One thousand two hundred Galleons?!
That wasn't the amount he remembered.
"Oh—take it, child—"
As if expecting Sean's confusion, a slip of paper floated up out of the pouch. He looked up; Dumbledore was winking at him.
Hogwarts really is lavish, Sean thought, quietly tucking the pouch away. The pouch itself was valuable—made with Occamy hide and intricate alchemical chainwork, it never came cheap.
Now his little black bag fairly brimmed with riches:
— a weightless, expanded pouch holding 1,200 Galleons;
— a few knowledge-slips from a greatest potioneer;
— a time-yellowed, tough old letter.
Sean had never felt his step so light. Golden light poured through the tall windows onto the old stone walls, warmth so real it felt touchable.
The portraits on the walls were busy, too: a bewigged wizard snored in his frame with a buzzing bee on his hat; next door a lady and her pet cat hummed out of tune with the little satyr piping in a landscape.
Until an impetuous knight barreled through on a pony, forcing a path:
"Young Green!"
Sean heard the familiar voice and stopped.
"Thank you for your help, Sir."
"Think nothing of it—" The knight seemed to have heard what he wanted; he left humming a little tune. The Fat Lady tittered nearby: "Ah, the Sir—can't help but show off."
Lady Violet's cheeks were still faintly pink; she said nothing, only watched him with shining eyes. He couldn't mount the pony this time either, but everyone knew: when you need a noble heart and a stout body, the knight appears.
When Sirius Black—wild and fugitive—slashed the Fat Lady's canvas to ribbons with a little knife, it was Sir Cadogan who bravely volunteered to guard Gryffindor Tower.
In the final Battle of Hogwarts, he raced Harry along from frame to frame, bellowing encouragement, ready to fight to the last.
A noble heart, a strong body, fearless courage—
Watching the knight recede, a hot, complicated feeling swelled in Sean's chest.
He started walking again—faster, then faster, wind whooshing past his ears.
At his destination—the Transfiguration classroom—Minerva McGonagall watched the boy draw nearer for a long time. There was relief in her eyes, yet her brow never eased; in the end her stern face held only depth.
Ravens cut across the dusk; her low whisper was swallowed by their calls.
October brought colder weather, more rain, darker nights—yet muck, gales, and downpours couldn't spoil the hearth's warm fire.
When Sean trotted up, her severe face softened. "No Transfiguration practice today. Rest well, Mr. Green." She noticed the unconscious lift at the corner of his mouth. Her voice was warm and firm. "The road ahead is long, and you will endure much, Mr. Green. So whatever you do—keep that hopeful smile on your face."
In the Transfiguration classroom, Minerva McGonagall—long out of the habit of letter-writing—found her pen again. This time, she meant to visit an orphanage called Hollisay. Her eyes dropped slightly; her hand did not.
"Minerva, it's been a long time since I've seen you write," said Dumbledore, appearing without warning—no teasing for once, only kindness and the faintest… testing?
She paused; the floating quill stilled a heartbeat. "Forgive me, Albus. Unless you've seen, as I have, that barren soil—and the child who clenched his teeth and walked so very far…"
A lonely child. A child with no family. A child who walked out of winter's cold and barren soil—a child with a thousand reasons to grow bitter and crooked. In that frail frame, she had seen nothing but a soul of stubbornness and kindness.
Outside, the rain came down in sheets; the night was black as if smeared with sticky dark potion. Inside, it was bright and cheerful. Firelight warmed countless soft armchairs; people read, talked, did their homework. Fred and George Weasley, the notorious twins, were testing what would happen if you fed a fire-cracker salamander some Filibuster's Fireworks. Fred had "rescued" the vivid orange-red lizard from Care of Magical Creatures; it lay on the table, smoldering moodily, ringed by curious onlookers.
Behind that circle of faces, Sean drew a curious note from his bag. Elegant script slanted oddly; when he tilted the paper, the dog-scratch letters settled into legibility:
[Dear Mr. Green,
From Minerva I learned of your request. I'm both comforted and moved by your passion for knowledge.
Honeydukes' Lemon Sherbets may sweeten the tongue, but only a tireless hunger for learning lights the magical world.
Regarding your wish to remain at school over the summer, I have considered it carefully. I'm pleased to inform you, Mr. Green, that permission requires the following:
— You must continue to maintain excellent magical standards—this is the most important criterion.
— You must secure three handwritten recommendations from your instructors (including your Head of House) attesting not only to talent but to responsibility and teamwork.
— You must make at least one special contribution: whether assisting Madam Pince with the stacks or tending and protecting magical plants, I hope to see you turn gift into service. Greatness in our world has always walked with duty.
In addition, if you decide to remain, you may come to my office for tea every Saturday morning.
Lastly, remember: Hogwarts' hearths will always burn warm for you.
Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster]
Sean held the letter, stunned. He'd only mentioned the idea offhand—yet Professor McGonagall had moved to win him the chance. Hogwarts, which never allows students to stay for summer, had opened its doors to him.
By contrast, Tom Riddle—once the most-favored boy in the school—had never enjoyed such grace.
The flames seemed to roar brighter.
Evening tugged a thin cloud through the afterglow. Dumbledore stroked Fawkes's feathers, gentle and proud. Through the stained glass he could almost see a small wizard brimming with resolve.
Ah—a new beginning. A right beginning.