The sky outside was already as dark as ink.
In a spacious, beautiful circular room, various silver instruments gleamed softly. Nearby, a blackened kettle bubbled and steamed.
The walls were lined with portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses, most of whom were usually dozing in their frames. Tonight, though, a woman with long, curling silver hair in the central portrait couldn't help but speak up.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, you're being too cautious," she said. "You knocked the sword out of his hand and placed the letter in his grasp yourself. Anyone can see that boy is pure and kind, Albus."
Dumbledore sat in an armchair, his deep blue eyes distant and unfocused. The kettle boiled, settled, then boiled again.
It wasn't until a raven's cry cut through the night that he slowly looked up.
"That's exactly the problem, Headmistress Dilys Derwent," he said. "There's never been a trace of hatred in his eyes. You and I both know how rare that kind of purity is.
"A wizard's instinctive reactions can't be controlled, even in the most precocious and clever children. If a child who can clearly distinguish right from wrong, stay rational under pressure, and see kindness through anger, spite, or prejudice isn't considered pure, then what is purity? It's just an empty word.
"But how do we handle such purity? So many bright lights can't heal a festering soul, yet a single faint candle can guide a child through a long, dark road. That boy has been loved—loved with a force that drives out all ugliness and resentment. I thought I'd never see such great love again.
"It's love that makes us resolute and grounded. We all know it's far too easy to stop caring, but only those with character and courage dare to care about everything the world throws at them. Unlike wizards, magical creatures are far more sensitive. The slightest malice makes them flinch. Yet this boy is always surrounded by them. Don't you see, dear Headmistress Derwent? That love must be gone, because only a love that's passed on can weave such gentleness.
"We've had too many lessons about what not to do. For a child like this—one who's lost everything, relies only on himself, and shows such astonishing talent—I can't help but think of the mistake I made fifty years ago, one I still regret deeply.
"We know a child like this is determined, but also unsettling. That lost love has set him apart from the world. I can't imagine what anchor he has left here. He doesn't hate, but that doesn't mean he won't be disappointed. He doesn't rage, but that doesn't mean he's free of pent-up frustration. When the last traces of that love fade, when he grows strong enough, what will he still care about?
"Above all, we must be kind. That's the most important thing. Then comes integrity. I'm not arrogant enough to think I can guide or reshape a child with both talent and kindness—my past arrogance has already taught me that lesson the hard way. But what should we do, dear Headmistress Derwent? Do we let this child face a cold, hard world alone, swallowing every hurt until he gradually loses that love?
"If there's an answer, it lies in the greatest magic of all. The most powerful, mysterious, and profound love will truly bring him into this world. Love can reach a nearly closed heart with gentleness, coaxing it to open to the world again. All we need is enough patience and kindness to stir that cautious soul.
"Only with that great magic will he find his place—and still choose to live in it, gently."
As Headmistress Derwent stared, lost in thought, Dumbledore used magic to lift the kettle. His murmurs faded into the cool evening breeze.
"What more can I do… or rather, what can I still make right? Make right… not exactly a pleasant word…"
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Hogwarts weekends were a mix of lazy relaxation and creeping tension. After two days of carefree fun, young witches and wizards faced the grim reality of homework.
For those who finished their assignments early, there were entertaining distractions beyond the castle's beauty—like watching two young wizards bicker over a set of notes.
Sean, however, wasn't paying attention to the chaos. He spent all Sunday morning poring over *Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6* and looking for Professor Flitwick. Unfortunately, the professor seemed to be out.
As Sean passed a portrait, the Fat Lady kindly informed him that Flitwick was likely at the Three Broomsticks, too tipsy to walk straight.
And just like that, Monday arrived.
Sean's first class of the day was Charms, where Ravenclaw shared the lesson with Gryffindor.
On a pile of books between the rows of seats, Professor Flitwick waved his wand, sending Neville's toad zooming around the classroom.
The young witches and wizards erupted with excitement. Flitwick paired them up to practice.
"Pronouncing the spell correctly is crucial," Flitwick said. "Don't forget Wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and ended up flat on the floor with a buffalo on his chest!"
His voice echoed through the room for a while.
Even with Flitwick's explanations, the spell wasn't easy to master.
Seamus flicked and swished his wand over and over, but the feather he was supposed to levitate stayed stubbornly on the floor.
Frustrated, Seamus jabbed his wand at the feather, setting it on fire. Luckily, Sean quickly doused it with a *Aguamenti* charm.
Suddenly—
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
A feather wobbled into the air.
"Cool!"
When everyone turned to look, their eyes widened.
"Longbottom?!"
*That* Longbottom?"
"No way!"
Neville's face turned bright red as whispers filled the room.
"Excellent work!" Flitwick called out, clapping his hands. "Everyone, look! Mr. Longbottom did it! Three points to Gryffindor!"
Neville's face grew even redder, his hands trembling.
Before class ended, Flitwick called Neville over. Before the professor could say a word, Neville blurted out nervously, "It was Mr. Green, Professor! He taught me—his notes, I mean. Without Mr. Green, I wouldn't have learned anything. It's all him…"
He stammered on, but Flitwick's face lit up as if he'd heard the best news all day. Taking the notebook, his mustache twitched with a smile.
"Of course, of course, Mr. Green is a remarkably talented wizard," Flitwick said, gently patting Neville's shoulder as he crouched down. "But you, Mr. Longbottom, are every bit as impressive."
---