Chapter 124: Elder Wood
"I am beginning to doubt whether those measures are… quite safe enough…" Professor Flitwick's voice was as high‑pitched as ever. He stood on the floor, hidden between the robes of two tall witches and wizards, so that only his voice could be heard and not his person.
Only when he conjured book after book beneath his feet did everyone finally see the worry in his eyes.
In the Headmaster's office, silver instruments covered the entire oak desk. The shabby kettle puffed white steam. Fawkes the phoenix dozed on his gilded perch, feathers gleaming a deep, dark red.
Albus Dumbledore did not answer at once. Sitting behind the desk, his blue eyes flashed above the rims of his half‑moon glasses. The open book before him turned a page of its own accord before his voice slowly filled the room.
"I think we need not worry, do we? Children are braver than we imagine."
He smiled benignly, with deliberate meaning.
"Of course. Brave enough to rush to their deaths," Professor Snape said with a cold snort.
"Sending first‑years to face a troll. That is your plan… Dumbledore?"
Professor McGonagall watched in silence, neither agreeing nor refuting.
"Hogwarts is the safest place in all of Britain," Dumbledore replied, his words laden with implication.
"Hmph."
Snape said nothing more. With an icy snort, he swept out.
"You ought to be more cautious, Albus," Minerva McGonagall said, leaving that single sentence behind before she too departed.
Only after they had gone did Dumbledore murmur to himself, thoughtful.
"Severus… to change… after so long…"
Then he turned to Professor Flitwick.
"Filius, perhaps you could tell me about that boy?"
"Of course, Headmaster. Whether in Charms… or in Defence Against the Dark Arts, the child is more gifted than we ever imagined…" Flitwick's high voice trembled with excitement. In truth, if Severus and Minerva had seen the boy's duelling, they would have known at once, between a troll and a first‑year, which one was really facing the challenge…
That was why, of everyone present at the time, Professor Flitwick had been the calmest.
In the corridor,
Snape's billowing black robes seemed to lower the air pressure around him. The students scattered from his path as if from a storm front.
The last student who had dared cross Professor Snape was still in detention in the dungeons. It had been a full month…
Shawn stood outside Professor McGonagall's office, hugging an armful of Transfiguration books.
The wind was knife‑cold, but it could not pierce Filch's scarf. Shawn wore the gloves Mrs Finch‑Fletchley had sent, Snape's jumper, and in his bag he carried McGonagall's private collection of books…
All in all, he rarely felt the chill anymore.
He stood there because he had Transfiguration that afternoon. Arriving early was his habit.
If the professor was there, he could learn a bit more. If not, he could revise and read.
At that moment, a broad shape blocked the light from the window. Shawn looked up into Professor Snape's dark, stormy face.
Snape's eyes lingered on the collar of Shawn's jumper for two seconds. Then he glanced toward the dungeons and said in a voice like something out of a crypt, "Come, you fool."
Shawn filtered out the insult and followed in silence.
The dungeons were colder still. Even from a distance, Shawn could hear rain hammering the windows. When he turned his head, he saw a film of ice already forming on the glass.
"Who do you think you are?" Snape's mockery came as fast as ever. Before Shawn could react, he heard the long, scathing drawl.
"Ah. Our Mr Green thinks himself some sort of 'hero', does he? Facing a troll alone… Oh, I imagine those imbeciles must worship you!"
"Green, do you think defeating a troll is something so remarkable? Let me tell you what is remarkable. Staying alive," Snape said, his lip curling into a cold, derisive smile. His eyes held that familiar "disappointed in you" look.
"Compared to those fools… do you truly think that if you died, anyone would mourn you?" he finished.
Shawn did not answer.
Snape snorted heavily. He had always known this boy was a thoroughgoing fool.
Give such a fool a dozen chances, and he would still never learn self‑preservation.
"Hold your wand properly," Snape snapped.
In the dungeon, his tone was harsher than the wind.
"I do not believe this particular fool is due to die just yet—"
Shawn looked up. A crumpled notebook had been flung into his hands. The yellowed pages looked decades old.
While Shawn was flipping it open, Snape's attention fell to his wand.
This was no ordinary dry, pale wood. The shaft was the colour of midnight, almost pitch‑black, but when light slid over it, faint patterns of deep purple and dark red gleamed beneath the surface.
Elder.
The rarest of all wand woods, and one with a very poor reputation. Wands of elder were notoriously the hardest to master.
They possessed immense magical power, yet refused to cooperate with witches and wizards they deemed unworthy.
No matter how long a wizard owned an elder‑wood wand, that wizard would always be exceptional, impossible to ignore.
Only truly unusual people could ever be perfectly matched to an elder‑wood wand. When that rare pairing occurred, the witch or wizard in question was destined for a life of upheaval and legend.
And yet this proud wood had ended up in the hands of this "fool."
The core was prouder still: phoenix tail feather. It made the wand's untameable nature reach an extreme.
This was a wand… frighteningly well‑suited to the Dark Arts.
Snape looked at the boy clutching the notebook, eyes shining faintly with excitement. His own cold face grew complex and shadowed.
An elder‑wood wand meant the boy's life would never be peaceful. Snape's tone grew even colder, more severe.
"If you do not learn it, you can forget about leaving this dungeon."
…
"Sectumsempra!"
No trace of magic showed at the tip of Shawn's wand, but the toad he struck split open in a series of savage, gouging wounds. Snape instantly cast the counter‑curse, but his eyes were already fixed on Shawn in a stunned stare.
[You practised Sectumsempra once at Proficient standard, Proficiency +10]
[Sectumsempra: Entry (100/900)]
In the span of a single hour, the boy before him had not only learned Sectumsempra right under his nose, but had reached Entry level at astonishing speed.
His talent even surpassed Snape's own, who at eleven had already matched some sixth‑years in the Dark Arts.
"An hour… early… in the dungeons…" Snape muttered at the end of the lesson.
As Shawn was leaving, he heard the professor's low, grim voice.
"Do not let anyone know what magic you are learning. Remember – anyone."
Before Shawn could nod, Snape had slammed the dungeon door shut.