Chapter 67: I Have Waited Too Long

The Great Hall, at the staff table.

Dumbledore’s silver beard shimmered in the candlelight; when an owl dropped a packet of sweets onto the head of a Gryffindor, his half-moon spectacles concealed a cheerful blink.

Even as he blinked with delight, the student beside him—excelling in Transfiguration—had vanished.

And so his smile deepened.

The greatest white wizard of this century interlaced his fingers and murmured:

“Oh, that’s good, isn’t it?

People will eventually discover that at Hogwarts, those who need help always receive it…”

The bustle of the Great Hall meant nothing to Wizard Sean.

He held the letter, walking down the empty corridor.

He saw armor glinting; the proud owl perched on his shoulder, cooing and pointing toward a path he had passed countless times.

He did not notice that the portrait of Professor McGonagall’s wheat field behind him was now crowded with figures.

Golden wheat rolled under the sun like an ocean kissed by daylight.

Among the waves, figures holding a few blue cornflowers whispered to one another:

“Sir, I’m so moved—today that child looked so troubled, his sharp eyebrows nearly twisted into an egg.”

Lady Violet clutched the hem of her dress, watching the young wizard pass with the owl; for a moment, she felt she could not breathe.

“Lady Violet, oh, come help me—I can’t reach my eye with my injured hand.”

Sir Cadogan set down his small horse, his eyes sparkling.

“You all saw the letter?! I never imagined… Do you know? I’ve watched young McGonagall for fifty years!”

Lady Fatness pressed a hand to her chest, but Sir Cadogan cut her off in a low voice:

“Alright, alright, my dear lady, go admire that big cat—knights ought only to watch young Green.”

…

“Professor?”

Wizard Sean knocked on the wooden door.

He was nervous.

He was not afraid of Professor Snape, nor did he harbor prejudice against Professor Quirrell—even if the two-headed man was truly bizarre.

But only Professor McGonagall—

he would never forget the owl that crashed through the window—yes, the very one on his shoulder—

nor would he forget Professor McGonagall’s help.

The orphanage bed always smelled of mildew; the constant sense of impending death was unbearable.

It made Wizard Sean remember all the more clearly the day the professor took him away.

He pushed open the door.

The Transfiguration office always carried a faint scent of sandalwood and parchment.

The fire in the hearth burned erratically; beside it, a long object was tightly wrapped.

Professor McGonagall’s emerald robe rustled; a few strands of silver hair glowed faintly gold in the firelight. Her expression, rare for her, lacked sternness; her voice was gentle and steady:

“Mr. Green, come here.”

Wizard Sean obediently trotted over, not noticing the deeper sorrow in Professor McGonagall’s eyes.

With a slight flick of her wand, the long object floated onto the desk before Wizard Sean.

“Unwrap it, Mr. Green.”

Wizard Sean held his breath; his mind went momentarily numb.

On the wooden desk, inside the carefully opened wrapping, lay an excellent broom:

Elegant lines, glossy finish, the handle made of rosewood, the tail bound with neat, straight twigs.

“Nimbus 2000”—the words glowed gold along the top of the handle.

“I may not understand, Professor.”

Faced with such a tremendous temptation, Wizard Sean felt no excitement or joy—only a quiet, faint question.

Think: he was not a Gryffindor, nor was he the Chosen One.

Even three months ago, he had been merely a sickly orphan in the home, waiting only for his health to improve so he could escape Holsay.

He knew Professor McGonagall was cold on the outside but kind within—but did he deserve such fierce kindness?

The Nimbus 2000 was no broken broom—it cost at least six hundred Jin Jin Jialong in Diagon Alley.

“By King Arthur’s beard!”

Inside the portrait frame of the Transfiguration classroom, Sir Cadogan nearly reached out to tap Wizard Sean’s head.

But Lady Fatness held him back:

“Sir, my dear sir, how could you ruin this moment—”

In the glow of the hearth, Minerva McGonagall gently moved the broom aside; the tenderness in her eyes erased Wizard Sean’s confusion.

“Come to me, child.”

Wizard Sean suddenly felt himself embraced.

He smelled a comforting fragrance; confusion and an inexplicable warmth wrapped around him.

He saw the emerald brooch with stars on the professor’s chest glinting, and heard her soft voice say:

“Mr. Green, no magic today—tell me about your days at Hogwarts, would you?”

…

In the corridor, a knight strode forward with two ladies through golden wheat fields,

all three faces radiant with smiles.

“Even the sternest faces can suddenly burst forth with astonishing warmth—truly worth the journey—”

Lady Fatness wiped her corner of the eye.

“Hmph—”

Sir Cadogan’s beard bristled; he muttered,

“Coward, coward—can’t even handle happiness.”

As he spoke, his voice grew quieter.

Wizard Sean carried the broom all the way to the Quidditch pitch; a charm on the broom made it weightless to hold.

“Come quickly, Mr. Green,”

Madam Hooch was arranging brooms; she spotted the gleaming new one at once and nodded in satisfaction,

“Fine new broom—get used to it. Today we’ll simulate the test.”

Wizard Sean nodded, mounted the broom,

and only then did he recall Madam Hooch’s “hints.”

At the same time, without even politely asking her permission, he took off—his usual caution seemed to have faded.

Madam Hooch’s hawk-like eyes watched him,

filled with quiet approval.

The test was demanding: weaving through rings, dodging poles, avoiding enchanted golf balls—all to be completed within half an hour.

Madam Hooch followed the strictest standards:

“Mr. Green, turn! Pull up! Stay focused, adjust your posture—only enough skill can save you from the flying dangers common at Hogwarts!”

…

In the room where the hearth burned fiercely,

the tall witch stood watching the pitch, as an old voice spoke beside her.

“Minerva, you haven’t cared for a child this much in a long time.”

The kindly wizard, with long white beard, gazed at the painting within the room; his blue eyes held mischief, then shifted to gentle teasing.

Minerva McGonagall’s robe still bore creases; her voice was stern yet softened.

These two qualities blended unexpectedly well.

She looked at him—as if at a seed, or as if at a tender shoot finally breaking through the soil.

“You don’t understand, Albus—he smiled slightly and told me many things,

and I feel… for this, I have waited too long.”