Chapter 125: Hope
"Disillusionment Charm, Quietus, nonverbal Levitation Charm…"
In the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore's quiet muttering broke a long, heavy silence.
They were almost all spells tailored for concealment and for dealing with a troll.
Nothing was ever truly a coincidence, especially not for a child who never snuck out at night yet still learned the Disillusionment Charm.
He had sensed the danger long ago.
That danger could only have come from the room on the fourth floor, and to reach the troll alone, his ability was beyond doubt.
It meant he had already passed at least four trials.
And he had not said a word about it… which was interesting, was it not?
If such behaviour might have made Dumbledore uneasy, then add the surname "Green" to it, along with the fact that the boy had lurked by the troll the entire time…
Dumbledore chuckled softly.
Perhaps the whole of Hogwarts Castle lay within his control as the greatest white wizard of the age. Even so, that boy Green… had already done everything within his power.
"Albus, you are imagining him as one of those truly wicked wizards…" came a calm, gentle voice.
"Oh, Headmistress Derwent, forgive an old man his excess of worry. Age makes the eyes unreliable… The weather is quite pleasant today. Where has my sherbet lemon got to, I wonder?"
"Perhaps in your woollen socks?" Madam Derwent suggested lightly.
"Oh, of course, of course. My woollen socks," Dumbledore said.
He held a pair of thick socks. Even a touch told you how soft and warm they were.
What made his beard curl up at the ends was that there was more than one pair, all from young Mr Green.
Happy Hallowe'en. Thank you for your generous help.
Dumbledore's blue eyes crinkled almost shut.
Who could dislike a child who knew how to repay kindness?
…
In the dungeons,
The stone walls sweated cold. The Potions classroom was even chillier than the rest of the castle. The damp seemed to have weight, pressing down on the air.
Droplets on the walls slid slowly across the rough stone, catching the torchlight.
Many of the ingredients in the storage cupboards had grown especially fragile in the damp. The door of Professor Snape's private stores was tightly shut, but faint potion fumes still seeped out through the crack.
Among all that unchanging grey and white, a few sweets, a wrapped box, and a blue notebook were jarringly out of place.
"Looks like you have had some presents as well, Severus," said a very old wizard with an extraordinarily long white beard.
He wore purple robes. His tone held no mockery, only a faint, genuine concern.
"Ha."
Snape wasted no time in driving Dumbledore out.
At the dungeon door, Sir Cadogan was sharing dinner with two or three monks, several former Headmasters of Hogwarts, and his plump, spotty grey pony.
He shoved up his visor and raised a flagon of mead to the Headmaster.
"Hallowe'en – ah – greetings, Headmaster Dumbledore! He did not see your woollen socks?" Sir Cadogan bellowed.
"What a pity…"
Inside the dungeon,
Snape's earlier anger and fury had ebbed, leaving only a kind of fretful irritation.
Pointless gifts. Useless things that did nothing except tighten the bonds between fools and encourage them into more idiotic stunts…
He tore open the wrapping.
Inside were carefully selected nettles and porcupine quills of varying lengths, all packed neatly into a small vial.
Beside the vial lay a notebook, recording in detail Shawn's latest progress on the Guidance Method.
It was not long, but not short either – the result of Shawn's many hours of experimentation.
With a flick of his wand, Snape sent the sweets sailing away to land "coincidentally" in one of the tiny compartments of a glass cabinet.
Then he opened the letter.
Sometimes looking at a problem with hope makes it clearer.
Professor, I found a few good ingredients among a pile of poor‑quality ones.
There were not many, but they were there.
By the way,
Professor Snape, happy Hallowe'en.
So many words it almost had to be fake…
Snape snorted and stuffed the letter into his bag.
…
Leaving the dungeons, Shawn's breath came out in little puffs of white.
"Come in, child."
Professor McGonagall was still seated in her tall chair. The only difference was that the mountains of homework and reams of paperwork had disappeared.
Only one owl remained, clutching a letter. It bobbed its head, scattering a dusting of snowflakes.
Shawn found it rather amusing. With a flick of his wand, he sent the falling snow into a brief little dance.
"Hoo?" The owl tilted its head, then settled on his shoulder and rubbed its round face against him.
Not good, Shawn thought. When he went back, Mr Owl would be screeching again:
"Young wizard! Fickle young wizard! You smell of another owl!"
As if Shawn had betrayed him somehow.
"Come here, child," Professor McGonagall said suddenly.
Shawn quietly stepped closer. He had expected questions about the troll, but the professor did not mention it at all.
She simply took his hand.
"Listen, child. Protecting your friends is important. But so is protecting yourself."
The crackling of the fire grew louder.
Shawn stood before the hearth and began his practice in transforming objects into "magic."
His wand moved. The flames leapt like sprites. At some point, quite by accident, he remembered the moment the professor had conjured a fire salamander.
He flipped through her notes. Sure enough, that section was there, with detailed analysis of the finer points of the salamander Transfiguration.
Shawn had thought it must be an advanced variation, but a strange tug of intuition made him try it anyway.
[You practised advanced Transfiguration once at Entry standard, Proficiency +100]
A salamander‑shaped burst of flame scurried out of the hearth.
In magical creatures, there are circuits perfectly attuned to magic. Gifted witches and wizards can sense them.
As Shawn read those lines in the professor's notes, the corners of his mouth lifted.
At the same time, Professor McGonagall was reading a letter sent from far away.
Dear Minerva McGonagall,
When I received your letter, I could hardly believe it. That child, that God‑blessed child, was not the victim of a scam after all.
Forgive my doubt. I have seen far too many such cases. Even when life cheats us again and again, those of us in Croydon still choose to believe.
Because there is nothing worse left to fear.
I cannot guess how much effort it took you to find me – I know those unkind people never write back. They would rather never receive a letter at all, so they never have to face those poor children.
In any case, it is enough that you care so much.
If you need more information about that child, please let me know. I have volunteered at Hollesley Bay for a very long time.
I look forward to hearing from you again.
Yours faithfully,
Roland Taylor