Being surrounded by a gallery of portraits was an odd experience, especially since these portraits held little actual authority.
The atmosphere in the Headmaster's office grew solemn. Dumbledore, with his long white beard, finally raised a hand. A floating letter spun swiftly and landed in front of Sean.
The crackling of the fireplace mingled with the soft bubbling of a kettle, and then Dumbledore's warm voice broke through: "An important step—let's hear the professors' recommendations."
Tension spread through the room. Sean recalled that the scholarship's criteria were set by the headmaster, who weighed a student's academic progress and professors' evaluations to make the final decision. He guessed the envelopes contained those very evaluations.
He hadn't expected the scholarship review to be so formal, though it made sense—the sum of Galleons at stake was no small matter.
With a rip, a familiar, stern voice rang out:
"I, with the utmost sincerity, formally and strongly recommend Mr. Sean Green for this special scholarship. He is fully deserving of this support and has the potential to become a pride of Hogwarts.
—Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House."
McGonagall gave Sean a slight nod, her eyes softening.
"Oh, quite the high praise, isn't it?" Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling.
The portraits murmured in agreement. Headmaster Everard, with his white beard, stroked it thoughtfully, his bright eyes gleaming under his black hat brim.
Then, the second envelope opened, revealing a cold, sneering voice. The office fell silent for a moment.
The third envelope opened naturally:
"Yes, as Head of Hufflepuff House and Professor of Herbology, I wholeheartedly recommend Mr. Sean Green for this additional scholarship. In those dark, cramped, unknown days, dear Mr. Green fought resiliently to find a path to life. As he grows strong, why not sow a bit more sunlight for him?
Sincerely,
—Pomona Sprout."
In the greenhouse, Professor Sprout glanced toward the castle, a warm smile spreading across her face. With a wave of her wand, a gentle rain fell, nourishing the roots of her magical plants. She knew they'd thrive even better next year.
"Hmm, very good," Dumbledore said, his fingers interlaced as more professors' evaluations followed.
Without exception, the professors spoke highly of the young Ravenclaw. The chattering portraits fell silent for a moment, then turned to Sean with surprise, some stammering, "M-Mr. G-Green, o-of course—"
Dilys Derwent's portrait furrowed her brow. Sensitive to dark magic, she had long suspected something off about the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. When Quirrell's stuttering voice emerged, Sean tensed. His DADA notes had always earned top marks, but Quirrell's mind was a maze even he couldn't navigate.
"I-I recommend Mr. Green. H-His work in Defense Against the Dark Arts is exceptional. H-His talent d-deserves recognition, this scholarship, t-to be seen, e-even if just once. S-So I r-recommend him—"
Quirrell's halting voice hit Sean like a drumbeat. He knew this letter came from Quirinius Quirrell, the timid yet brilliant Ravenclaw, not the twisted influence of Voldemort.
McGonagall had said three professors' endorsements were enough. Sean hadn't expected Quirrell to even participate, let alone send a letter. It was almost unthinkable.
Far away, in the DADA classroom, the comical, shrinking Professor Quirrell sat with a near-perfect set of DADA notes. For once, his head didn't throb. His hollow gaze briefly sharpened. A struggling, gifted Ravenclaw needed help, and some fleeting courage had driven him to write:
"W-What if I-I'm the one who m-makes the difference—"
"Foolish thoughts, my useless servant! Your head full of absurd notions of good and evil!" A dark, oppressive voice echoed in Quirrell's mind. He clutched his head in pain, trembling, too scared to scream.
"There is no good or evil in this world—only power, and the delusions of those too weak to seize it! Next time you pull something this stupid—"
Quirrell cowered under the voice, his face contorted in silent agony.
"A single wrong choice can lead to eternal tragedy," Dumbledore murmured, his gaze distant, unheard by anyone but the wind and the kettle's soft gurgle.
The once-chatty portraits stood stunned. All seven professors had given glowing reviews. Their scrutinizing looks softened, growing warm and eager.
"Truly unbelievable!" one portrait whispered.
Dumbledore tapped a silver instrument, and McGonagall called out, "Quiet, please!"
Dumbledore rose smoothly. "Given Mr. Sean Green's achievements and character in his magical studies, I declare—"
With a wave of his wand, an exquisitely wrapped bag, pristine and soft, floated to Sean. "Mr. Sean Green, you have been awarded this scholarship."
The portraits erupted in enthusiastic applause, and even Dumbledore clapped lightly.
Behind the office door, Sir Cadogan let out a triumphant yell, sweeping Lady Violet into a hug. Inside, Sean caught the bag, feeling that this moment marked a perfect close to a gentle, diligent, thrilling, exhausting, and urgent chapter of his Hogwarts journey.
But it wasn't an end—only the start of another story.
"When you stand at the threshold of life's greatest moments, you'll be drawn to the unknown. The real danger, my boy, isn't stepping into it—it's refusing the call," Dumbledore said, smiling warmly, gesturing for Sean to open the bag.
The moment Sean did, he froze, stunned by what he saw.