Chapter 67: I Have Waited a Long Time
In the Great Hall, Professor Dumbledore's silver beard gleamed in the candlelight. As an owl dropped a package of sweets directly onto a startled Gryffindor's head, the eyes behind his half-moon spectacles twinkled merrily. He noted, with an even deeper smile, that his most dedicated Transfiguration student had already vanished from the hall.
The greatest white wizard of the century steepled his fingers, murmuring softly, "Ah, excellent, is it not? One finds that, here at Hogwarts, help will always be given to those who ask for it…"
The joyful noise of the Great Hall faded behind Sean as he walked down the empty corridor, clutching the letter. The suits of armour gleamed faintly in the torchlight. The proud, important-looking owl that had delivered the message perched silently on his shoulder, occasionally hooting softly and nudging its head towards a path he had walked countless times.
He didn't notice the crowd gathering in the painted wheat field behind him. Golden stalks swayed as if kissed by the sun, a painted ocean rippling under an unseen breeze. Figures holding bunches of blue cornflowers huddled together, whispering excitedly.
"Sir Cadogan, I'm so thrilled! The poor boy looked so worried earlier, his little brow furrowed like a crumpled egg!" Lady Violet whispered, clutching the edge of her painted gown as she watched Sean and the owl pass. For a moment, she felt she couldn't breathe.
"Lady Violet, oh, help me up, would you? My injured hand simply cannot reach my eye," Sir Cadogan groaned dramatically from where he'd fallen off his pony again, though his painted eyes sparkled.
"Did you all see the letter?!" the Fat Lady exclaimed, hand pressed to her ample bosom. "I simply cannot believe it… Do you know, I've watched dear Minerva for fifty years!"
Sir Cadogan cut her off with a low grumble. "Yes, yes, my dear lady, watch your 'Minerva' all you like. A knight's focus remains solely on young Green."
"Professor?" Sean knocked softly on the wooden door, his heart pounding.
He wasn't afraid of Snape, nor did he hold any prejudice against Quirrell (though a man with two heads was admittedly rather unsettling). But Professor McGonagall… he would never forget the owl crashing through his window – this owl, perched on his shoulder now – nor the professor's unwavering support. The musty smell of the orphanage infirmary, the constant awareness of his own fragility… those memories were inextricably linked with the day she had rescued him.
He pushed the door open.
The Transfiguration office smelled faintly of sandalwood and old parchment. Flames danced merrily in the hearth. Beside it, leaning against the wall, was a long, slender object wrapped tightly in brown paper.
Professor McGonagall stood waiting, her emerald robes perfectly draped. A few strands of silver shimmered in her dark hair under the firelight. The usual severity in her expression was absent, replaced by a quiet warmth. Her voice was soft, steady. "Mr. Green. Come here."
Sean obediently walked towards her, not noticing the deeper lines of worry etched around her eyes. With a gentle flick of her wand, the wrapped object floated onto the desk in front of him.
"Open it, Mr. Green."
Sean held his breath, his mind suddenly blank. He carefully unwrapped the parcel. Inside lay a magnificent broomstick: sleek, gleaming, with a mahogany handle and a long tail of neat, straight twigs. Golden letters shimmered near the top: Nimbus 2000.
"Professor," he stammered, overwhelmed, staring at the broomstick, "I don't quite understand." Faced with such an incredible gift, he felt no joy, only a profound, hesitant confusion. He wasn't a Gryffindor, wasn't the chosen saviour. Just three months ago, he had been a frail orphan clinging to life, dreaming only of escape. He knew Professor McGonagall was kind beneath her stern exterior, but did he truly deserve such extravagant generosity? A Nimbus 2000 cost upwards of six hundred Galleons.
"By King Arthur's Ghost!" Sir Cadogan exclaimed from a small portrait frame on the wall, looking ready to leap out and shake some sense into the boy. The Fat Lady quickly pulled him back. "Sir Cadogan, my dear Knight, how could you possibly ruin this moment?"
In the firelight, Minerva McGonagall gently pushed the broomstick aside. The tenderness in her eyes erased Sean's bewilderment.
"Come here, child."
Suddenly, he felt strong arms wrap around him. He breathed in a calming scent of heather and parchment. Bewilderment warred with an unfamiliar, overwhelming warmth. He saw the star-shaped emerald brooch on her robes glitter, heard her voice, softer than he'd ever heard it.
"Mr. Green. No lessons today. Will you simply tell me… how you've been finding your time at Hogwarts?"
Later, down the corridor, a triumphant knight strode through the golden wheat field portrait, flanked by two beaming ladies.
"Those stern faces," the Fat Lady sighed, dabbing the corner of her eye, "can sometimes hold the most surprising warmth. Truly worth the wait."
"Hmph," Sir Cadogan sniffed, his moustache twitching, though his voice lacked its usual bluster. "Cowardly boy. Overwhelmed by simple happiness." His voice trailed off into a low mumble.
Sean walked towards the Quidditch pitch, the Nimbus 2000 held effortlessly in his arms, lightened by a charm.
"Over here, Mr. Green," Madam Hooch called out, tidying the broom shed. Her eyes immediately fell on the gleaming new broomstick, and she nodded in satisfaction. "A fine piece of equipment. Get accustomed to it. Today, we simulate the test conditions."
Sean nodded and mounted the broom. He finally understood Madam Hooch's earlier cryptic remarks. He kicked off the ground without needing prompting, the earlier caution replaced by a surge of confidence. Madam Hooch watched him ascend, a rare look of approval in her hawk-like eyes.
The test was rigorous: weaving through hoops, banking sharply around goalposts, dodging enchanted golf balls – all within thirty minutes. Madam Hooch pushed him relentlessly, her voice sharp and clear.
"Tighter turn, Mr. Green! Pull up! Stay focused! Adjust your posture! Only perfect mastery will keep you safe from the dangers inherent in flight!"
In a room high above, warmed by a fiercely burning fire, a tall witch watched the lone figure on the pitch below. An aged voice spoke beside her.
"Minerva, it has been a long time since you took such an interest in a student." Albus Dumbledore stood beside her, his blue eyes fixed not on the pitch, but on a portrait within the room, a mischievous twinkle playing about their depths before turning to gentle teasing.
Minerva McGonagall's robes were still slightly rumpled from her earlier embrace. Her voice held its usual strictness, yet was underscored by a profound warmth, the two qualities unexpectedly harmonious. She looked at the boy soaring below, seeing both the fragile seed she had found and the determined sprout pushing towards the sun.
"You don't understand, Albus," she said softly. "He spoke to me today, truly spoke, with a small smile. And I realised… for that… I have waited a very long time."