Chapter 67: I Have Been Waiting Too Long
The Great Hall, at the staff table.
Dumbledore's silver beard glittered in the candlelight. When an owl dropped a bag of sweets onto a Gryffindor's head, the eyes behind his half-moon spectacles twinkled with delight.
Even as he blinked pleasantly, the student beside him who excelled at Transfiguration had already vanished.
His smile deepened.
The greatest white wizard of the century laced his fingers and murmured, "Oh, that is rather nice, is it not?
People always discover that at Hogwarts, those who need help always manage to receive it..."
The Great Hall's bustle had nothing to do with Shawn just then.
Clutching the letter, he walked through the empty corridor.
He saw the armor gleam as it caught the light. The jaunty owl perched upon his shoulder cooed and indicated a path he had trodden many times before.
He did not notice that behind him, the portrait of the Lady of the Wheatfield had grown crowded.
Waves of golden wheat rolled in the sun like a sea kissed by light. Between the stalks, figures holding a few blue cornflowers leaned together, whispering and rustling.
"Sir, I am all aquiver. The boy worried himself today till he could have twisted those sharp brows into knots," said Lady Violet, pinching the corner of her skirt. Watching the young wizard walk past with the owl, she felt for a heartbeat that she could not breathe.
"Lady Violet—oh, do help me—my injured hand will not reach my eye," said Sir Cadogan, leaving his pony and bright-eyed with excitement.
"You all saw the letter? I could hardly believe... Do you know? I have watched young McGonagall for fifty years!" the Fat Lady cried, clutching at her heart—only to be hushed by Sir Cadogan's low voice.
"Very well, my dear lady, go look upon the great cat. A knight's gaze belongs to young Green."
...
"Professor?"
Shawn rapped on the wooden door.
He felt a little nervous.
He did not fear Professor Snape, nor did he hold a prejudice against Professor Quirrell—though a man with two heads was a touch beyond the pale.
Only with Professor McGonagall was it different.
He had not forgotten the owl that had crashed through the window—yes, the one upon his shoulder—and he had not forgotten Professor McGonagall's help.
The orphanage's beds always smelled of damp and mold. The constant nearness of death was not an easy thing to bear.
Which was why he remembered the day the professor had brought him out so clearly.
He pushed open the door.
The Transfiguration office carried the faint scents of sandalwood and parchment.
The fire in the grate burned wildly. Next to the hearth, a long object lay tightly wrapped.
Professor McGonagall's deep green robes flowed about her. A few strands of silver glowed faintly in the firelight. Her gaze, for once, lacked its usual severity. Her voice was warm and steady.
"Mr. Green, come here."
Shawn trotted obediently over, not noticing the deeper worry gathering in the professor's eyes.
With a flick of her wand, the long object floated to the desk before him.
"Open it, Mr. Green."
Shawn held his breath. For an instant, his mind went blank.
He unwrapped the parcel on the wooden desk with great care. Inside lay a magnificent broomstick.
Its lines were elegant, its polish rich with sheen. The handle was of rosewood. The long tail was bound from straight, even twigs.
Nimbus 2000—those words gleamed in gold at the top of the handle.
"I am not sure I understand, Professor."
Even faced with such a tremendous temptation, Shawn did not whoop or cheer. He merely asked his question carefully, in a small voice.
Think of it. He was not a Gryffindor, nor some fated savior.
Three months ago, he had still been a boy in an orphanage, clinging to life, just waiting for his body to mend enough to run away from Hollisay.
He knew Professor McGonagall was strict in manner and soft at heart—but did he truly deserve such fierce kindness?
A Nimbus 2000 was not one of those battered brooms. In Diagon Alley, it costs at least six hundred Galleons.
"By King Arthur!"
Sir Cadogan in the Transfiguration classroom's portrait could hardly keep himself from rapping the boy on the head.
The Fat Lady caught his arm.
"Sir, my dear sir, how can you ruin such a moment—"
In the glow of the hearth, Minerva McGonagall slid the broom aside. The tenderness in her eyes washed away Shawn's confusion.
"Come to me, child."
Shawn suddenly found himself embraced.
A clean, reassuring fragrance filled his senses. Bewilderment and warmth wrapped him at once.
He saw the professor's star-pinned emerald brooch glint. He heard her say gently, "Mr. Green, there will be no studying today. Tell me about your days here at Hogwarts, will you?"
...
In the corridor, a knight strode through the golden field with two ladies at his side.
All three faces were wreathed in smiles.
"Those stern faces can, on occasion, burst with astonishing warmth—this was well worth the watching," the Fat Lady said, dabbing at the corner of her eye.
"Hmph," Sir Cadogan huffed, beard curling. "Cowards, cowards. Even happiness leaves them at a loss."
The grumble grew softer as he spoke.
Shawn carried the broom all the way to the Quidditch pitch. Charms upon it made it feather-light in his arms.
"Over here, Mr. Green," Madam Hooch called, tidying the brooms. One glance at the gleaming new one and she nodded, satisfied. "A fine broom. Get a feel for it. Today, we will simulate the parts of your test."
Shawn nodded and mounted the broom.
Only then did he fully grasp Madam Hooch's earlier "hints."
At the same time, he shot into the air without even the courtesy of a cautious request, not noticing how much care he had shed.
Madam Hooch's hawk's eyes followed him.
There was a trace of relief in them.
There was no shortage of tasks. Threads through the rings. Weaving the posts. Evading the charmed golf balls. All to be completed within half an hour.
Madam Hooch ran the drill to the strictest standard.
"Mr. Green, turn. Climb. Keep focus. Adjust your posture. Only sufficient proficiency will keep you from the flight hazards that so often occur at Hogwarts."
...
In a room where the fire roared, the tall witch watched the pitch, and an older voice sounded at her side.
"Minerva, it seems you have not cared so much for a child in a long time," said the kindly wizard with the long, white beard, eyes flashing with mischief as he looked toward the painting hung in the room. He turned the look into something teasing.
There were still creases in Minerva McGonagall's robes. Her voice braided severity with gentleness.
The two tones are intertwined with unexpected harmony.
She gazed ahead as if looking at a seed—or else at a tender shoot that had finally broken the earth.
"You do not understand, Albus. He smiled a little and told me so many things. And I feel that, for this, I have been waiting a very long time."