Chapter 84: Quirrell
Being surrounded by a crowd of portraits was an odd experience, especially when most of those portraits had very little say in the matter.
The atmosphere in the Headmaster's office turned solemn at last. Albus Dumbledore, beard long and white, lifted his hand.
A floating letter spun once and sliced through the air to stop in front of Shawn.
He heard the crackle of the fire blend with the kettle's soft burbling, and then Dumbledore's kindly voice.
"An important step. Let us hear the professors' recommendations."
Tension unfurled in the room. Shawn remembered that the scholarship criteria were set by the Headmaster, who weighed a student's progress and the professors' appraisals together.
Shawn guessed the envelopes all held assessments from the staff.
He had not expected the review to be this formal, although it made sense. The Galleons at stake were no small sum.
He tore the envelope. A familiar, crisp female voice spoke
"I write with the utmost seriousness to recommend, as strongly as it is possible to recommend, that Mr Shawn Green be awarded this special scholarship.
"He is fully worthy of this support, and he has the potential to become a source of pride for Hogwarts.
— Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, Head of Gryffindor House."
Professor McGonagall tipped Shawn a small nod, and there was a new softness at the corner of her eyes.
"Oh? High praise, is it not?" Dumbledore said, and winked.
The portraits around them murmured and agreed. Headmaster Everard, a ring of white beard framing his face, stroked it and nodded very slightly, bright eyes glinting beneath a black hat brim.
"Next."
The second letter opened, and a cold voice drifted out.
The office fell quiet for a heartbeat.
A third envelope opened at once.
"Yes. In my capacity as Head of Hufflepuff House and Professor of Herbology, I strongly recommend that Mr Shawn Green receive this additional scholarship.
"In those days known to no one, dark and narrow, dear Mr Green fought stubbornly for a way to live. As he grows stronger, why should we not cast a little more sunlight?
Sincerely,
Pomona Sprout."
In the greenhouse, Professor Sprout glanced, by instinct, toward the castle. Smiling, she swept her wand, and a small, gentle rain fell, soaking into the roots of the magical plants. She knew they would be better for it next year.
"Hmm. Very good."
Dumbledore laced his fingers. One by one, the professors' evaluations followed.
Without exception, they spoke highly of the young Ravenclaw. The portraits, so noisy a moment before, fell into a hush and stared at Shawn in surprise, right up until—
"G-g-g—Mr G-G-Green, o-of course—"
The stammer made Headmistress Dilys Derwent frown. Keen as she was to the Dark Arts, she had long suspected there was something not entirely ordinary about the current Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
At the sound of Professor Quirrell's voice, Shawn felt a flutter of nerves. His Defence notes had always been graded highly, but he doubted even Quirinus Quirrell could tell precisely where his own thoughts ended and another will began.
"I— I r-recommend Mr Green. H-he is v-very accomplished in matters of Defence— h-his learning should b-be recognised. H-he needs this scholarship, needs to b-be seen, at least once. S-so I recommend him— I r-reco—"
The words were clumsy and halting, but they hit Shawn like a drum. Because the man who had written them was still Quirinus Quirrell — a timid, clever Ravenclaw, talented and afraid — and not the twisted Lord Voldemort.
Professor McGonagall had said three recommendations would be more than enough.
Shawn had thought Professor Quirrell might not even take part. And yet the man had sent a letter. It was nearly unbelievable.
Far away in the Defence classroom, the comical, cringing professor had a Defence notebook on his desk that was as close to perfect as any he had ever seen. For once, his head did not ache. For an instant, the hollowness in his gaze firmed.
A gifted Ravenclaw, in a bind, in need of help. Some courage from nowhere had pushed his hand.
"W-what if this t-turns on m-me—"
"Useless thinking, my foolish servant. Your skull is stuffed with childish babble about good and evil."
A cramped, cold voice rasped in Quirrell's mind. He flinched and clutched at his head.
"There is no good and evil. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. Remember that. Next time you do something so stupid—"
Quirrell quailed from the voice. His face twisted; his whole frame shuddered. He dared not even cry out.
"A single poor choice is enough to create a tragedy that lasts forever," said Dumbledore to himself, eyes far away, voice lost under the burble of the kettle and the hush of the wind.
The portraits, so full of chatter earlier, had fallen utterly still. By now, all seven professors had given the boy the very highest praise. The painted judges' eyes softened and warmed.
"Incredible," one portrait breathed.
Dumbledore tapped a silver instrument; Professor McGonagall's voice rang clear.
"Please be quiet."
Dumbledore rose with easy grace.
"In light of Mr Shawn Green's achievements and character in the study of magic, I declare—"
His wand flicked. A bag floated over to Shawn, exquisitely wrapped, crisp and soft, without a single crease.
"Mr Shawn Green, you are awarded this scholarship."
Applause erupted from the portraits. Even Dumbledore clapped softly.
Behind the door, Sir Cadogan, listening in, shrieked with delight and, in his joy, swept Lady Violet up in a hug.
Shawn took the bag. He knew that the gentle, hardworking, breathless, urgent days of his Hogwarts month had reached a perfect cadence here.
This was not an ending. It was the beginning of something else.
"When you stand on the threshold of the best part of your life, you will find yourself drawn toward the unknown. Child, the real danger is not stepping into it, but refusing that call," Dumbledore said, smiling.
He held out a hand, inviting Shawn to open the bag.
Shawn did as he was told. The second he looked inside, he froze.