"Disillusionment, Quieting Charm, nonverbal Levitation…"
In the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore's murmur broke a long, long silence.
It was almost a full kit tailored for stealth—and for a troll.
Nothing is coincidence, especially with a child who doesn't sneak out at night yet has learned the Disillusionment Charm.
He had already sensed danger…
That danger could only have come from the room on the fourth floor. And to reach the "troll" stage alone—his excellence was beyond doubt.
It meant he had passed at least four trials.
And he hadn't said a word… Interesting, isn't it?
If such behavior might have unsettled Dumbledore, then attaching the name "Green" to it, and pairing it with the boy shadowing the troll all that time…
Dumbledore chuckled softly.
Perhaps the whole of Hogwarts Castle lay in his—this century's greatest white wizard's—hands, but this Mr. Green… he had already done as much as he possibly could.
"Albus, you're imagining him as one of those truly wicked wizards…"
A calm, gentle voice came.
"Oh—Headmistress Derwent, forgive an old man his surplus of worry. Age clouds the eyes… Lovely weather—where has my lemon sherbet got to?"
"Perhaps in your wool socks?"
Mrs. Derwent said lightly.
"Oh—of course, of course—my wool socks."
A thick pair lay in Dumbledore's hands; even a touch felt soft and warm.
And better yet, there was more than one pair—all from young Mr. Green.
[Happy Halloween. Thank you for your kindness.]
Dumbledore's blue eyes crinkled.
Who could dislike a child who repays kindness?
…
Dungeon.
Cold seeped from the stone walls. The Potions classroom was chillier than anywhere else—the damp seemed to have weight, pressing down heavily indoors. Beads of moisture slid along rough stone, catching torchlight.
Many ingredients in the storage cabinets had grown especially fragile from the damp. Snape's private stores were shut tight, but a faint potion-scent still leaked through the seam.
Against the unchanging gray-white, a few sweets, a wrapped box, and a blue notebook looked jarringly out of place.
"Looks like you've had a few gifts as well, Severus?"
The visitor was a white-bearded old man in purple robes. There was no teasing in his tone—only a trace of quiet concern.
"Hah—"
Snape ejected Dumbledore without hesitation.
At the dungeon door, Sir Cadogan was dining with two or three monks, several former Headmasters, and his fat little dappled gray pony. He pushed up his visor and toasted the Headmaster with a flagon of mead.
"Halloween—er—cheers! Headmaster Dumbledore—did he not notice your wool socks?"
Sir Cadogan cried. "A pity…"
Inside the dungeon.
Snape's anger and bluster gave way to a kind of irritation.
Pointless gifts—good for nothing but tightening the bond between fools, so they can commit idiocies more conveniently…
He opened the parcel.
Inside were some carefully chosen nettles and porcupine quills—various lengths—packed in a small bottle. Beside it lay a notebook, detailing Sean's latest progress on the Guiding Method. Not much, but not little either—the fruit of much trial.
Snape flicked his wand and lobbed the candies away—"by chance" they landed in a small cubby of the glass case.
Then he opened the letter:
[Sometimes looking through the lens of hope makes things clearer.
Professor, I found a few good pieces among a pile of poor materials. Few, but there are always some.
Oh, and—
Happy Halloween, Professor Snape.]
Talkative enough to be fake…
Snape snorted, stuffed the letter into his bag as well.
…
From the dungeon to the corridor, Sean's breath rose in steady white puffs.
"Come in, child."
Professor McGonagall still sat in her tall chair. The difference: the mountains of homework and assorted paperwork had all vanished.
Only an owl remained, arriving with a letter, its head bobbing as it shook off a sprinkling of snow.
Sean found it rather amusing; he flicked his wand and made the snowflakes dance a few steps.
"Coo?" The owl tilted its head, then settled on Sean's shoulder and nuzzled his cheek.
Not great, Sean thought—when he got back Mr. Owl was going to squawk again: "Little wizard! Faithless little wizard! You smell of other owls!"
As if Sean had betrayed it somehow.
"Here, child," McGonagall said suddenly.
Sean went over quietly. He'd thought she might ask about the troll—but she never mentioned it.
She only held his hand.
"Listen, child. Protecting your friends matters, but so does protecting yourself."
The hearth's crackle grew louder.
Sean stood before the fireplace and began his practice of turning objects into magic. He swept his wand, and the flames pranced like sprites—then, by chance, he remembered the moment the professor conjured a fire lizard.
He flipped through her notes; sure enough, that section was there—with a careful breakdown of the lizard's Transfiguration details.
He'd assumed it belonged to a later stage, but some odd impulse pushed him to try—
[You practiced an advanced Transfiguration once at a Beginner standard. Proficiency +100]
A lizard-shaped flame sprang out at once!
[Within magical creatures there are circuits exquisitely matched to magic; a gifted wizard will perceive them.]
While Sean's mouth curved as he read McGonagall's notes, the professor was perusing a letter from afar:
[Dear Minerva McGonagall,
When I received your letter I could hardly believe it—that child, God-blessed child, was not the victim of a trick after all.
Forgive my doubt. I've seen too many such cases. Even as life deceives us again and again, we who live in Croydon still choose to believe—because there is no worse outcome left.
I cannot know what effort it took you to find me—I know the cruel ones never write back. They would rather never receive a letter, so they needn't face those poor children.
In any case, that you have such a heart is enough.
If you need more information about the child, please tell me. I have volunteered at Hollesley for a long time.
I look forward to hearing from you again.
Yours faithfully,
Rowland Taylor]
~~~
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