
A large owl swooped through the window; as it dropped a letter, it clipped the silver cat paperweight with a bright chime.
"I learned some tragedies, Professor. When they happen in front of me, I can't stand by… Professor Quirrell… he once wrote me a letter of recommendation."
Sean's voice was soft and steady.
McGonagall blinked. She watched him take a carefully kept letter from his bag.
As if watching a seed blown in on the wind root itself with iron will.
"Next time—tell me."
She was silent a while, then spoke hoarsely.
When Sean left the office, the long-bearded old wizard had slipped in at some point.
"I think, now, we know clearly," Dumbledore said, moved. "He'll always stand on the side of what is good—even if the world is unfair, even if the ugly way looks easier. He holds the truest kindness toward this world. Minerva, that is your doing. In many ways, you always do better than I."
…
Outside, Justin and the others kept sneaking looks at Sean, as if it were somehow abnormal that he hadn't lost an arm or a leg.
Sean's gaze flicked over them; they immediately pretended not to stare.
The morning rain had stopped; amid the owls' cooing, Sean's thoughts drifted.
Professor Quirrell still hadn't woken, so Sean hadn't spoken with him; he lacked a spokesperson… If Quirrell were willing, no one could be more fitting.
In the days that followed, the castle truly settled. No more threat of a servant hunting unicorns, no more fear of the Stone being stolen.
Only a bustle remained.
Those who had lived through it had changed. They thought, no matter how hard tests and assignments were, could they really be harder than guarding the Forest under Voldemort's shadow and stopping the theft of the Stone?
It was Sean, reviewing events with Hermione's notes, who noticed something—Firenze had said Harry would be killed by Voldemort in the Forest, and so had stopped him there.
Naturally Sean remembered Harry's planned sacrifice at the end—also in the Forest.
The centaurs' prophecies had never been wrong.
Astronomy, in Sean's eyes, grew deeper still.
If Hagrid hadn't been sulking over Harry's coma, Sean would already have gone into the Forest; a Unicorn biscuit—or perhaps a Centaur biscuit—stirred a quiet anticipation.
And on the third day of Harry's and Professor Quirrell's coma, word finally came:
Harry had woken—and so had Professor Quirrell.