Chapter 77: Love
Outside, the sky was black as ink.
In a spacious, beautiful circular room, all manner of silver instruments stood ticking and whirring, and beside them a soot-darkened kettle still burbled on the boil.
Portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses lined the walls. They usually dozed in their frames, but tonight the lady at the center, with long curls of silver hair, could not hold her tongue.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, you are too cautious... You knocked down the sword and placed the letter in his hand, and yet, my anxious sir, anyone can see that is a pure and kind child."
Dumbledore sat in an armchair, his deep blue eyes distant and unfocused. The kettle's water boiled and calmed, calmed and boiled again.
Only when a raven cut across the sky did Dumbledore slowly lift his head.
"That is precisely the point, Headmistress Dilys Derwent. There has never been a trace of hatred in his eyes. You and I know how rare that purity is. A wizard's reflex cannot be controlled, not even in precocious, clever children. If a child who can cleanly separate right from wrong, remain rational under pressure and gloom, and always see the good through masks of anger, cruelty, and obsession is not 'pure,' then the word has become empty.
"But how are we to meet this purity? No flood of light fills a rotting heart; yet how many faint candles will carry a child along a long road? He has been loved by a love that banished every ugliness and hatred. I thought I would never again see a love so great.
"Love makes one steadfast and self-possessed. We know this. It is easy to be indifferent. Only those with character and courage dare to care about all the world gives.
"Compared to wizards, magical creatures are ever more sensitive. The tiniest malice makes them shrink. That child is always surrounded by them—do you not see? Dear Headmistress Derwent, that love is gone, for only a love that has died can stretch so tenderly over time.
"There are so many lessons that tell us what is wrong. Yes—faced with a child who has lost every support and resolved to rely on himself, and with the astounding gifts he shows, I can think only of a lesson from fifty years ago that fills me with remorse.
"We should know that such a child is resolute—and unsettling. For the love that has died has drawn him away from the world. What place can he find here? He will not hate—that does not mean he will not be disappointed. He will not rage—that does not mean he bears no weight within. When every remnant of love is spent, when he grows strong enough, what will he still care for?
"We must first be kind—this is paramount—and then honest. I will not be arrogant enough to try to direct or straighten the life of a child who holds both talent and goodness. Pride on this point has already taught me bitterly. But what are we to do, dear Headmistress Derwent? Let this child face a cold, hard world alone, grinding everything to powder in silence and swallowing it down, and little by little losing love?
"If there is any answer, it is to entrust all to the greatest magic. The greatest, most mysterious, most profound love will truly bring him into this world. Love can reach a nearly closed heart with gentleness and coax it open again. Our task is only to use enough patience and kindness to shake that cautious soul.
"Only by such great magic will he find his place—and still be willing, gently, to live within it."
While Headmistress Dilys Derwent stood transfixed, Dumbledore raised the kettle with a flick of magic. His murmur faded into the cool night air.
"What else can I do... or rather, what can I make right? Make right—ah. Not a lovely phrase..."
...
Weekends at Hogwarts were both lazy and taut, for after two days of gleeful play, students had to face their homework again.
Those who finished early could enjoy more than castle views—like the spectacle of two first-years wrestling over a single set of notes.
Shawn spared none of it a glance. He spent all Sunday morning reading The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6, and looking for Professor Flitwick.
He had no luck. The professor seemed to be out. Passing a portrait, the Fat Lady kindly told Shawn that Professor Flitwick had likely drunk himself immobile at the Three Broomsticks.
And so in the blink of an eye, it was Monday.
Shawn's first class that morning was Charms, Ravenclaw with Gryffindor.
On the stack of books between the aisles, Professor Flitwick waved his wand, and Neville's toad went hopping madly about the room.
The first-years' excitement caught fire at once. They were paired off to practice.
"Enunciation matters—do not forget the wizard Baruffio. He said 'f' instead of 's' and found himself flat on his back with a buffalo standing on his chest..."
Professor Flitwick's voice ran for a while.
Even so, it was harder to do than to hear.
Seamus swished and jabbed, swished and jabbed, but his feather refused to budge. With a frustrated poke, something popped—smoke belched, the feather spat sparks, and a gout of fire whooshed up. Shawn managed to catch a heartbeat and doused it with Aguamenti.
Suddenly—
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
A feather quivered and rose.
"Cool—"
Every head snapped toward the sound. Eyes went wide.
"Longbottom?!"
"That Longbottom?"
"Merlin!"
Neville flushed scarlet as whispers fizzed all around him.
"Oh, very good!"
Professor Flitwick clapped and cried, "Look, everyone, Mr Longbottom has done it! Three points to Gryffindor!"
Neville went redder. Even his hands shook.
Before the bell, Professor Flitwick called Neville over. The boy began to tremble all over again and blurted everything out at once.
"It was Mr Green who taught me, Professor—the notes—yes, the notes... without Mr Green I could not have learned anything... all Mr Green..."
He finished in a quiver and saw Professor Flitwick beam as if he had just heard the best news in the world. The professor took the notebook, the tips of his mustache perking up.
"Indeed, indeed. Mr Green is a most gifted wizard. But—"
He laid a gentle hand on Mr Longbottom's shoulder.
"Mr Longbottom, you are not one bit behind."