Minerva McGonagall did not answer. Her gaze drifted past the gleaming silver instruments, past Fawkes dozing on his perch, past the portraits of former headmasters—until it settled on the ancient stone wall behind which a small wizard waited for the password.
The Headmaster's Office is on the eighth floor; just climbing up had cost Sean a good deal of strength. He stared at the gargoyle guarding the entrance, waiting for it to prompt him to speak the password.
But the moment he caught his breath, the gargoyle hopped aside.
Sean blinked in confusion as the wall split neatly in two, revealing a slow, upward-spiraling staircase.
The password?
Lemon Sherbet? Fizzing Whizzbees? Cockroach Clusters?
So the reason Dumbledore hadn't told him the password was… there wasn't one?
Sean accepted this quickly and stepped onto the self-turning stair. It rumbled—not too loud, not too soft—and anticipation mixed with nerves spread through him.
Suddenly he wondered: couldn't this rotating stair be considered the wizarding world's elevator?
As he rose, his thoughts wandered. The wizarding world seems separated from the present age by a long interval; it's hard to imagine the Ministry still using paper airplanes when the telephone exists. The gap isn't magic's limitation but the limitation of wizarding thinking—wizards disdain and undervalue Muggles, so they never bother with "Muggle science."
While he was woolgathering, a shining oak door came into view, its handle a brass griffin knocker. Before he could knock, the door swung inward.
McGonagall lowered her wand as if by habit, untroubled by the way the blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles had grown even gentler.
The office was circular and surprisingly spacious, yet not in the least cold. Everywhere, things moved.
"Mr. Sean Green," said a portrait in a warm voice—a beautiful woman with long silver curls.
"Headmistress Derwent," Sean murmured, pausing to bow.
The long silver curls, the kindly smile—he recognized Dilys Derwent. She had been a Healer at St Mungo's, a witch with the rare dual career of Healer and Headmistress. Her portrait remains among the headmasters and still takes part in school affairs; she is widely regarded as one of the most renowned headmasters in Hogwarts' history. Her portrait even helped Dumbledore research the metamorphic properties of a blood curse, pointing out fundamental differences from Animagus transformation.
So—yes—great witches and wizards are nearly always adept at Transfiguration, Sean thought.
After Voldemort's defeat, Headmistress Derwent's portrait had been seen weeping for joy. By all accounts, a truly great Headmistress.
"Ahem—woken from my rest for an obscure Ravenclaw?" came a sniff. Sean looked up at Phineas Nigellus Black, the headmaster who once "unified" the four Houses. Even Voldemort hadn't managed that; in Phineas's time, Slytherin and Gryffindor could still play together—no small feat.
As this "unifying" headmaster began, the other portraits roused from their naps to join the special discussion. They murmured—some gentle, some stern. When Phineas finished, none immediately refuted him. Only Dilys Derwent frowned.
Outside the office, things were no calmer.
"My lady, you know how much young Green has labored for this—and oh, those portraits, especially that selfish fool Black! If he spouts some half-witted nonsense that harms the boy—my lady! A knight cannot sit idle!" Sir Cadogan had somehow mounted his pony; his armor shone, his overlong sword hung at his hip. Grass stains covered both knees, but his spirits were high.
"Farewell!" he cried, and dove headlong into a painting of several sinister monks near the office. "Farewell, comrades! If you need a noble heart and a stout body, call Sir Cadogan!"
"Oh, my dear Sir—" Lady Violet's eyes were moist; the Fat Lady, beside her, cried out, torn between sorrow and excitement: "Sir, and kick him hard with your boot!"
Inside.
Faced with this selfish, arrogant headmaster, Sean merely answered with a soft "Mm."
"—Impertinent child, I propose—" Phineas began—and then chaos: a roaring knight charged like an enraged bull, knocking the Black headmaster flat. The normally uncooperative pony unleashed unexpected power, shunting Phineas clear across the office to the very edge of the frames.
"Watch closely, young Green! This is a knight's way—courage!" Sir Cadogan bellowed.
Sean froze. The air itself seemed to stall; whispers died in every frame. Portraits were not supposed to wander into the Headmaster's Office. Where had this bull-like knight come from?
Only Dumbledore kept smiling.
"Really!" McGonagall was on her feet in an instant, anger in her face. She flicked her wand and hustled Cadogan and his pony—still pummeling the bewildered Black—out of the office.
"Ten centuries of wisdom won't be barred by a Headmaster's door—and this is a fist honed by ten centuries! Take that!" Sir Cadogan shouted as he was removed, still swinging. "Big Cat, send me to the trolls' painting if you like! I'll battle this dolt in hell!"
"What a brave knight," Sean heard Headmistress Derwent say in admiration. He almost followed McGonagall out—but a low whisper reached his ear:
"Stay."
So he waited where he was. He trusted the professor would handle it—at the very least, he couldn't let the knight's effort be for nothing.
The interlude began abruptly and ended just as fast. Sean saw Dumbledore blink—and understood. He moved to the elegant, hovering stack of letters.
"The special scholarship review for Mr. Sean Green is now in session!" a stern-faced headmaster's portrait proclaimed as McGonagall returned.