Hogwarts: Proficiency Panel

Chapter 513 514: The Blade and the Locket

The moment the words left his mouth, Snape seemed to fall into the same state of

shock as the young wizard before him.

A split second of stunned silence passed before Snape's temper flared like a

burst of Fiendfyre. He practically roared as he threw the only student in the

dungeon out of his classroom.

Only after he had slammed the heavy oak door with a bone-rattling thud did Snape

lean against it, finally forced to look at himself.

What were you thinking? he hissed at his own reflection. What was that?

"Ah, well done! Bravo! A marvelous start, Severus!"

In a painting on the cellar wall, a plump, dappled grey pony trotted lazily

across a painted meadow, pausing to munch on some grass. Snape was long past the

point of being surprised by the portraits of Hogwarts moving or visiting each

other's frames.

However, very few portraits had the audacity to stay in his dungeon for long.

Except for one.

True to form, a squat, stout knight in a suit of armor came clanking into the

frame, chasing after his pony. Judging by the fresh grass stains on the knees of

his metal suit, he had almost certainly just fallen off.

"Aha!" the knight bellowed, shaking a gauntleted fist at Snape. "Severus! You

are surely thinking—who is this knave who dares intrude upon my private domain?

Perhaps he comes to mock me! But I say unto you, Severus—dare you laugh at my

tumble? Ha! Draw your blade then, you cowardly cur!"

Sir Cadogan unsheathed his sword and began brandishing it wildly, jumping up and

down in a fit of theatrical rage.

But the sword was far too long for his diminutive stature. He swung it with such

misplaced vigor that he lost his balance, pitching forward and landing

face-first in the painted grass with a loud metallic clang.

"Heh..."

Snape let out a sharp, mirthless laugh. He stepped closer to the painting.

Inside the frame, the knight grabbed his sword and tried to use it as a crutch

to stand up. But the blade was buried deep in the turf. He pulled and heaved

with all his might, but it wouldn't budge. Finally, he gave up and sat down in

the grass, pushing up his visor to wipe the sweat from his face.

"Severus... you could throw me into a furnace to be roasted like a sausage; you

could toss me into a pile of troll dung until I reek to high heaven—but I shall

say it regardless.

"True words... they are never spoken easily. They stumble. They trip over

themselves. They are incoherent and messy... oh, they are quite annoying, yet

they refuse to die."

The knight's feigned anger vanished. He clanked back to his feet and raised his

visor again.

"Severus! We must find our target, and then we must die gallantly in the

charge!"

He gave the sword one last tug, but it remained stuck. He tried to vault onto

his fat little pony and failed at that, too. "That is the way of it, Severus. To

be stripped of one's blade, to give up the flight, to be at the mercy of

others—that is the moment!

"But what of it?! It is a moment of total surrender! It is the moment where the

shadow steps into the light! Forward! Forward! One must have a brave heart,

Severus! Forget your cold logic and you shall win every possibility!"

Sir Cadogan shouted his proclamations with such passion that a stray tear

actually trickled from his eye.

Snape remained silent. Without a word, he took the portrait of the knight and

shoved it out of the room.

He knew it was futile. The dungeon always needed portraits, and the younger

students would inevitably tell the new paintings who the previous residents

were. The annoying little knight would always find his way back.

But as much as it irritated him, Snape didn't stop it. He had even allowed Sean

to make "visiting the portraits" a weekly task.

Perhaps, in some hidden corner of his mind, Snape realized that as long as Sean

had a reason to visit, he would stay a little longer.

Night fell over the castle.

The Slytherin Common Room remained bathed in the glow of the hearth. It was a

long, low, underground room with walls and ceilings made of rough-hewn stone.

Round, greenish lamps hung from chains, casting a watery light over the space.

By the elaborately carved mantelpiece, a tall silhouette sat motionless in a

high-backed chair, staring into the crackling fire. Snape sat like a statue,

frozen in thought.

Finally, the great bell of Hogwarts tolled.

His gaze drifted instinctively toward the ceiling, as if he could see through

the stone to the towering spires of the castle above. He thought of the night—a

night filled with rising mist.

And high above in those towers, Sean Green had managed to secure a few hours of

precious time.

He stood before the entrance to the Headmaster's office, waiting for the stone

gargoyle's challenge.

"Password?" the gargoyle croaked.

"Lemon..." Sean began, but the gargoyle hopped aside before he could even

finish, as if the formality were a mere suggestion.

"Lemon Drop," Sean finished softly, stepping into the office.

The sun had completely vanished, leaving Dumbledore's office bathed in the cool

embrace of moonlight. The glass case containing the Sword of Godric Gryffindor

shimmered with a faint, silvery light.

Behind him, a tiny, half-plucked bird in a nest of ash let out a weak chirp.

"Mr. Fawkes," Sean said warmly. He reached into his pouch and fed the baby

phoenix a few restorative herbs.

[You have gained the favor of the magical creature: Phoenix (Fawkes). Affinity

+3] [Fawkes the Phoenix: Slightly Friendly (Novice Level) (13/300)]

Sean noted the progress. He was slowly but surely working toward the day he

could bake "Phoenix Biscuits."

He scanned the room. Dumbledore was still absent. Fortunately, Sean had sent an

owl ahead of time requesting the use of the sword, and Snowy had returned with a

brief note of approval.

Sean placed the letter on the desk as a record of the transaction and drew the

Sword of Gryffindor from its case. The silver blade glinted dangerously in the

dim evening light.

"Goodbye for now, Mr. Fawkes," Sean said.

As he stepped out of the office, he felt a small, firm hand grip his shoulder.

"I still don't understand why you spend so much time in that dusty square, but

please, Master Green... hold tight."

Will the Pukwudgie bowed his head and snapped his fingers.

The world blurred.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

In a house that didn't exist to the outside world, a man and a house-elf were

waiting with bated breath. They checked the window every few seconds, listening

for the slightest sound of the front door.

Of course, they heard nothing.

Will Apparated them directly into the house. Sean walked past the heavy,

moth-eaten curtains—behind which he knew lay another set of doors—and navigated

around a massive umbrella stand fashioned from the severed leg of a mountain

troll.

He climbed the dark, creaking stairs. Along the walls were a series of mounted

plaques. Up close, Sean saw what they were: the shriveled, severed heads of past

house-elves.

He remembered the Black family tradition—beheading the elves once they were too

old to carry a tea tray. His brow furrowed in a dark scowl.

He reached the landing where Sirius was waiting. It was time to deal with the

locket once and for all.

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