Night deepened, and outside, trucks rumbled across the rain-soaked roads.
London was undergoing financialization; Canary Wharf was rising, wealth flowing eastward. But on the little street where the orphanage stood, trash bags still piled uncollected at the corners.
Inside, the smell of disinfectant mixed with stale air. The caretakers looked exhausted, and the children, like wounded small animals, stayed constantly alert.
Shawn curled up in his thin, synthetic-fiber blanket and slept soundly.
Earlier that evening, he had tested the green-level magical talent he'd unlocked.
He could only sigh and mutter,
"What kind of miserable life did I live before?"
It turned out that with this talent, only three practices could yield one successful cast.
He discovered that wizards could now feel the resonance of a spell's pronunciation.
Take Scourgify, for instance—he used to cast it as Scour—g—ify, but just now he wondered, why not S—cour—g—ify?
Under that mysterious impulse, he made a breakthrough—the panel finally showed [Proficient], gaining +10 proficiency at once.
Five days' work achieved in five seconds.
So this is the magical world of talent, Shawn thought, and now I truly feel it.
Tomorrow, Professor McGonagall would come pick him up. He hoped he could perform well enough to reach at least the minimum standard for a scholarship.
What was that standard for first-year Hogwarts students? Shawn didn't know—but he believed he would reach it.
No grand reason, just determination.
As long as he continued learning magic without giving up, he swore he would one day stand atop the wizarding world.
With that beautiful dream in mind, Shawn drifted into deep sleep.
September 1st, 1991.
A special day. Shawn was finally leaving the orphanage.
He packed swiftly. Two usable undershirts, two pairs of trousers—everything else was either too big or too small.
Dragging a cheap suitcase to the door, he suddenly realised how little actually belonged to him.
"Shawn! If you can't pay the school fees and crawl back here, don't expect me to take you in again!"
Nurse Anna's sharp voice rang out, her plump figure blocking the hall.
"No need to worry about me, Square Auntie! I just hope you don't get laid off soon. But with your performance, that's probably guaranteed!"
With that retort, Shawn dashed for the exit, leaving only a string of shrill curses behind.
He barely understood her slang but didn't care—he assumed it was all meant for him anyway.
Finally, he thought, I got to talk back to that barrel-shaped demon.
She was one of the main reasons his original body had died—turning a blind eye to his illness back then.
No one in this world knew that the real Shawn had died; only the new, transplanted soul did.
That insult was interest collected on the debt of a past life.
Once, such defiance would have been unthinkable—but today, he did it without hesitation.
Good heavens, Shawn, he whispered to himself with a grin. You've got some guts now.
He jogged to the chipped wooden door, beneath the faded sign reading "Oak Tree Orphanage," its letters trembling in the wind.
Below it stood Professor McGonagall, hair swept into a high bun, gold-rimmed square glasses reflecting morning light, her dark green robe perfectly matched with a Scottish plaid shirt—cold elegance personified.
Yet when she saw the frail boy running toward her, her lips curved softly.
"Professor McGonagall, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."
Shawn ran up, breathless. His health was poor—two steps could wind him—but he always ran to meet her.
When she had asked him why before, he had murmured quietly,
"Because important people… should always be met while running."
The mature cat-like professor never admitted it aloud, but her heart melted then—and again now.
"You can take your time, Mr. Green. We're not in a hurry."
Her voice was far gentler than her expression suggested. She softly took Shawn's hand—only to find him watching her intently.
"S—cour—g—ify."
With that familiar wand motion, the dust on her hair vanished instantly.
"Dirt shouldn't be… on your head," he said, still panting. His voice was faint but filled with quiet stubbornness.
Professor McGonagall blinked in surprise; then warmth shimmered behind her spectacles.
"An acceptable Cleaning Charm. How long did it take you to learn that, Mr. Green?"
As they walked side by side toward the station, she asked.
"Yesterday, Professor," he murmured, eyes lowered, shy and uncertain.
"You did wonderfully, Mr. Green. It seems you truly are fit for that scholarship."
She noticed his timid air and smiled as she offered that encouragement.
Shawn said nothing. He only looked up at her with shining eyes—then quickly looked away.
Inside, he was already celebrating.
Knowing McGonagall's character, that sentence meant half the scholarship was already his.
Pretending to be a pitiful orphan might feel manipulative, but it was his only way to survive.
His body still needed care, and that scholarship might literally mean his next breath.
As if confirming his thoughts, McGonagall continued,
"Headmaster Dumbledore has approved it. If you achieve 'Outstanding' in all seven core subjects during your first month, you'll receive a six-hundred-Galleon scholarship."
Her calm words made Shawn's heartbeat go wild. She turned toward him, expecting perhaps a smile of joy.
Instead, Shawn lowered his head even further.
After a long pause, he whispered,
"...Thank you, Professor. I read that Hogwarts doesn't usually offer scholarships for first-years. Thank you for making this possible for me—to let me learn magic at all."
He fell silent again. Those were his honest feelings.
Professor McGonagall froze slightly—then her gaze softened entirely.
"This is what you deserve, Mr. Green. You don't need to thank me."
She looked sideways unintentionally and caught him stealing a glance at her—for the third time.
"How long have you been practicing spells, Mr. Green?" she asked before they reached the platform.
"Thirteen hours, Professor."
"In total?"
Her eyes darkened slightly with concern.
"Every day," he said simply.
The station was crowded and noisy. Shawn struggled through the flow of people, dragging his small, battered case.
"The platform right behind that wall—that's the Hogwarts Express. Don't be afraid; just go through it head-on, Mr. Green."
McGonagall's voice echoed gently in his mind.
He stared at the solid brick barrier. Even though he knew it would be safe, his heart still raced. But thinking of McGonagall possibly watching from behind, he clenched his fists, shut his eyes, and ran through.
To the cat-like professor, it looked as though the boy hadn't hesitated at all before charging toward the wall.
"That child trusts you deeply, Minerva,"
came an elderly, amused voice beside her.
"Seven subjects, all Outstanding, in the first month—isn't that quite the task? Do you truly believe he can do it?"
The White Wizard asked with a twinkle of humor.
"Albus," she replied firmly, "even if there's only one student in all of Hogwarts who could accomplish that—it will be Shawn."
Her gaze was unwavering, her thoughts lingering on the phrase every day, thirteen hours.
Even in her most tireless youth, she had never practiced that relentlessly for months on end.
Let alone those mischievous students at Hogwarts.
"Shawn is a poor child," she said softly at last, "but also a kind, diligent one. He deserves that scholarship."
(End of Chapter)