The silver-robed, silver-haired alchemy professor nodded to her colleagues.
"Professor McGonagall. Professor Snape."
The two who had just been arguing both gave a silent nod in return.
"Albus—you know… just as we suspected, that child…"
The moment Professor Tayra entered, she began speaking urgently.
Both colleagues' eyes snapped toward her. Snape watched her coldly, while McGonagall frowned.
"This Christmas, I'm taking him with me. Eugenia Herrera couldn't be more delighted—Ilvermorny is waiting for us…"
As Tayra spoke, she finally noticed the room's atmosphere had turned subtle and tense.
Dumbledore rose from the high-backed chair behind his desk and looked out the window with his pale blue, piercing gaze.
An owl was flying in.
"Taking him?" McGonagall stared hard at Tayra.
Tayra's expression turned strange. She paused a moment before saying,
"He didn't tell you?"
"Please—speak," Snape said. His cold gaze sharpened, his low voice forcing his anger down.
"Albus… I have to say…" She'd meant to speak directly to Dumbledore, but when she registered who else was present, she hesitated—then relaxed slightly and continued.
"Little Green is the most unusual wizard I've ever met. He may have more than one soul-avatar.
"He mentioned a Wampus Cat. I think that's it—his second soul-avatar."
In the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore's beard lifted slightly as he took a snow-dusted letter from the owl's talons. He watched with a cheerful chuckle.
"Youth… how marvelous—still able to feel love so fiercely…"
As if to prove him right, Minerva McGonagall slammed her hand on the desk and shot to her feet.
"Impossible, Olivia!"
In many Celtic, Scandinavian, and Germanic legends, certain animals (like boars, does, and stags) have a direct connection to wizards.
These otherworldly creatures are said to "choose to become someone's guardian manifestation, staying by their side," symbolizing "a person's fate—wearing both human and animal forms."
Fate—what an unfathomable word.
People could always glimpse a little of their fate through their soul-avatar. For instance: stags and does, whether in Norse and Scandinavian legend or wizarding lore, are "guiding animals, sacrificial animals."
So how could one wizard possibly have different animal forms?
In other words—how could he break free of his ordained fate, and grow new branches from it?
"That's the truth, Minerva," Tayra said with conviction.
She'd already guessed a thing or two about what was happening in this office. She understood that in the end, she would be able to take little Green with her.
Because this room likely held the people who cared most about her student—and that meant they would eventually… make concessions for him.
Minerva McGonagall fell into a brief daze, carrying an instinctive, complicated feeling:
she wanted him to be extraordinary… and yet, not too extraordinary.
"Heh." Snape gave a cold snort and swept Dumbledore with an icy glance.
Tayra and McGonagall began discussing the finer details of soul-avatars, and Ilvermorny itself. Snape stood to one side without a word—almost like a student listening to a lecture.
In recent years, aside from Dark Arts research and potion-making, he rarely looked so focused.
The two women before him had once, by sheer coincidence, been his professors.
It was a strange feeling—because Dumbledore had once been McGonagall's professor too.
In this winter of thick, drifting snow, Hogwarts' teaching posts felt like a kind of inherited duty—passed down and flowing through the blood of every witch and wizard who truly loved magic.
The kettle burbled. The silver instruments clinked and chimed.
Dumbledore's eyes crinkled. He stood by the wooden table, smiling broadly at them—nothing made him happier than seeing students gathered together.
Only after a long while did he lower his head and slowly open a letter that had come from faraway New York:
[To Professor Albus Dumbledore;
Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Professor Dumbledore:
I have arrived at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
—Your faithful: Newt Scamander]
…
Christmas arrived.
On this day, the castle's Christmas-eve decorations gained yet another layer.
Everywhere, the colorful holiday ornaments were hung as they were every year, even though there weren't many students staying behind to appreciate them.
In the corridors, thick garlands of holly and mistletoe were strung up again, and inside every suit of armor mysterious lights flickered.
In the Great Hall, the twelve Christmas trees stood as usual, golden stars sparkling on their branches. A rich, mouthwatering cooking smell drifted through the corridors—so strong that even the exhausted Whitey, perched on Sean's shoulder, forced herself awake and stared longingly toward the Hall.
Term was over. A silence as heavy as snow blanketed the whole castle.
By the crackle of the fire, Sean read about Ilvermorny. He didn't feel bored—if anything, he felt peaceful.
When he reached the Great Hall, his seat was already piled high with gifts.
"Merry Christmas, Sean," Justin said. He always noticed him, even the moment he stepped inside.
"Merry Christmas," Sean replied.
He found days like this comfortable—thick snow falling outside, everyone gathered around the fire together.
He'd received so many gifts that they nearly spilled over into Justin's seat.
Whitey had been running herself ragged day and night to deliver them all.
Among the gifts, the most striking was a set of potions worth several thousand Galleons. Next was a gleaming Nimbus 2001.
In the corner of one crystal vial was a small note: [Drink.]
As brief as ever.
Even after Sean set the Nimbus 2001 back down, Harry kept staring at it with a hungry look.
It was a brand-new Nimbus 2001—exactly the same model he'd been watching the Slytherins train on every day, the broom he'd been dreaming of. It practically shone.
"Sean—who gave you that?" Ron couldn't hold back his excitement. He lowered his voice.
"My God—who would spend that much money on you?" Hermione gasped, then thought about it and added, "A lot of people. I couldn't even guess."
"A professor," Sean answered.
He opened the broom's wrapping. A note floated out—shaped like a little cat. It bounced into Sean's hand and unfolded into a letter:
[When you have no time to rest, that's when you must rest.
Do something that makes you happy.
I want you to know, my child: holidays are for no studying magic.]
Sean fell silent for a long time, then carefully put both letters away.
Outside, snow fell in fine, dense curtains. According to the newspaper, all of Scotland was buried in it.