Chapter 125: Hope
"The Disillusionment Charm, the Silencing Charm, a non-verbal Levitation Charm..."
In the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore's quiet murmuring broke the long silence. "It's all... quite specific. A specialized toolkit for stealth and... trolls."
Nothing was ever a coincidence, especially not for a child who avoided night prowling yet had mastered the Disillusionment Charm. He must have sensed the danger, DumbledSore mused. The danger on the third floor. To have reached the troll, he would have had to bypass the other obstacles. His talent is undeniable.
And yet, he said nothing... Curious, is it not?
While this behavior might have been unsettling, factoring in the name 'Green' and his proximity to the troll incident... Dumbledore chuckled softly. The entire castle might be under his control, but this young Mr. Green... he had certainly done his utmost.
"Albus, you're thinking of him as you would one of them..." a calm, gentle voice interjected.
"Ah, Headmistress Derwent," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling. "Forgive an old man his worries. When one gets to my age, one's vision blurs... Lovely weather. Now, where did I put my Sherbet Lemons?"
"Perhaps in your woolly socks, Albus?" Dilys Derwent suggested.
"Ah, of course, of course. My socks." Dumbledore idly stroked a pair of thick, warm socks on his desk, a gift that felt impossibly soft. What made his moustache twitch, however, was that this wasn't the only pair. This pair had come from young Mr. Green.
[Happy Hallowe'en. Thank you for your generous help.]
Dumbledore's blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Who, after all, could dislike a child who showed such gratitude?
The Dungeons.
The stone walls wept with cold. The Potions classroom was colder than the rest of the castle, the damp air so heavy it felt like a physical weight. Water condensed on the rough stone, trickling down in the flickering torchlight.
Amidst the usual grey gloom, a brightly colored box of sweets and a blue notebook looked jarringly out of place.
"It seems you've received gifts as well, Severus?" A long, white-bearded figure had appeared at the door, his purple robes bright against the darkness. His tone wasn't teasing, but held a simple, quiet concern.
"Hmph." Snape, without a word, banished Dumbledore from his dungeon with a non-verbal jinx.
Outside the door, Sir Cadogan was holding court with several monks, a few former Headmasters from other portraits, and his fat, grey pony, all sharing a painted feast. He pushed back his helmet, raising a flagon of mead. "Hallowe'en—hic—greetings, Headmaster! Did he not see your socks? A pity..."
In the dungeon, Snape's brief flash of anger faded, replaced by a familiar irritation. Useless, sentimental gifts. Good for nothing but fostering idiotic attachments and encouraging... foolishness.
He tore the wrapping off the package.
Inside were several carefully selected bunches of nettles and a phial of porcupine quills, all bundled together. Beside them was a notebook, detailing Sean's latest progress on the Guidance Method.
Snape waved his wand, banishing the sweets, which "happened" to land in an empty, high-up storage cubby. He then unfolded the note.
[Sometimes, looking with hope helps one see more clearly.
Professor, I found these among the substandard ingredients.
There weren't many, but they exist.
Also,
Happy Hallowe'en, Professor Snape.]
The boy is... verbose, Snape thought with a sneer, though he tucked the note into his own robe pocket.
Emerging from the dungeon, Sean's breath plumed in the cold air.
"Come in, child."
He found Professor McGonagall at her desk. The usual mountains of homework and stacks of complicated Ministry forms were gone. The room was quiet, save for a single owl that had just arrived, shaking tiny snowflakes from its wings. Sean, amused, flicked his wand, making the snowflakes dance in the air before they melted.
"Coo?" The owl tilted its head, then hopped onto Sean's shoulder, rubbing its soft head against his cheek.
Oh dear, Sean thought. Mr. Owl is going to have a fit. "Little wizard! Unfaithful little wizard! You smell of another owl!"
"Child, come here," Professor McGonagall said suddenly.
Sean walked over, expecting questions about the troll, but she didn't mention it. She simply took his small, cold hand in hers. "Listen to me," she said, her voice firm but gentle. "Protecting your friends is important. But protecting yourself is just as vital."
The fire crackled. Sean stood before it, resuming his practice of transforming objects into magic. As his wand moved, the flames leaped like sprites. At one point, he recalled the fire-lizard McGonagall had created. He checked her notes. The details for the spell were there, meticulously outlined. He'd assumed it was far too advanced, but a strange intuition urged him to try.
[You have practiced an Advanced Transfiguration to the Novice standard. Proficiency +100]
A lizard-shaped flame erupted from the fire and skittered across the hearth!
[Magical creatures possess pathways innately compatible with magic. A talented wizard can perceive them.]
As Sean stared at the note, a small smile playing on his lips, Professor McGonagall read the letter the owl had brought.
Dear Minerva McGonagall,
I could not believe my eyes when I received your letter. The child, that sweet, God-blessed child... it wasn't a scam after all. Please forgive my suspicion. I've seen too many false hopes in Croydon. We... we choose to believe, because there is no worse alternative.
I cannot imagine the effort you went to to find me. I know... those people... never reply to letters. They'd rather the children simply disappear. Your kindness is more than enough.
If you require more information about him, please ask. I was a volunteer at Hollysage for many years.
I await your reply.
Yours truly,
Roland Taylor
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