Chapter 77: Love
The sky outside had turned to ink.
In a spacious, circular office filled with peculiar silver instruments, a blackened kettle puffed steam beside a crackling fire. The walls were lined with portraits of previous Hogwarts Headmasters and Headmistresses, most dozing peacefully in their frames. Tonight, however, one portrait – a woman with long, silver ringlets – stirred and spoke.
"Albus, you are being overly cautious," Dilys Derwent murmured, her painted eyes fixed on the current Headmaster. "You dropped the sword, you placed the letter in his hand… Yet surely even you can see, my anxious friend, that he is a fundamentally good and pure-hearted child."
Dumbledore sat in a high-backed armchair, his deep blue eyes distant, unfocused. The kettle boiled, subsided, then began to bubble again. Only when a raven croaked from the windowsill outside did he slowly look up.
"That is precisely the problem, Dilys," he replied, his voice heavy. "There is not a trace of hatred in his eyes. You and I both know how rare such purity is, especially given his circumstances."
"A wizard's subconscious reactions cannot be faked, not even in the most precocious child. If a boy who can clearly distinguish right from wrong, maintain rationality under duress, and consistently perceive the good intentions beneath anger, harshness, or prejudice cannot be called pure… then the word itself is meaningless."
"But how," Dumbledore continued, his gaze drifting back to the fire, "do we nurture such purity? How much light does it take to heal a wounded soul? And how often can the faintest candle guide a child through the longest darkness? He has been loved, Dilys. Loved with a power that banished all ugliness and resentment. I thought I would never witness such profound love again."
"It is love that gives strength, resilience. We both know indifference is the easier path. Only those with true character, true courage, dare to embrace all that the world throws at them. Magical creatures are far more perceptive than wizards; the slightest malice makes them recoil. Yet that boy… he is surrounded by them. Don't you see, my dear Dilys? That love must be gone. Only a love that has died can leave behind such enduring gentleness."
"Too many lessons have taught us the cost of misjudgment. Yes, faced with a child who has lost everything, who is determined to rely solely on himself, and who possesses such staggering potential… I cannot help but remember the mistakes of fifty years ago, mistakes I still bitterly regret."
"We know such children are resolute, determined… and unsettling. That lost love has set him apart from the world. What anchor does he truly have left? His lack of resentment does not preclude disappointment. His lack of anger does not negate despair. When the remnants of that love finally fade, when he becomes powerful… what will he care for then?"
"We must, above all, be kind," Dumbledore stated, his voice regaining some of its usual firmness. "That is paramount. And then, just. I dare not presume to guide or correct the path of a child blessed with such talent and inherent goodness. Arrogance in that regard has already cost me dearly. But what are we to do, Dilys? Allow him to face the cold, hard world alone? Let him internalize every hurt until he forgets how to love altogether?"
He sighed, the sound like rustling parchment. "If there is any answer, it lies in the greatest magic of all. Love – the most powerful, the most mysterious, the most profound force – is what will truly anchor him to this world. Only love can gently reach a heart that has closed itself off, coaxing it to open once more. Our task is simply to offer patience and kindness, to gently nurture that cautious soul."
"Only through love," Dumbledore concluded, his eyes meeting Dilys's painted ones, "can he find his true place, and still be willing – gently – to live within it."
Weekends at Hogwarts were a blend of lazy relaxation and frantic cramming, as students who had procrastinated faced their looming deadlines. Those who had finished their work early, however, could enjoy the castle's many diversions – including, apparently, heated arguments over borrowed notes.
Sean, however, spent his entire Sunday either reading The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6 or searching fruitlessly for Professor Flitwick. The professor, according to the Fat Lady (who had popped over for a gossip), was likely indisposed at the Three Broomsticks.
Before he knew it, Monday morning arrived.
The Ravenclaws had their first Charms class of the week with the Gryffindors. Professor Flitwick stood atop his usual stack of books, cheerfully demonstrating the Levitation Charm by making Neville's toad, Trevor, zoom around the classroom. The students, instantly energized, paired up to practice.
"Remember the incantation clearly! Don't forget Wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and ended up with a buffalo on his chest!" Professor Flitwick's squeaky voice reminded them.
But even with the professor's guidance, it wasn't easy. Seamus Finnigan swished and flicked, swished and flicked, over and over, but his feather remained stubbornly glued to the desk. In a fit of pique, he poked it with his wand – and it promptly burst into flames. Sean quickly extinguished it with a silent Aguamenti.
Suddenly—
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
A single feather wobbled unsteadily into the air.
"Brilliant—" came the chorus of impressed whispers, quickly followed by gasps of disbelief as everyone saw who had cast the spell.
"Longbottom?!"
"That Longbottom?"
"Merlin's beard!"
Neville's face turned scarlet under the sudden attention.
"Oh, well done!" Professor Flitwick cried, clapping his tiny hands together. "Everyone see here, Mr. Longbottom's done it! Three points to Gryffindor!"
Neville turned an even deeper shade of red, his hands trembling.
After class, Professor Flitwick called Neville over. Before the professor could even speak, Neville blurted out, his words tumbling over each other in his nervousness.
"It was Mr. Green who taught me, Professor! The notes, yes, the notes… If it wasn't for Mr. Green, I wouldn't have learned anything… It was all Mr. Green…"
Professor Flitwick listened, his expression shifting to one of delighted understanding. He accepted the notebook Neville shakily offered, his own whiskers twitching with amusement.
"Of course, of course, Mr. Green is an exceptionally talented wizard, but—" The professor gently patted Neville's shoulder as the boy hunched down nervously. "Mr. Longbottom, you are not lacking in talent yourself."
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