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HP: I have a Proficiency Panel - 85
🕑 Added 2025-11-17 14:56:05 +0000 UTCChapter 85: Harvest
One thousand two hundred Galleons?!
That was not the number he remembered.
"Oh, take it, child."
As if it had been waiting for his confusion, a slip of parchment floated up out of the bag.
Shawn looked up. Dumbledore was winking at him.
Hogwarts really was absurdly rich. Shawn tucked the bag away. It was itself a valuable item; with its runespoor skin and complex alchemical work, its price had always been high.
Now his little black bag was heavy with wealth.
A Seamless Extension bag holding twelve hundred Galleons. A handful of knowledge-slips from a truly great Potions Master. A yellowed, hard-wearing letter.
Shawn had never felt his steps so light. Gold light poured through the huge windows and spilled over ancient stone walls, a warmth you could almost touch.
The portraits on the walls were just as busy. A bewigged wizard snoozed in his frame, a humming bee perched on his hat. In the next frame, a grand lady and her pet cat were humming tunelessly along with a little faun piping a flute in a landscape painting.
Then a reckless knight forced a path through them, tugging his shaggy pony along.
"Young Green!"
Shawn heard the familiar voice and stopped.
"Thank you for your help, sir."
"Think nothing of it."
Sir Cadogan seemed to have heard precisely what he wanted. Humming under his breath, he trotted off.
The Fat Lady laughed softly nearby.
"The knight cannot resist showing off."
Lady Violet’s cheeks still held a faint blush. She said nothing, only watched him with shining eyes. This time, he could not manage to mount the pony at all, but everyone knew that when you needed a noble heart and a stout body, the knight would appear.
Just as when Sirius Black slashed her portrait to rags with a knife, it had been Sir Cadogan who volunteered, alone and unafraid, to guard the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.
And in the final Battle of Hogwarts, he had run along the walls from frame to frame, shouting encouragement to Harry and ready to fight to the last.
A noble spirit, a strong body, fearless courage.
Shawn watched him go, and a hot, tangled feeling filled his chest.
He moved again, faster and faster, the rush of air loud in his ears.
In the Transfiguration classroom where he was headed, Minerva McGonagall watched his figure draw closer.
There was relief in her eyes, but her brow did not ease. In the end, the stern lines of her face only deepened.
Ravens cut across the dusk sky. Her low murmur disappeared under their cries.
As October arrived, the weather grew colder. Rain came more often, and the nights felt darker. But mud, gales, and downpours could not touch the warmth of the fire in the hearth.
When Shawn jogged in, even that deep, carved face softened.
"There will be no Transfiguration practice today. Get a good rest, Mr Green," she said. Then her gaze caught the instinctive lift of his mouth. Her voice turned warm and firm. "Life is a long road. You will suffer much on the way, Mr Green. So whatever you do, you must keep that hopeful smile on your face."
In the Transfiguration classroom,
Minerva McGonagall had not written a letter in a long time. This time, she meant to visit an orphanage called Hollisay.
Her eyes had dipped slightly; her hand did not stop moving.
"Minerva, it has been a long time since I saw you write to anyone," said Dumbledore, appearing quietly in the room. For once, there was no twinkle of teasing in his tone, only kindness and the faintest… question.
Professor McGonagall paused. The floating quill hesitated for a heartbeat.
"Forgive me, Albus. Unless you have, as I have, seen that barren soil with your own eyes, seen that child grit his teeth and walk so very far…"
A lonely child, a child with no family, a child who had come out of cold winters and poor earth, a child with ten thousand reasons to twist and sour.
In that thin body, she had seen nothing but a soul that was stubborn and kind.
Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets. The world beyond was black, as if smeared with a dark, sticky potion, yet the room inside was bright and full of life.
Firelight gleamed over countless soft armchairs. People sat with books, talked, and worked on homework.
Fred and George Weasley, those twin brothers, were deep in an experiment: what would happen if you fed a fire‑dwelling salamander some Filibuster’s Fireworks?
Fred had "rescued" the bright orange salamander from Care of Magical Creatures. It lay smouldering on a desk now, surrounded by a ring of fascinated onlookers.
Beyond the curious circle, Shawn pulled a strange note from his bag. The hand was elegant, but the lines were oddly crooked. When he tilted it sideways, letters that had looked like a tangle of lines suddenly straightened into legibility.
[Dear Mr Green,
I have heard of your request from Minerva. It both comforts me and moves me to see such hunger for knowledge.
The Lemon Sherbet at Honeydukes may be sweet on the tongue, but a tireless thirst for learning is the true light of our magical world.
As for your wish to remain at Hogwarts over the summer, I have given it careful thought. I am pleased to inform you, Mr Green, that permission to stay may be granted if you meet the following conditions:
First, you must continue to maintain an excellent standard of magical study. This will be the most important measure.
Second, you must obtain at least three handwritten letters of recommendation from your teachers, including your Head of House, attesting that you are not only gifted but also responsible and able to work well with others.
Third, you must render at least one special service. Whether you assist Madam Pince in organising the library or help tend and protect our magical plants, I wish to see how you turn your talent into deeds that benefit others. The greatness of the wizarding world has always been bound to a sense of responsibility.
Furthermore, if you decide to stay, you’re welcome to visit my office for tea every Saturday morning.
Lastly, remember this: whatever else you decide, the hearths of Hogwarts will always burn warm for you.]
Shawn held the letter. He had never imagined that a casual remark would lead Professor McGonagall to fight once more on his behalf.
Hogwarts, which never lets students remain over the summer, had opened its doors for him.
By comparison, even Tom Riddle, once the most promising and watched boy in the whole school, had never had such treatment.
The flames in the fire seemed to leap higher.
The evening sky tugged a wisp of cloud along its burning edge. Dumbledore stroked Fawkes’s feathers with gentle fingers and looked out through the stained glass, as if he could already see the young wizard brimming with plans for the dawn.
Ah. A new beginning. A right beginning.
