In the Great Hall, at the teachers' table.
Dumbledore's silver beard shimmered in the candlelight. When an owl dropped a parcel of sweets and struck some Gryffindor on the head, his eyes behind his half-moon spectacles blinked happily.
As he blinked with pleasure, the student beside him who excelled at Transfiguration had already vanished.
His smile deepened.
The greatest White Wizard of the century laced his fingers together and murmured:
"Oh, wonderful, isn't it?
People would eventually discover that at Hogwarts, those who needed help would always receive it..."
The bustle of the Great Hall had nothing to do with Sean now.
Holding the letter, he walked down the empty corridor.
He saw light dancing across the suits of armor. The spirited owl perched on his shoulder, cooing and pointing toward a route he had passed countless times.
He did not notice that the Oil Painting of Wheatfield Lady behind him was already packed with people.
The golden wheat field rolled beneath the sunlight like an ocean kissed by the sun.
Among the waves of wheat, figures holding several blue cornflowers could vaguely be seen whispering to one another:
"Sir, I'm so excited. That child was so troubled today that he nearly twisted those sharp brows of his into duck eggs."
Violet clutched a corner of her skirt and watched the Young Wizard pass by with the owl. For a moment, she even felt as though she could not breathe.
"Violet, oh, come help me quickly. My injured hand simply can't reach my eyes."
Sir Cadogan set down his pony, his eyes glittering.
"You all saw that letter?! I simply can't imagine it... Do you know? I've watched little McGonagall for fifty years!"
Fat Lady pressed a hand to her chest, only to be interrupted by Sir Cadogan's low voice: