At Hogwarts, portraiture is the most convincing school of realism: canvases steeped in a subject's memories and feelings; figures who wander between frames, chat with the living, drink and make merry, sing at the top of their lungs—or shriek.
But even talking portraits don't usually turn a wizard or knight into an animal.
Ron's vision swam as the owl actually quizzed them:
"Little wizards! Foolish little wizards! The enemy of the snake—yes, the enemy of the snake—is who?"
What surprised Ron and Harry even more was that Hermione and Justin took the question seriously. They racked their brains until a slip of paper wriggled in under the door. Justin picked it up and read:
"The deer. In the history of symbols, the stag is 'the enemy of the serpent, driving it from the burrow and killing it.'"
Mr. Owl displayed a very human disdain. "Borrowing the wit of others is a kind of wit—but if you keep borrowing…"
Before he could finish, he froze rigid—and a door shimmered into view.
Harry and Ron reassured themselves this was just like that odd Ravenclaw door knocker.
They were buzzing now—no wonder no one could find this secret group—its base was guarded by an owl! But they were also nervous:
"Mr. Finch-Fletchley, what if we can't answer?" Their voices had unconsciously grown cautious.
"It's fine. You can come in even if you can't," Justin said patiently.
"What?!" Harry and Ron yelped. Then what had they been doing just now?
"Don't you think answering the riddle is fun?" Hermione said, chin tipped up.
Harry and Ron shook their heads like rattles.
Talking as they walked, they stepped into the room.
It was almost the size of the Gryffindor common room: two wooden tables, a snapping fire in the hearth; rugs by the tables and fireplace, warm jack-o'-lanterns set atop them. Plants, many and neatly kept; candles uncountable floating midair. In the center, a soft couch and several individual desks.
Those desks had fold-down leaves—some product of Transfiguration, it seemed.
How could you tell? Because as they entered, one desk's leaf was slowly lowering.
—Sean.
He nodded to them with a gentle smile.
Harry and Ron bobbed frantic little nods back.
They suddenly felt they'd never really known Hogwarts at all—how else could a place like this exist without them knowing?
A voice made them jump out of their skins:
"Do up those coat buttons—crooked as burnt noodles!"
The voice scolded. Harry looked around wildly, and only after a moment realized the voice was coming from the mirror.
"It's… like the mirror at home," Ron whispered, meaning the one on the Burrow's kitchen mantel. The same kind of alchemical construct.
Harry nodded dazedly. At this point even if Professor Snape climbed out of the cabinet he wouldn't have been surprised.
"Harry… Ron…" Neville jogged over with a pair of scissors. "I'm so glad… to see you here… I've wanted to tell you for ages, but I didn't dare…"
"Oh, that's not your fault, Neville," Harry said, moved—he understood exactly. If he had a hideout like this, he wouldn't tell anyone either. Well—except Ron and Hermione… and Sean and Justin… oh, and Neville…
The thought made him smile—since they were all here anyway.
"Alright, I'm ready for the magic," Ron stammered, and Harry nodded.
"What do you mean… ready for the magic?" Hermione asked, baffled.
"The magic Sean used on Neville—to make him clever," Ron blurted, mortified but hopeful.
"Harry, Ron—do you think Sean is Merlin? There's no such spell," Justin said, palm to forehead, laughing.
"Idiots—absolute idiots," Hermione sputtered, half exasperated, half amused.
"Then—how did Neville—" Harry began, flustered.
"By his own effort. We—mostly Sean—just helped a little," Justin said, now serious. He pointed at the entry shelf. Ron's eyes went gold. Green's Notes—complete, thick volumes he'd never imagined!
He'd never thought a day would come when he preferred his books thick, but Green's Notes weren't like stupid textbooks—he could actually understand them.
"You can write your questions on the parchment at the back. Sean answers them in the mornings. Mm—any branches you don't get?"
Justin kept pace across branches—nearly catching Hermione now. He was Hufflepuff's top first-year, teased as "little Hermione."
"Um…" Harry and Ron both hedged.
"Got it," Justin said in a tone that meant: two big headaches, but it's fine.
"Green's Notes will solve most things. If you still don't get Herbology, ask me or Neville; for Charms and Transfiguration, ask Hermione; if you're really stuck, catch Sean in the Hall.
"Oh, and schedule time for Sean to test your spell proficiency. I mean schedule it—find him when he's free and in a good mood." He stressed that last bit. "Any other questions?"
Stunned, Harry and Ron shook their heads.
Two new wooden desks had appeared—Justin had prepared them ages ago.
They sat, giddy, staring at their steaming honey–lemon tea, the cabinet full of Green's Notes, the miniature table piled with sweets—then looked at each other, eyes shining.
—This was perfect.
Even as the fire roared, they still couldn't believe they'd just… entered this secret room. They learned its name from the plaque behind the door—The Gifted Hope Room.
After a while it was time to eat. Harry and Ron timidly tapped Justin.
"Mr. Finch-Fletchley, what's our club called? Are there any rules?"
That made Justin blink. In their little group—Sean and himself, of course; Hermione was often solitary; Neville honest and shy—no one was the type to do anything unexpected, like dragging in members or leaking the room's location.
But now, apparently, they needed… something.
"We should talk it over—everyone!" Justin called. By then Sean had already left the Hope Nook.
"Sean's not joining?" Harry asked, puzzled.
"Oh—Sean's outside the rules. He can do what he likes," Justin said, looking to Hermione and Neville.
Hermione rolled her eyes—"Sean's not like you two"—and Neville nodded shyly, hard.
~~~
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