HP: Azkaban's Outstanding Graduate

Caught off guard, the chubby boy got sand in his eyes, screamed, and retreated in a panic.

The little boy didn't stop; his small body unleashed astonishing power as he kicked the fat boy hard.

"Pfft!"

The chubby boy was kicked and fell hard on his backside into the sandpit, getting a mouthful of sand and looking utterly pathetic.

"The orphan is hitting someone!"

The chubby boy's companions realized what was happening and rushed over, shouting.

"Hit him!"

They reached out and pulled at the little boy's tattered clothes, shoved him, and shouted hurtful nicknames at him.

The little boy fought back fiercely, but he was alone while there were several opponents who were older than him.

Soon, he was pushed backward, his already tattered clothes ripping as they were pulled, a tear appeared on his shoulder, and his face was covered in grime and small scratches, making him look even more disheveled.

Dumbledore watched quietly, his azure eyes reflecting the scene, and he asked softly, "Aren't you going to help him, Sacramento?"

Sagres remained standing in the same spot, his face calm, with even a faint smile playing on his lips.

"No, Albus. I have some experience with this."

He shook his head, his voice soft: "If we can't help him for the rest of his life, then the best help is to let him learn how to get through this kind of difficulty on his own."

He looked at the little boy who, though disheveled from the attack, never showed weakness or surrender in his eyes, and his smile deepened. "Some strength grows from the soil, from the sand, from the wounds of resentment."

As they spoke, the conflict on the other side was nearing its end.

Perhaps realizing that continuing the fight was pointless, or perhaps fearing that it would attract adults, the children stopped cursing and swearing, helped the chubby boy who was still crying and rubbing his eyes, and left together.

The sandpit fell silent again, leaving only the little boy.

He stood there alone, panting heavily, his small chest heaving.

He wiped the dust off his face with the back of his hand, looked down at the larger gash on his shoulder, and his expression immediately turned bitter.

Then, he walked to the broken plastic shovel that the fat boy had carelessly tossed aside and that had been completely shattered into pieces, squatted down, and picked up the pieces one by one.

Then he walked to the green trash can, stood on tiptoe, and threw all the plastic scraps in his hand into it without leaving a single piece.

After doing all this, he dusted off his hands, glanced at the empty sandpit and playground, turned around, and walked away step by step along the way he had come.

His small figure stretched long in the setting sun. He walked slowly along the somewhat deserted path with his head down, and finally sat down on the cement steps on the shady side of an old residential building.

This place is quiet and rarely visited; it's his "secret base" where he often stays.

He lowered his head and looked closely at the brand-new tear on his shoulder, its jagged edges revealing the faded old lining underneath.

He touched it gently with his finger, and his little face could no longer maintain its previous stubborn calm, revealing clear sadness and disappointment.

This was his best piece of clothing, and now it's torn so badly.

The old lady next door has poor eyesight, so sewing is very difficult for her. Although she can sew herself, she doesn't have any suitable fabric to make patches.

He hugged his knees, buried his face in his arms, leaving only his eyes showing as he gazed into the distance.

The setting sun painted the sky a warm orange-red, and the children who had clashed with him earlier were being picked up by their parents who were coming home from get off work.

He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could see the adults pointing at the dust and sand on the children's clothes and asking them questions, while the children pointed in his direction in a panic and gestured.

Then, one or two children had their ears grabbed, and muffled scolding and crying could be heard.

The little boy pursed his lips; he could roughly guess what the other person was talking about—"That wild child without parents started it!"

This kind of scenario is not unfamiliar.

After each conflict, the other parent would always stand up to defend him, but he wouldn't.

As I grimaced, an overwhelming wave of sorrow surged through my nose, and my vision blurred instantly.

He blinked hard, but the warm liquid still wouldn't listen and rolled down his cheeks, dripping onto his knees and leaving dark dots.

His father...hasn't been seen in a long time. I heard he's in debt again from gambling, and many people are looking for him. Nobody knows where he's hiding.

His mother... left the family with her suitcase when he was even younger, and never came back.

The old lady next door always said that his mother had gone to work in a faraway place, but from the whispers of the neighbors and the ridicule of his peers, he had long since pieced together the truth that she had "run away" and "didn't want him anymore."

Sometimes, lying on his shabby little bed, he would wonder blankly whether he was an orphan.

It feels like Mom and Dad are still here, yet it also feels like they'll never come back.

Fortunately, the house is still there. Although it is dilapidated and old, leaks when it rains, and cold winds can seep in through the cracks in the windows in winter, at least there is still a place to go back to.

And next door lived a grandmother who couldn't see clearly, but always touched his head and hummed off-key lullabies in her aged voice.

After a while, he raised his arm and used the relatively clean inside sleeve to vigorously wipe his eyes and cheeks.

The tears were wiped away, leaving only slightly red eyes and a little dampness.

He sniffed, looked up at the darkening sky again, and the sadness on his face was gradually replaced by a numb calm.

From the shadows in the distance, Sagres watched all of this silently.

Dumbledore stood beside him, equally silent, his moonstone-blue eyes filled with deep pity.

Sacramento suddenly turned around, seemingly intending to leave. Dumbledore prepared to follow.

But Sagres only took two steps before abruptly stopping.

He stood there, his back to the small figure on the steps, and remained silent for a few seconds.

The evening breeze ruffled the tips of his silvery hair.

“Okay,” he suddenly said, as if he had made up his mind, “I’ve changed my mind.”

Dumbledore looked at him with some surprise.

Sagres turned around again, facing the direction of the little boy.

He stretched out his hand and casually wiped it in front of him.

The surrounding air seemed to ripple slightly, and his figure emerged fully from the shadows, as if he had always been standing there.

He didn't look at Dumbledore, but walked straight toward the little boy sitting on the steps, his pace unhurried.

Dumbledore remained where he was, a gentle and knowing smile slowly spreading across his face. He crossed his arms, like a patient spectator, ready to enjoy the interaction to come.

Sagres walked up to the steps, but instead of looking down at the boy, he naturally sat down next to the little boy, one person's width away, as if he were just passing by and taking a break.

The cement steps were a bit cold.

The little boy was startled by the person who suddenly appeared beside him, and looked up sharply, warily glancing at Sagres.

When he realized that the other person was a strange, oddly dressed but neatly dressed white-haired foreign man with a seemingly harmless smile on his face, his wariness was mixed with confusion and restraint.

He instinctively moved to the side and hugged his knees.

“Good evening,” Sagres began, his tone as casual as greeting an old friend. “Sitting here alone waiting to see the stars? The weather’s nice today; you should be able to see a few bright ones.”

The little boy didn't say anything, but just pursed his lips tightly and secretly sized him up.

Sagres didn't care. He looked up at the deep blue sky where stars were beginning to appear, and then, as if he had just noticed, his gaze fell on the crack in the little boy's shoulder.

"Oh, your clothes are torn? Did you fall?" There was no pity in his tone, only a hint of curiosity.

Perhaps it was Sagres's overly natural attitude that made the little boy's tense nerves relax a little.

He hesitated for a moment, nodded almost imperceptibly, and squeezed out a muffled "hmm" from his throat.

"It's broken but quite neatly..."

"Sagres commented, and then, as if by magic, with a flick of his wrist, the Immortal Flower Wood Wand appeared in his hand."

"I happen to know a little... um, some sewing tips. Want to try? I guarantee it's faster than using a needle and thread, and you won't even be able to tell."

The little boy's eyes widened instantly, staring intently at the magic wand.

He had never seen anything like it before, and his intuition told him that it was very unusual.

He hesitated, both curious and afraid.

Sagres smiled, without urging him, and simply tapped his wand lightly on the crack in the little boy's shoulder, the gesture as casual as if he were pointing something out.

"Look, like this..."

He muttered something under his breath, the syllables strange and soft.

A soft, silvery-white light shone from the tip of the wand.

As the light flowed through the crack, the torn fibers seemed to be woven and mended by an invisible, skillful hand, and the dust and stains disappeared.

Not only the tear, but also the other old patches on the clothes seemed to have been ironed out, making the whole garment clean and flat. Although it was still clearly an old garment, there was no longer any damage.

The whole process was quiet and quick, taking less than two seconds.

The little boy was completely stunned. He looked down at his shoulder in disbelief, then looked up at Sagrais and the wand in his hand. His mouth was slightly open, and his eyes were wide open, filled with shock and confusion, as well as a glimmer of light.

"What...what is this?" He finally found his voice, very softly, with a trembling tone.

Sagres withdrew his wand, twirled it between his fingers, and deepened his smile, which carried a mysterious air.

"This? You can call it... 'magic'."

"magic?"

The little boy repeated the word he had only heard in fairy tales, his eyes shining even brighter.

He looked at his perfectly intact clothes, then at Sagres, and his initial wariness almost completely vanished, replaced by a surge of curiosity.

"Really... there's magic? Are you a magician?"

“Magicians use techniques and props,” Sagres shook his head, his tone becoming more serious. “Magic is something else. It requires… well, a bit of talent, and the right way to learn.”

He looked at the little boy, his gaze seemingly piercing through his tear-streaked yet now shining eyes. "Do you think that just now was magic?"

The little boy nodded vigorously, without hesitation.

Sagres laughed.

"Do you want to learn it? Not some little trick like changing clothes, but real magic that can make you stronger, protect yourself, and even change things."

The boy was stunned; the question was far beyond his limited imagination.

Learn magic? Like in fairy tales?