Within the corridors of Hogwarts,
Professor McGonagall strode hurriedly toward the headmaster's office.
A gargoyle statue guarded the entrance—one of the many gargoyles found throughout Hogwarts Castle. The one at the headmaster's office, however, stood out particularly.
"Sour Blast Sugar."
This peculiar password existed only during Dumbledore's tenure as Headmaster. Once the gargoyle leapt aside, Professor McGonagall ascended the spiral staircase leading to the headmaster's office.
****
"Minerva, I take it the new crop of young wizards hasn't caused you any trouble?"
Dumbledore was buried in a book concerning the Deathly Hallows.
"They're no trouble, but I have to say I'm a bit shaken."
McGonagall's face was solemn as she stood before the Headmaster's desk, her voice laden with mixed emotions.
"Oh? What happened?"
Dumbledore lifted his eyes, curiosity lighting them behind his half-moon glasses.
"It's about that child from the Snape family—during Transfiguration class for Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff…"
She recounted the events of that morning, explaining what had occurred in her lesson.
"I've never witnessed such a dramatic improvement. He soared as though skipping multiple years of study. He accomplished feats older students can't manage."
Her tone remained tinged with incredulity, as if Ian's performance were still playing out before her.
"It shows how effective your instruction is. Isn't that something to celebrate? I'm almost envious you'll soon have such an outstanding Transfiguration assistant."
"Surely Professor Snape will be jealous,"
Dumbledore commented with a calm smile that contrasted McGonagall's fretfulness.
"I always hoped for a gifted young wizard who could assist me, yes—but his talent is no mere excellence, it's… unsettling."
McGonagall sighed.
"I won't deny Mr. Prince's abilities are extraordinary. I've known plenty of brilliant individuals, but never expected I'd encounter someone who'd make even me feel a hint of envy—"
"Brilliant, self-assured… unstoppable,"
she murmured.
Dumbledore closed the ancient text he'd been reading and regarded McGonagall serenely.
"History, in fact, has seen wizards like that."
McGonagall frowned.
"Who?"
She believed she knew her magical history well enough—although she recalled dozing occasionally during her own schooling, years of being a professor had refreshed her knowledge.
"Merlin Ambrosius,"
Dumbledore said softly, wearing his usual kind smile.
"…"
McGonagall's eyes widened—she found it both astonishing and unsettling. She had considered various figures from the past, but never imagined Dumbledore would name a wizard so revered that the wizarding world literally invoked "Merlin's name" in prayer.
"You're comparing the Snape child to Merlin?"
She stared, incredulous. She nearly feared Dumbledore might be succumbing to senility.
"After the Sorting Hat's decision, I researched countless books and records and gleaned some insights."
He placed both hands on the desk.
"A handful of wizards really are different from the rest of us."
"They perceive aspects of magic we can't—the wonders and sensations of magic that remain beyond our reach. That's why they rise like meteors."
"Minerva, we must acknowledge a true genius when we see one. That doesn't make it their fault."
Dumbledore's gentle words felt almost like another lesson for a "Kitty Cat" who had graduated many years ago.
"Weren't you considered a genius yourself?"
McGonagall asked, eyebrows furrowed.
"I make no false claims—I am a genius,"
Dumbledore admitted straightforwardly, then went on calmly:
"But compared to the Four Founders of Hogwarts, I'm still a step behind. And Ian—that child is the one the Sorting Hat personally designated as Rowena Ravenclaw's heir."
"We must trust the Sorting Hat's judgment. The heir of Ravenclaw won't be a villain,"
he said, invoking the founders' authority.
But McGonagall remained uneasy.
"That's an entirely separate matter—we're talking about Merlin now!"
In the wizarding world, if there were a single figure to worship, it would doubtless be Merlin. McGonagall clearly counted herself among his devotees.
"It's simply the truth, Minerva. Perhaps Ian won't reach Merlin's heights, but his gifts are unambiguously on that level. I trust my judgment,"
Dumbledore asserted.
Recalling several recent events, he spoke with firm conviction.
McGonagall was momentarily at a loss.
"But, Albus, Mr. Prince stood with that little Grindelwald on the first day of term…"
She couldn't fathom why Dumbledore wasn't more cautious. If he believed Ian's gifts might rival Merlin's, surely that warranted more watchfulness? Ian was a first-year who could spontaneously grasp advanced Transfiguration, after all.
Could Dumbledore keep him under control in a few years?
Had he forgotten the warnings from Voldemort's rise?
Had all those years of anxious vigilance amounted to nothing?
"I saw that too,"
he replied serenely,
"And isn't that exactly what we want? A young wizard forging friendships here at Hogwarts?"
McGonagall nodded slowly.
"I know we shouldn't judge them with prejudice, and I'm trying not to. But I must confirm that your 'old friend' hasn't sown any dangerous ideologies in their heads."
"We both know his cunning is formidable. If he's corrupted both of them, even resurrecting the Four Founders might not restore them to a rightful path."
She spoke candidly, exposing her worries. Dumbledore quietly allowed her to finish, then answered after a thoughtful pause:
"I can't guarantee otherwise, but I can promise Gellert Grindelwald's ideas won't sway anyone who's genuinely grounded in their own convictions."
"I believe Mr. Prince won't let us down in that regard,"
he added calmly—far from the severity McGonagall had expected.
"What about Miss Grindelwald, then?"
she asked, perplexed.
"Setting aside raw talent, I find that Ian Prince in certain ways reminds me of my own youth, so there's no need to fret over Miss Grindelwald influencing him."
As McGonagall shook her head, he added,
"Minerva, you've misunderstood something all along."
Dumbledore lifted his gaze,
looking at her with eyes that seemed to pierce through confusion.
"That day, it was Miss Grindelwald who stood beside Ian Prince. Realizing that fact is key."
His mild, gentle words echoed through the office,
then settled into silence.
The hearth's flames flickered in Dumbledore's eyes.
Amid the stillness, the portraits on the walls seemed loud and clamorous—much like the swirling thoughts in McGonagall's narrowed eyes and unsettled heart.
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