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Seven o'clock in the evening.
Outside the entrance to the Hogwarts headmaster's office, the peculiar stone gargoyle stood apart from the rest. It was Ian's first ti here, and he softly spoke the password Dumbledore had given him.
"Jelly Snot Slug."
As soon as the words left his lips, the gargoyle gave a slow, knowing nod before sliding aside, revealing the moving spiral staircase beyond. Ian ascended steadily, the enchanted steps carrying him higher until he reached the grand wooden door with its brass handle gleaming in the dim candlelight.
There was no need to turn it. Ian simply knocked, and the door knocker— shaped like a winged hippogriff— suddenly stretched its wings as if straining to push the door open. With a low creak, the wooden door swung inward of its own accord.
The ever-burning candles cast a warm glow over the vast, book-lined office, the heart of Hogwarts' wisdom and history. Ian noted the nurous shelves brimming with books, so ancient, others disturbingly new.
Since Dumbledore showed no sign of reprimanding him, Ian felt considerably at ease. After all, he was the one who had been ambushed.
His gaze wandered to the walls, where portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses watched him with interest. Their painted eyes followed his every move.
"Another troublemaker, is it?"
"I know that boy! The one Dumbledore never stops talking about."
"Silence, you old gossip!"
A brief squabble broke out among the portraits before they composed themselves, feigning statuesque serenity. Yet their eyes still darted in Ian's direction, brimming with curiosity.
'The Most Potent Magic'
'The Dark Arts Compendium'
'Blood Oath Contracts'
'Revealing the Secrets of Dark Magic'
…
Alongside familiar titles such as 'Break with a Banshee', 'Gadding with Ghouls', and 'Holidays with Hags', Ian noted a selection of particularly ominous tos. These books sat in neat, unassuming rows, as if utterly indifferent to the potential chaos that could ensue should the wrong hands pry them open.
"Then again, they've got plenty of headmasters watching over them."
Ian turned to glance at the portraits, who were clearly playing a ga of "Freeze" with him. Every ti he looked their way, they imdiately stiffened, their expressions frozen in well-practiced innocence.
"Hello, Sorting Hat. I heard you went straight to Professor Snape about ." Ian's gaze landed on the tattered Sorting Hat, which had been pretending to slumber the mont he entered.
"Zzz…"
The snoring grew exaggeratedly loud.
Ian picked it up, tilting it from side to side, but the hat remained obstinately limp, as if utterly determined to ignore him.
"Not brave enough, am I?"
With a smirk, he reached inside, hoping to summon the legendary Sword of Gryffindor. Instead, his fingers closed around sothing far less dignified— an old clump of scalp residue, no doubt left behind by so unfortunate first-year.
It was about the size of his pinky finger.
"Disgusting!"
Ian recoiled, shaking his hand wildly before rushing to the washbasin. He scrubbed his hands vigorously before returning to the office, where Dumbledore was still nowhere in sight. The Sorting Hat, anwhile, continued its theatrical display of deep sleep.
"If I ever go bald, I'm blaming you," Ian muttered darkly. "And if that happens, I'll take you on a very long voyage."
He grabbed the Sorting Hat and, with a flick of his wand, Transfigured a nearby pebble into a stiff-bristled brush. Marching over to the basin, he set about scrubbing the hat clean.
"The next generation of students will thank for this," He mused as he worked. With each brushstroke, he muttered, "rit 1," like a ticulous house elf.
Lather.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Lather.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Finally, the Sorting Hat could take no more.
"I should have put you in Gryffindor!" It howled, and with a sudden 'clang', sothing heavy tumbled from its brim.
The Sword of Gryffindor.
The ancient blade glead brilliantly, its surface catching the candlelight as if imbued with the very essence of courage. The embedded rubies burned like molten fire, their glow fierce and unyielding.
It was Blazing and Magnificent.
"That's utter nonsense! I'm a Ravenclaw through and through!" Ian retorted indignantly. "Sll this— luckily, I haven't washed my robe yet. You should recognize the scent of academic excellence."
The Sorting Hat gave a shudder, as if personally offended.
"You cheeky little rascal! I am not a Niffler! Now put back where I belong!" It grumbled, clearly disgruntled by the entire ordeal.
Now thoroughly scrubbed, the Sorting Hat was no longer its usual weathered self. It looked almost… presentable.
Old, yet oddly refreshed.
"Well, that's two approvals now," Ian remarked, securing the sword at his waist before carefully placing the hat back on its perch.
"I had a thousand years of dignity…" The Sorting Hat groaned, sounding utterly betrayed.
Around the office, the portraits were barely stifling their laughter. One of them let out a muffled snicker before hastily composing themselves.
Ian whipped around, hoping to catch them in the act, but their reactions were lightning-fast. He saw nothing but the pristine, composed faces of the forr headmasters.
And then, in the doorway, he spotted Dumbledore, watching him with that ever-present twinkle in his eye.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, you really do move like a ghost," Ian remarked, startled once again. He had already been caught off guard by Dumbledore once before and hadn't expected it to happen again so soon.
"I didn't want to disturb you as it seems that you and the Sorting Hat are enjoying yourselves," Dumbledore observed before speaking with a twinkle in his eyes as his gaze fell upon the long sword at Ian's waist.
"Headmaster, have you noticed my fine virtues? Bravery, loyalty, kindness, a love of peace, fearlessness, justice, and trustworthiness?"
With a flourish, Ian swept back his robes, revealing the gleaming Sword of Gryffindor.
"…"
Dumbledore was silent for a mont before finally speaking.
"While it's not entirely unexpected, Mr. Prince, I'm afraid I must ask you to part with that sword for a ti. It has certain… duties to fulfill. My apologies."
His tone was genuinely regretful.
Ian, however, felt no disappointnt.
It wasn't as though he were particularly skilled with a sword, after all.
"As long as I can take it for a quick stroll through Gryffindor Tower first, that's fine. No harm intended— just thought they ought to see the living embodint of courage, loyalty, kindness, and a love of peace…"
Ian trailed off, attempting to cover his real intent.
But before he could finish—
"Clang!"
A sharp cry rang through the air as the window swung open and a much smaller Fawkes swooped inside, his vibrant feathers gleaming in the candlelight.
As expected.
The phoenix landed squarely on Ian's head, perching upon it as though it belonged there. Ian, quite accustod to this by now, retrieved the dried treats he hadn't yet managed to give to Professor McGonagall in her Animagus form.
"Clang!"
Fawkes let out another shrill call, making it abundantly clear he was not interested. His cry sounded more like a reprimand than a request. Ian held the treat up to the phoenix's beak and sniffed it himself. Nothing seed amiss.
Just then—
"Dumbledore! Look at what he's done to ! Quick! Send this little nace to Azkaban! I have connections there!" The Sorting Hat erupted into a dramatic tirade, practically shaking with indignation.
Dumbledore, however, rely regarded it with amused curiosity.
"I must say, your new look rather suits you."
The Sorting Hat fell into stunned silence.
(To Be Continued…)
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