Chapter 86: Rest and Neville
Great Hall.
At the edge of the cluster, the salamander suddenly shot into the air, spinning wildly around the room and spitting sprays of sparks with loud bangs.
Percy was hoarsely bawling Fred and George out. The fire‑dwelling lizard's mouth spewed orange‑red stars. It was chaotic and spectacular.
With a string of crackling explosions, the salamander dove into the hearth and vanished in the flames. All of it only made Shawn's already buoyant mood even lighter.
He was planning to give himself a day off. Professor McGonagall had insisted that he wander around Hogwarts properly.
She had warned him sternly that if a young wizard pushed their magical training too aggressively, the effect could backfire. He was to sleep well, untie the knots in his mind, and remember that rest and work needed to balance each other, wherever one lived.
By the doors of the Great Hall, two pairs of eyes were fixed on Shawn.
"Justin, are you sure this will work?" Hermione asked, tilting her head back. If she did not, she could not see over the stack of books Justin was carrying.
"Of course it will. Have you forgotten what the knight said? The medal on his chest is from the days of King Arthur. You know knights do not lie."
Justin strode forward, full of confidence.
Under the enchanted ceiling – a dull grey this afternoon – the four House tables were laid out with steaming porridge, plates of pickled herring, mounds of chops, and rows of puddings.
Hermione and Justin slid into seats on either side of Shawn. Hermione's Intermediate Transfiguration lay open, propped on a jug of milk.
"Er, Shawn – I mean, it is the weekend and I am afraid I need just a little help," Justin began, sounding sheepish.
Shawn, mulling over what it meant to "maintain an excellent standard" in magic, nodded absently.
"I need your History of Magic notes," Justin said.
"I've just added the section on the age of King Arthur. The set homework starts on page sixty‑five," Shawn replied.
"And Herbology, Astronomy, Potions—"
"Yes. The details need practice, though. I wrote the full process down."
"Oh – and Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms, I also—"
Shawn paused, glanced at him helplessly. "The Charms notes are with Hermione. The Defence notes are with you."
"You are terrible at this. You have been caught," Hermione said, a flush creeping up her neck.
"It does not matter, Hermione," Justin said, smile growing warmer. "You and I both know that without his notes, Shawn can do nothing but rest."
As they whispered, Michael, nearby, was gawping. A second later, he was shaking Anthony by the shoulders.
"Look at that. Look at that! That is what friends are – friends who drag you back from the brink on Death Weekend. Oi, you two, try to keep up, will you!"
The Great Hall was never truly quiet. At the end of the Ravenclaw table, Neville worked his way through a piece of toast. Now and then, he glanced at the bustle; each time, he dropped his eyes again.
Then Michael slung an arm around his shoulders.
"Oi, Neville, I paid an entire week's worth of pudding for this. Did you ever get to that place?"
Neville flinched. It hit him then that every time Shawn had helped him, it had been in the second corridor. He had never actually reached that spot. His breath hitched, his lips shaking.
"N‑no—"
"Merlin's shorts," Michael hissed, eyes going wider still.
By evening, the darkness came rolling from the Forbidden Forest.
Shawn walked slowly, holding a magical lantern to light the stones under his feet.
Before Lumos had been invented, wizards had used lanterns like this for light. Shawn could feel the spellwork woven through it – not the same configuration as the Wand‑Lighting Charm, but a more potent, more draining one.
If Lumos burned at a base strength of one and could be forced up to seven, then a magical lantern's weakest glow was three, and its upper limit topped twenty.
It came from a much older lattice of spells inside, apparently etched with runes.
Among wizards, there was a saying of sorts that the older the magic, the stronger it ran. It did not mean magic itself had not progressed; rather, compared to the simple, user‑friendly charms in The Standard Book of Spells, ancient magic was brutally crude.
Even little life spells like the door-opening charm of legend, "Open Sesame," had fearsome power and were often abused by young wizards in duels, with a grim tally of injury and death.
Ancient spells took ages to cast. Records from international duelling tournaments made this very clear. There were always wizards who chased raw power and lost because they could not speak fast enough.
One wizard had once tried to call on a spell that required a long build‑up. If he had pulled it off, he could have raised a mountain and dropped it on his opponent. His opponent disarmed him and knocked him out of the running before he finished the first half of the incantation.
Modern magic was the result of ten centuries of simplification. It was lightning‑quick to cast but, compared to the old ways, far weaker, and often used for entirely different purposes. The Cutting Charm, for instance, had once been used for executions.
For Shawn, there would come a time when, once his proficiency rose high enough, standard spells would no longer be enough.
That insight had settled into him. It made sense now that so many great witches and wizards, once they reached a certain level, turned to runes and older magics. There was an upper ceiling that one could only break from above.
Thinking about magic that way had become part of Shawn's life. In a quiet moment, it relaxed him more than it tired him.
He had just taken out Dumbledore's letter, thinking about how to wriggle his way into staying at Hogwarts forever, when he saw a figure pacing the staircase, trying very hard to hide in the corner.
"Shawn."
Neville had to gather himself to get the name out.
Shawn stopped. When he turned, Neville also turned away, as if someone else had spoken.
That was enough to make Justin, peeking from the classroom doorway, stifle a laugh.
Inside, Hermione was practising Levitation. Her desk was buried in notes. Several library books yet to be returned were already hidden under fresh piles she had borrowed.
Shawn's desk looked a little different. He tended to memorise the less important volumes and kept only the key works with him even after he knew them cover to cover.
Magical Theory, for one. The result was an orderly table where the only unpredictable element was the occasional appearance of a fresh plate of sweets; everything else followed a clear pattern.
"An excellent standard in magic clearly includes both theory and practice, and practice is the only test that counts," his Quick‑Quotes Quill scribbled across the pale blue page. "In practice, a wizard's level is most often shown in spellwork and Transfiguration. Potions can be counted as well."
Dumbledore's conditions matched Shawn's existing goals almost perfectly. He had already been preparing for the dangers Hogwarts might hold – a troll, perhaps, or pure‑bloods who reviled Muggle‑borns.
So he walked closer to Neville, mind half on his plans for the week after Monday.