Chapter 217: Hogwarts Learning Panel Chapter 95

In the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore's muttering broke a long-held silence.

This was almost entirely targeted at concealment and trolls.

Nothing is coincidental, especially for a child who does not wander at night yet has learned the Disillusionment Charm.

He had sensed the danger long ago...

This danger could only come from the room on the fourth floor, and to reach the troll encounter alone, his excellence was beyond doubt.

This meant he had passed at least four trials.

Yet he said nothing... quite interesting, isn't it?

If such behavior made Dumbledore uneasy, then adding the name "Green" to it, coupled with his constant lurking beside the troll...

Dumbledore chuckled softly.

Perhaps the entire Hogwarts castle lay within his grasp—he, the greatest white wizard of the century—yet this Green... he had already done everything within his power.

"Albus, you are imagining him as one of those heinous wizards..."

A calm and gentle voice arrived.

"Oh—Headmistress Devent, forgive an old man's excessive worries; when one grows old, one's vision fails... The weather is fine; where have my Lemon Drops gone?"

"Perhaps in your woolen socks?"

Lady Devent said softly.

"Oh—of course, of course, my woolen socks."

In Dumbledore's hands was a pair of thick socks; merely touching them conveyed softness and warmth.

What made his mustache twitch upward even more was that there was not just one pair—all from that little Green.

[Happy Halloween. Thank you for your generous help.]

Dumbledore's blue eyes narrowed.

Who could dislike a child who knows how to repay kindness?

The dungeons.

Chill seeped from the stone walls. The Potions classroom felt colder than anywhere else; the damp cold seemed to have weight, pressing heavily upon the room.

Beads of water condensed on the walls, trickling slowly down the rough stone surfaces, reflecting the torchlight.

Many ingredients in the storage cabinets had become exceptionally fragile in the dampness. Professor Snape's private storeroom door remained tightly shut, yet faint potion scents still seeped through the cracks.

Amidst that unchanging gray and white, some candies, a packaged box, and a blue notebook stood out starkly.

"It seems you received some gifts too, Severus?"

The visitor was an old man with a long, white beard.

He wore purple robes, his tone lacking any teasing, instead carrying a faint concern.

"Hmph—"

Professor Snape unhesitatingly showed Dumbledore out.

At the dungeon entrance, Sir Cadogan was enjoying dinner with two or three monks, several former Hogwarts headmasters, and his fat little gray zebra.

He pushed his helmet up, raising a jug of mead to toast Headmaster Dumbledore.

"Happy—er—Halloween! Headmaster Dumbledore, didn't he see your woolen socks?"

Sir Cadogan shouted,

"What a pity..."

Inside the dungeons.

Snape, abandoning his earlier anger and irritability, now felt merely vexed.

A pointless gift, useful only for tightening the bond between fools and facilitating their idiotic actions, nothing more...

He opened the package.

Inside were carefully selected nettles and porcupine quills of varying lengths, packed into a small bottle.

Beside the bottle lay a notebook detailing Wizard Sean's latest progress with the Guidance Method.

Though not extensive, it was substantial enough, the result of Wizard Sean spending considerable time experimenting.

Snape flicked his wand, sending the candies flying to land "accidentally" in a small compartment of the glass cabinet.

Then he opened the letter:

[Sometimes, viewing problems with hope brings greater clarity.

Professor, I found some decent materials among a pile of inferior ones.

Though few, they exist nonetheless.

By the way,

Professor Snape, Happy Halloween]

So many words it felt fake...

Snape snorted, tossing the letter into his own bag.

Emerging from the dungeons, Wizard Sean's breath formed white vapor, rising and falling rhythmically.

"Come in, child."

Professor McGonagall still sat in her high-backed chair; the only difference was that the mountainous piles of homework and various complicated documents had vanished.

Only an owl remained, arriving with a letter; it shook its head, rustling off a few snowflakes.

Wizard Sean found this quite amusing; he flicked his wand, and the snowflakes danced along with it.

"Hoot?"

The owl tilted its head, landed on Wizard Sean's shoulder, and rubbed its round face against him.

Not good, Wizard Sean thought; when he returns later, Mr. Owl will surely shriek again:

"Little wizard! Unfaithful little wizard! You smell of another owl!"

It sounded as though Wizard Sean had betrayed it somehow.

"Child, come here."

Professor McGonagall said suddenly.

Wizard Sean silently approached; he had expected the professor to question him about the troll, yet she did not mention it at all.

She simply took his hand.

"Listen, child, protecting friends is important, but so is protecting yourself."

The crackling of the fireplace grew louder.

Standing before the hearth, Wizard Sean began his practice of transforming objects into "magic."

His wand moved, and the flames leaped like sprites; at one accidental moment,

Wizard Sean suddenly recalled the scene where the professor conjured the fire salamander.

He flipped through the professor's notes; sure enough, that section was there, with detailed arrangements regarding the transformation specifics of the fire salamander.

Wizard Sean had assumed this belonged to advanced material, yet some strange intuition compelled him to try—

[You practiced an advanced Transfiguration spell to an entry-level standard; Proficiency +100]

A lizard-shaped flame immediately sprang forth!

[Within magical creatures lie circuits perfectly attuned to magic; gifted wizards can perceive them]

Just as Wizard Sean read the professor's notes, a slight smile touching his lips, Professor McGonagall was reading a letter sent from afar.

[Respected Minerva McGonagall:

When I received your letter, I could hardly believe it; that child, the child blessed by God, had not been deceived after all.

Forgive my skepticism; I have seen too many such cases. Even though life deceives us repeatedly, we in the Croydon district still choose to believe.

For there can be no worse outcome.

I cannot know how much effort you expended to find me—I know those cruel people never reply—they would prefer never to receive letters, so they need not face those poor children.

Regardless, your kind heart is sufficient.

If you require more information about that child, please tell me; I have volunteered in Holise for a long time.

I look forward to your further replies.

Yours faithfully: Roland Taylor]