Outside, the sky was black as ink.
In a spacious, beautiful circular room, all manner of silver instruments stood gleaming; beside them a soot-blackened kettle still burbled and steamed. Portraits of former headmasters lined the walls. Usually they dozed in their frames, but tonight the lady in the central portrait, long silver curls cascading, couldn't hold her tongue:
"Headmaster Dumbledore, you are too cautious… you knocked down the sword and then placed the letter in his hands. But my anxious sir, anyone can see it—that child is pure and kind."
Dumbledore sat in his armchair, deep blue eyes distant and unfocused. The water in the kettle boiled, subsided, and boiled again. Only when a raven crossed the sky did he slowly raise his head.
"That is the point, Headmistress Dilys Derwent. There is never a flicker of hatred in his eyes. You and I both know how rare such purity is. A wizard's reflexes cannot be controlled—not even in precociously clever children… If a child who can separate right from wrong with clarity, remain rational under pressure and gloom, and always see through anger, cruelty, and prejudice to the sliver of kindness—if even he does not count as pure, then purity is a hollow word.
"But how are we to face that purity? How much light can not fill a rotting heart? And how many faint candles can carry a child down a long road? He was loved—loved in a way that drove out every ugliness and bitterness. I never thought I would see such a love again.
"It is love that makes one resolute and self-possessed. We both know: not caring is easy; only those with character and courage dare to care about all that the world gives.
"Magical creatures are keener than wizards—an ounce of malice makes them flinch. Yet that child is always surrounded. Do you not see, dear Headmistress Derwent? That love is gone—only love that has died can stretch so gently over time.
"Too many lessons tell us what is wrong to do. Yes—faced with a child who has lost every support, resolved to rely only on himself, and with such startling talent—I can think only of the lesson, fifty years ago, that I regret most.
"We must know such a child is resolute—and unsettling. That dead love has parted him from the world; I dare not imagine what place remains for him in it. That he does not hate does not mean he will not despair; that he does not rage does not mean nothing festers. When the remnants of love fade, when he grows strong—what will he care for?
"We must first be kind—that most of all—and then upright. I won't be so arrogant as to direct or straighten the life of a child where talent and goodness meet. Pride on that count has already taught me a painful lesson. What then should we do, dear Headmistress Derwent? Abandon this child to a cold, hard world—to grind everything to powder in his own gut—and slowly lose love?
"If there is an answer, it is to entrust all to the greatest magic. The greatest, most mysterious, deepest love will bring him truly into this world. Love, which finds its way softly into an almost closed heart and coaxes it to open again. Our task is only to use patience and kindness enough to shake that cautious soul.
"Only in such great magic will he find his place and still be willing—to live in it—gently."
…
Weekends at Hogwarts carry both laziness and dread: after two days' fun, first-years must sadly face homework again. Those who finish early get to enjoy more than the scenery—like two kids tussling over a set of notes.
Sean wasn't watching. He spent all Sunday morning with The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6, hunting for Professor Flitwick. No luck—the professor seemed to be out. Passing a portrait, the Fat Lady kindly told Sean Flitwick was probably stranded at the Three Broomsticks, too far into his tankard to walk.
And just like that, it was Monday.
First period Charms was Ravenclaw with Gryffindor. From the stack of books at the center, Professor Flitwick flicked his wand and sent Neville's toad pinballing around the room. Excitement flared; he paired them off to practice.
"Pronunciation matters—never forget Warlock Baruffio, who said 'f' like 's' and found himself flat on the floor with a buffalo standing on his chest…"
Flitwick's voice ran on. Even so, it wasn't easy. Seamus swished-and-flicked over and over; the feather that should have risen lay still. In frustration he poked it—whoosh—flame—luckily Sean quenched it with Aguamenti.
Suddenly—
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
A feather wobbled up.
"Cool—" All eyes swung—and widened.
"Neville?!"
"That Neville?"
"Merlin!"
Neville burned scarlet at the whispers.
"Oh, bravo!" Flitwick clapped. "Everyone, look—Mr. Longbottom did it! Three points to Gryffindor!"
Neville went redder, hands trembling.
Just before the bell, Flitwick called him up. Neville didn't let him speak—he blurted:
"Mr. Green taught me, Professor—the notes—yes, the notes… Without Mr. Green I couldn't have learned… it was all Mr. Green…"
He finished, shaking, and saw Flitwick's mustache perk as if he'd heard something delightful. The professor took the notebook and said, "Of course—of course Mr. Green is a very gifted wizard. But—"
He crouched to pat Neville's shoulder. "Mr. Longbottom—you're no worse yourself."