"Disillusionment Charm, Muffliato, Silencing Charm…"
In the quiet of the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore's soft muttering broke the long silence.
These were spells almost entirely suited for stealth and dealing with trolls.
Nothing was ever a coincidence, especially not for a kid who didn't sneak around at night but had mastered the Disillusionment Charm.
He'd sensed danger long ago…
That danger could only come from the fourth-floor room. To make it to the troll on his own, his skill was undeniable.
It meant he'd passed at least four trials.
And yet, he hadn't said a word… Interesting, wasn't it?
If such behavior made Dumbledore uneasy, then adding the name "Green" to the mix, paired with his tendency to linger near the troll…
Dumbledore let out a soft chuckle.
Perhaps all of Hogwarts Castle was under the control of the greatest white wizard of the century, but this Green… he'd done everything he possibly could.
"Albus, you're imagining him as one of those dark wizards…"
A calm, gentle voice interrupted.
"Oh—Headmaster Derwent, forgive an old man's overthinking. Age makes things blurry… Nice weather, isn't it? Where did my lemon drops go?"
"Perhaps in your woolen socks?"
Headmistress Derwent said softly.
"Oh—of course, my woolen socks."
Dumbledore held a pair of thick socks, their softness and warmth evident even at a touch.
What made his beard twitch with a smile was that there wasn't just one pair—both were gifts from young Green.
Happy Halloween. Thank you for your generous help.
Dumbledore's blue eyes crinkled.
Who wouldn't like a kid who knew how to show gratitude?
…
The Dungeons
The stone walls oozed cold. The Potions classroom was chillier than most, the damp air heavy, pressing down on the room.
Water droplets clung to the rough stone walls, trickling slowly, catching the torchlight.
Many ingredients in the storage cupboard grew fragile in the damp. Professor Snape's private storeroom door was shut tight, but a faint whiff of potions still seeped through the cracks.
Amid the unchanging gray, a few candies, a gift box, and a blue notebook stood out starkly.
"Looks like you've received some gifts too, Severus?"
The visitor was an old man with a long, white beard.
Dressed in purple robes, his tone held no teasing, only a quiet concern.
"Hmph—"
Snape didn't hesitate to shoo Dumbledore out.
At the dungeon entrance, Sir Cadogan was enjoying dinner with a few monks, several former Hogwarts headmasters, and his chubby gray pony.
He pushed up his helmet, raising a tankard of mead in salute to Dumbledore.
"Happy—hic—Halloween! Headmaster Dumbledore, didn't he see your woolen socks?"
Sir Cadogan called out loudly.
"Such a pity…"
Back in the dungeon, Snape's earlier anger and irritation faded, replaced by a twinge of annoyance.
Pointless gifts. All they did was tighten the bonds between fools, making it easier for them to act like idiots…
He opened the package.
Inside were carefully selected nettles and porcupine quills, varying in length, packed neatly in a small vial.
Next to it was a notebook, detailing Sean's latest progress on potion-brewing techniques.
Not much, but not insignificant either—Sean had clearly spent hours experimenting.
With a flick of his wand, Snape tossed the candies out, landing "accidentally" in a small compartment of the glass cabinet.
Then he opened the letter:
Sometimes looking at things with hope makes them clearer.
Professor, I found some decent materials among a pile of subpar ones.
They're rare, but they're there.
By the way, Happy Halloween, Professor Snape.
Talkative, almost suspiciously so…
Snape snorted, tossing the letter into his bag.
…
Leaving the dungeons, Sean's breath turned to white mist, rising and falling rhythmically.
"Come in, child."
Professor McGonagall was still seated in her high-backed chair, but the usual mountain of homework and cluttered papers was gone.
Only an owl remained, carrying a letter, its head bobbing as it shook off a few snowflakes.
Sean found it amusing. With a wave of his wand, the snowflakes danced in the air.
"Hoo?"
The owl tilted its head, landing on Sean's shoulder and nuzzling his cheek.
Not good, Sean thought. When he got back, his own owl would probably start hooting:
"Young wizard! Disloyal wizard! You've got another owl's scent on you!"
As if Sean had betrayed it or something.
"Child, over here," Professor McGonagall said suddenly.
Sean approached quietly, expecting her to ask about the troll. But she didn't mention it.
Instead, she took his hand.
"Listen, child. Protecting your friends is important, but so is protecting yourself."
The crackling of the fireplace grew louder.
Sean stood by the hearth, practicing his transfiguration of objects into "magic."
With a wave of his wand, the flames leaped like sprites. In a fleeting moment, he recalled Professor McGonagall conjuring a fire salamander.
He flipped through her notes, finding a detailed breakdown of the salamander transfiguration.
Assuming it was advanced magic, something guided him to try it anyway—
[You practiced an advanced transfiguration spell at a beginner's level. Proficiency +100]
A lizard-shaped flame sprang to life!
[Magical creatures have circuits perfectly attuned to magic. Gifted wizards can sense them.]
As Sean smiled at the notes, Professor McGonagall was reading a letter from afar.
Dear Minerva McGonagall,
When I received your letter, I could hardly believe it. That child, that God-blessed child, wasn't deceived after all.
Forgive my skepticism. I've seen too many cases like this. Even when life betrays us time and again, those of us in Croydon still choose to believe.
Because things can't get worse.
I can't imagine how much effort it took you to find me. I know those callous people never reply—they'd rather never get a letter than face those poor children.
Regardless, your heart is enough.
If you need more information about the child, please let me know. I've been a volunteer in Holisey for a long time.
Looking forward to more of your letters.
Yours faithfully, Roland Taylor