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Being surrounded by a crowd of portraits is a curious thing—especially when that crowd, in truth, has little say in anything.
The atmosphere in the Headmaster's Office grew solemn. At last, Albus Dumbledore, long white beard and all, lifted his hand.
A floating letter spun rapidly through the air and came to rest before Sean.
He heard the fireplace crackle and the kettle bubble, then Dumbledore's kindly voice:
"Oh—a crucial step. Let us hear the professors' recommendations."
Tension spread. Sean recalled that the scholarship criteria were set by the Headmaster, who would weigh the student's progress and the professors' evaluations to reach a decision. He guessed those envelopes held the teachers' appraisals.
He hadn't expected the process to be so formal, though it made sense—the number of Galleons involved was no small matter.
With a tearing sound, a familiar, severe voice rang out:
"I hereby, in the strongest and most formal terms, recommend Mr. Sean Green for this special scholarship… He is fully deserving of this support and has the potential to become a pride of Hogwarts.
—Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress, Head of Gryffindor House."
Professor McGonagall gave Sean a small nod; the softness in her eyes deepened.
"Oh—high praise, isn't it?" Dumbledore blinked at Sean.
Around them, the portraits murmured assent. Everard, white-bearded, stroked his beard and nodded under the brim of his black hat, eyes gleaming.
"Give it here."
A second envelope was torn open; an icy voice issued forth. The office fell silent for a beat.
Then a third letter opened of its own accord:
"Yes—speaking as Head of Hufflepuff and Professor of Herbology, I strongly recommend Mr. Sean Green for this additional scholarship. In those days no one knew—dark, cramped days—dear Mr. Green fought stubbornly for a way to live. Now that he's growing strong, why shouldn't we sow him more sunlight?
Sincerely,
Pomona Sprout."
In the greenhouse, Sprout glanced instinctively toward the castle. Beaming, she flicked her wand: a gentle rain fell, soaking into roots. She knew the plants would be the better for it next year.
"Mm—very good—" Dumbledore laced his fingers as more voices followed in turn.
Without exception, the professors spoke highly of the little Ravenclaw. The once-chatty portraits went quiet, then looked at Sean in surprise—until a stammer broke the hush:
"Mr—Mr—Mr. Green, of—of—of course—"
Headmistress Dilys Derwent frowned. Sensitive to Dark magic, she had long sensed that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was… not quite ordinary.
The instant Quirrell's voice sounded, Sean tensed. His DADA notes had always been rated Outstanding, but Quirrell's own convictions—Sean doubted even he knew where they lay.
"I—I recommend Mr. Green. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, he is—he is excellent. His learning… deserves attention—he needs this scholarship, needs to be seen, even just this once. Therefore I rec—rec—recommend him—"
As the stammering words spilled out, Sean felt as if a great drum had thudded in his chest—because the hand that wrote that letter still belonged to Quirinus Quirrell: timid, clever, gifted Ravenclaw—not the twisted Voldemort.
McGonagall had said three recommendations were enough. Sean had thought Quirrell wouldn't even take part. Yet he had, and sent this letter. It was almost unbelievable.
Far away in the DADA classroom, the comically cringing professor had a near-perfect set of defense notes at hand. For once his head didn't hurt; for an instant, the hollowness in his eyes hardened. A gifted Ravenclaw in need—courage from nowhere had moved him to write:
"What if—if it comes down—down to me—"
"Useless thoughts, my foolish servant! Your head full of childish notions of good and evil—" hissed a cramped, shadowed voice in Quirrell's mind. He clutched his skull in pain.
"There is no good and evil in this world, only power—and those too weak to seek it! Remember that. Next time you dare—"
Quirrell trembled, face contorted, not daring even to cry out.
"A single wrong choice is enough to cause a permanent tragedy," Dumbledore murmured, gaze long and unfocused. No one heard him; only the wind and the kettle's bubbling kept him company.
The once-chatty portraits now stood dumbstruck. Seven professors in all had offered high praise. Their scrutiny softened; warmth grew.
"Quite unbelievable," one portrait breathed.
Dumbledore tapped a silver instrument. "Quiet, please," McGonagall called, and Dumbledore rose with unstudied ease.
"In light of Mr. Sean Green's achievements and character in his magical studies, I hereby declare—"
He flicked his wand. A finely wrapped pouch, crisp and soft, with not a wrinkle in its fabric, floated to Sean.
"Mr. Sean Green—you have been awarded this scholarship."
Applause thundered from the portraits. Even Dumbledore gave a gentle clap. Outside the door, Sir Cadogan shrieked and, in his excitement, swept Lady Violet up in a hug.
Sean caught the pouch and knew: that stretch of Hogwarts life—gentle, hard-working, breathless, urgent—had just come to a perfect full stop.
Not an ending, but the beginning of another story—
"When you stand at the threshold of the best part of your life, you find yourself suddenly called by the unknown. Child, the true danger is not to step into it—but to refuse the call."
Dumbledore smiled, kindly as ever, and gestured for Sean to open the pouch.
Sean obediently tugged the cord—and froze.
~~~
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