For a long while, Sean didn't see Sir Cadogan. He found himself wandering the castle again out of habit—something that never existed in his schedule before.
Now, though, a faint worry sent him down several extra corridors.
"Little Green, please make the knight stop running his mouth!"
Lady Violet—white underdress swishing—appeared in a painted rice field.
"Lady Violet," Sean greeted politely, then listened, a bit tense, as she recounted the knight's "glorious" deeds of recent days.
He'd been shut into a corridor painting and would not stop babbling. Three days straight, no one saw him—only the occasional poem-like declamation, punctuated by screams.
When Sean slipped into the dungeons, an upper-year Slytherin had just finished brewing. The boy glanced nervously from Sean to the depths of the dungeon and fled as if chased.
Sean spotted Sir Cadogan's portrait at once: the knight had been lashed to a spit of wood by a mob of trolls. If not for the failure of the fire beneath to catch, Sean suspected the next time he saw the knight would be inside a troll's belly.
Even black-and-blue and in peril, the knight bellowed:
"Last year, I honored wine;
this year, I gaze on hope o'er prejudice.
Last year, I stared into flame;
this year, I am the roast…
Ah—now I am a lion, head held high,
lost entirely in the tending of hope."
The ladies followed behind Sean. They tossed scraps of meat to draw the trolls away, then—only with great effort—dragged the knight free.
"Sir, lower your voice! Call it a favor to me!" Lady Violet ground out through her teeth.
"But of course, my lady. Knightly Rule the Fourth: always render aid to a lady."
His voice dropped a little, but he kept singing like an incantation:
"O stubborn mule sunk in the mire, hear me:
For now, do not be sad.
Listen for blessings—let their petals fall around you."
A smash sounded from deeper in the dungeon; the knight panicked.
"My lady—faster! Quickly!"
Seeing him flustered, Lady Violet finally "pfft"-ed a laugh, and the Fat Lady stuffed an apple into his mouth.
And into her own, too, mumbling, "Little Green, you'll forgive a fat woman with an apple in her mouth, won't you?"
"Yes, my lady," Sean said solemnly. "And I trust you."
"Oh—child—" The Fat Lady's eyes grew moist.
Once they'd left the dungeon, Sean didn't ask why the knight had been singing for days on end. He only said:
"Sir, you've helped more than enough."
Bruised and aching, the knight bared his teeth and said nothing. Not until Sean hurried off for the Alchemy office did he mutter:
"What a chance—two children of knightly virtue—ah, loyalty, and courage—"
Outside, wind and snow fell. Sean was about to head upstairs and didn't notice a thin line trailing from the dungeon to a warm hand, then unfurling into parchment between Professor Tayra's fingers.
[Sean Green].
Among first-years, an outstanding presence—favored by several professors.
Even that Potions master…
That was normal. A master alchemist is almost always skilled across branches; only thus do they glimpse the mystery of alchemy.
But this child—he seemed too outstanding.
It had been a long time since Professor Tayra had seen such talent, paired with quiet, practical humility—staying months in the greenhouse isn't easy, especially in Scotland's harsh weather.
Her cool expression eased, though her confidence never wavered: among the magical branches, only alchemy could change the world.
Even so… not enough yet.
…
Meanwhile, in the Hope Nook.
They were gathered around the fire; Justin's voice mingled with the crackle of flames and soft breathing.
"The Hope Nook is a hidden place. Mr. Owl won't let strangers in—but we can't make his job harder, either. If someone wants to bring in a new member, everyone must agree.
"This room itself is a gift—meant to nurture and store hope. So you get it, yeah? If you want to lark about, do it in the common room…"
He rattled off several guidelines; most were quickly embraced.
Not until now did Harry and Ron feel truly part of the place. They listened word by word, not daring to miss a thing.
"If a member of the Nook gets into trouble and you can help, help. Even if it's the wrong call—we'll be wrong together."
That stirred everyone. Justin went on:
"And in here—trust your companions."
They blinked.
His light-blue eyes held the right mix of warmth and resolve.
"We're partners. When a partner makes a choice—whether he says it here, or does something none of us understand—we don't need to judge it. We back him. That's what partners are for."
At that, Harry and Ron felt as if they'd been handed a priceless gift.
They were partners—my goodness. In this room, they were fully trusted.
Hermione and Neville were a little stunned too; Harry and Ron felt almost… exalted.
"Yes…" Hermione murmured. Instinct tugged a little unease—she trusted Sean and Justin, maybe Neville as well; as for Harry and Ron, she wasn't sure. But then she remembered the two of them bursting through a door on Halloween Eve—and somehow, she could accept it.
"My mother told me: if trust isn't absolute, it's absolute mistrust. Deceit is costly, to any side—because it means the deceived can no longer trust their companions."
Justin sounded like he was talking to himself. The words fell heavy into Harry and Ron's hearts; thinking of paying such a price, they'd rather face a troll themselves.
The talk didn't last long. As Sean climbed the spiral stair and looked to the kind-eyed professor, snow smothered Hogwarts; the susurrus filled the Nook, and those who had faced the troll together… found their breathing marked with one another's heartbeat.
Justin drew out a well-kept slip of paper, still warm with a mother's touch:
[My child.
Trust is a house with uncountable windows.
Its rooms, like cedar;
a slanted sky, its eternal roof.
Its visitors, most noble.
Its purpose is this:
With your small hands—go gather heaven.]