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"Could you spare me some?" Nightingale asked softly. "I can brew a potion of Felix Felicis with it in exchange."
"Oi now, what's all this about exchangin'?"
Hagrid waved his massive hand as if brushing the thought away, then strode over in his heavy steps. "Yer a friend o' Professor Greengrass, an' ye saved me life in the Forbidden Forest last year."
Without hesitation, he tugged a thick cloth sack from the side, swept the entire pile of dark purple-black mushrooms into it, and shoved the bag into Nightingale's hands. "Take the lot. If it ain't enough, I'll go gather some more meself."
As he finished packing the mushrooms, his booming voice dropped suddenly, becoming almost shy. His towering frame, usually so unshakable, seemed to shrink into a nervous unease.
"Er… there's… there's somethin', Professor Nyxia. About Madam Maxime, she…"
Nightingale's cool, clear eyes rested upon him. A faint glimmer of understanding flickered in her gaze. She did not speak at once but tilted her head slightly, as though testing the shape of his intention.
"You wish to have her owl address?" Her voice was calm, each word landing squarely on the truth of his heart.
"No, no, no! Not that!" Hagrid flapped his hands in denial, his broad face flushing red. "I only wanted ter ask about her… about how she's doin'…"
Then, almost tripping over his own words, he hurried to add in a much lower voice, "Course, if ye could give me her owl address… that'd be even better…" His fingers fidgeted against one another, rubbing and twisting as if he could squeeze courage out of thin air.
The corners of Nightingale's lips curved, ever so faintly, the ghost of a smile that vanished as quickly as it came. She did not laugh at his awkwardness, nor did she press him with needless questions. She only inclined her head with quiet composure. "I understand."
From the inner pocket of her robe, she drew forth a small leather-bound notebook, silver-grey in hue, its surface polished to a subdued sheen. Alongside it came a slender quill, fashioned from some long, black feather, its shape elegant and sharp.
Under Kestrel's curious stare, Nightingale opened the notebook with practiced ease. She gave the quill an elegant flick, letting its slender black tip come to rest against the page with a faint, deliberate touch.
"The private owl post of the Headmistress of Beauxbatons is usually managed by her most trusted secretary. The address is this: Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Pyrenees Mountains, Office of the Headmistress. Be sure to write, 'For the eyes of Madam Olympe Maxime only.' Her owl is named Silverfrost. When you send your letter, it is best to include a note in French to ensure it reaches her directly."
As she spoke, the quill darted swiftly across the parchment, her words flowing into precise lines of script, each stroke fine and steady.
When she finished, she tore that sheet from the notebook with a crisp sound, folded it neatly into a small, elegant triangle, and extended it toward Hagrid, who was still caught between excitement and nervous tension.
"Here you go, Mr. Hagrid. Take it first." Nightingale's voice was still cool, calm as always, yet this time there was the faintest trace of warmth within it. "Madam Maxime's address. I wish you pleasant correspondence."
Hagrid held his breath as though he were handling some rare treasure. With his two enormous fingers he pinched the little slip of paper, careful not to crease or smudge it. His broad face broke into a radiant grin so wide it crinkled his eyes into thin slits of joy.
"Tha's… tha's amazin'! Thank yeh so much, Professor Nyxia, yeh're jus'… yeh're jus' wonderful!" His words tumbled out in a rush, tripping over one another, and his huge body trembled slightly with excitement, like a mountain quivering with barely contained emotion.
Beside him, Kestrel shook with silent laughter, shoulders quivering as it struggled not to burst out loud. Sargeras calmly set down his teacup, smoothing the folds of his long robe before he spoke in a measured tone. "Hagrid, concerning this matter… if we wish to avoid a complete disaster, I believe I might be able to offer you a few words of advice."
Hagrid, still holding the note as though it were something holy, looked up with wide, eager eyes. "Really, Professor Greengrass?" he asked, his voice full of astonished delight.
Sargeras gave a slow nod. "Yes. There are a few principles you must remember. First of all, sincerity is your greatest strength. Yet sincerity alone must be dressed in the right form. You need to learn how to convey your feelings in a manner Madam Maxime can truly accept and appreciate."
Hagrid bobbed his head vigorously, his tangled hair swaying with the movement. In a low mutter, as if memorizing a precious lesson, he repeated, "Sincerity… and dress it up proper when I say it…"
"The second point," Sargeras continued, his voice clear, "is that understanding outweighs self-expression. Do not keep saying things like 'I like you so very much' or 'we are so alike.' Instead, you must learn to observe her carefully… notice what she needs, what she values, what weighs upon her heart."
"Right… not just sayin' I like her, but payin' attention instead!" Hagrid echoed back like a schoolboy, nodding with wide-eyed seriousness.
"The third point," Sargeras' expression grew more solemn, his tone gaining a certain gravity, "is that you must absolutely respect her boundaries and her pride. Remember, Madam Maxime is a woman who places immense importance on her dignity and public image. You must know how to uphold that pride of hers at all times, especially in public."
"Got it! Respect her, keep her dignity safe!" Hagrid agreed at once, his nod this time so forceful it seemed he might strain his neck.
"The fourth point," Sargeras pressed on, "is patience. Patience is a virtue. Madam Maxime will not be swayed easily, not by grand gestures or sudden declarations. What will move her is a steady, lasting display of respect and attention, a quiet constancy that proves itself over time."
"That one I understand. I've got plenty o' patience," Hagrid promised, his voice firm, as though he were making a vow.
"The final point," Sargeras' eyes drifted over Hagrid's enormous frame and his thick, shaggy coat, lingering with a faint hint of disapproval, "is that you must make some effort to refine your appearance. I am not saying you should cease to be yourself. But at the very least, you must show attention to neatness and dress in a way that suits the occasion. Even this is a form of respect toward her."
"Dress nice, yeh mean? Yeh think my mole-fur coat an' my hairy suit'll do?" Hagrid asked hopefully, his voice tinged with a childlike eagerness.
Sargeras' reply was calm yet unyielding. "Not quite. I suggest you pay a visit to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions in Diagon Alley, or, if you prefer, one of the boutiques from the Elegante line. Have two suits tailored, along with proper formal wizarding robes."
"Oh… alright then," Hagrid muttered, a trace of regret in his voice, though he nodded obediently all the same.
"Respect is the most important thing of all," Nightingale spoke up then, her voice elegant as ever, though softened by a note of earnestness. "Madam Maxime has spent her life struggling against prejudice, striving to prove her worth as both a witch and as Headmistress. Any action that might strike her as crude or diminish her in status is the gravest mistake you could make."
"Professor Veiliss is correct," Sargeras agreed firmly. "Therefore, whether in public gatherings or in private, until you and Madam Maxime have forged the deepest kind of trust, you must never utter words like 'giant' or 'half-blood.' That is a red line! Remember well: at no time, in no place, are such words to pass your lips."
The smile on Hagrid's face froze stiff. His mouth opened as though he meant to speak, but the words withered before they left his throat. At last, he gave a heavy, resolute nod. His features set into solemnity, and a shadow of nervousness crossed his expression. "I… I'll remember! That's a red line! I won't mention it, not ever! Not a single word!"
Almost like an oath, his deep, rumbling voice carried a stubborn determination, as though sealing a vow.
Yet as Sargeras and Nightingale continued laying out one principle after another, a fog of bewilderment began to creep across Hagrid's face again. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes blinked rapidly, as if he were struggling to sort each rule into its proper place inside his head.
Fortunately, Nightingale had foreseen this. She halted the quick dance of her quill, tore a sheet of parchment covered in her precise script, and handed it gently into Hagrid's massive hands.
"In short, remember only this," she said in her cool voice, though a thread of softness wove through it. "Treat her as you would the most delicate of unicorns. Approach with gentleness, respect, and the right measure of distance."
"Like takin' care o' a unicorn…" Hagrid murmured, repeating the words with reverence. The confusion ebbed from his face, replaced by a deep, dawning understanding that settled into his heart like sunlight breaking through cloud.
"I get it now!" he declared, accepting the parchment with both hands, a grateful smile spreading across his face.
"Well then," Sargeras said at last, brushing his robes into order, "the tea is finished, our business is done. Time to return to the castle. I still have a class to teach this morning."
As he spoke, his gaze flicked briefly toward Hagrid, who still sat wrapped in joy, clutching the note as if it were a treasure. Then Sargeras rose and took his leave.
He pushed open the wooden door and stepped out from the warmth of the cabin. The morning air met him at once, cool and crisp, carrying with it the scents of damp earth and freshly growing grass.
The sun had already climbed free of the horizon. Its golden light poured generously across the ancient towers of Hogwarts, gilding their stone crowns with radiant brilliance.
From behind, faintly carried through the open door, came Hagrid's booming voice, brimming with excitement, mingled with the cheerful yapping of Fang, who barked in joyful harmony with his owner's delight.
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[Chapter End's]
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