Chapter 19: Dumbledore's Thoughts
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POV: Albus Dumbledore
I settled into my high-backed armchair, the soft glow of the fireplace dancing across the oak paneling of my office. Cradling a steaming cup of Earl Grey in my hands, I allowed myself a moment of calm. This time of year is invariably hectic, I mused. Each autumn, Hogwarts prepares to welcome another eager cohort of first-year students, the corridors alive with anticipation. The faculty had already divided their duties—Professor Flitwick overseeing the polishing of charms for the Welcome Feast, Professor Sprout supervising the greenhouse to ensure every magical plant was ready for demonstration, and Madam Pomfrey reviewing health protocols in the infirmary.
Still, I could not ignore the considerable labor shouldered by Minerva McGonagall. My deputy had quietly undertaken not only her own considerable responsibilities but also the mountain of paperwork that arrived on my desk daily. Meanwhile, I had been consumed by equally weighty matters beyond the castle's ramparts. Today, she ventured into the Muggle world, tasked with delivering formal invitations and providing verifiable proof of magic to one particularly distinguished household.
I glanced at the grandfather clock, noting the slow crawl of its hands. It must be nearly time for her return, I thought.
At that precise moment, the heavy oak door swung open and Professor McGonagall entered. She inclined her head courteously, and I offered her the traditional box of chocolate Cockroach Clusters—a gesture she invariably declined with polite firmness.
"Which family did you visit today?" I inquired, setting my cup aside.
Her emerald eyes shone as she described the household: warm, welcoming, and astonishingly open‑minded about the reality of magic. Yet it was her account of the child that truly captured my attention.
"A phoenix, Albus," she began softly. "A phoenix has chosen to accompany the boy."
A hush fell between us. Phoenixes are among the oldest and most discerning of magical creatures, selecting their companions with profound care. Apart from myself—and my late brother, Aurelius Dumbledore—only one wizard in history, the great Merlin, ever hosted a phoenix. Even he could scarcely command one; our ancestral pact permitted only a single phoenix at a time. I had earned Fawkes' loyalty only after enduring profound sorrow and resisting darker inclinations.
McGonagall continued: the boy had failed to bond with any standard wand at Ollivanders but had been promised a bespoke wand crafted by an old friend of mine, a gift of extraordinary rarity.
I committed the young student's name—Ashton A.D. Willson—to memory. His arrival could influence more than we realized, perhaps even guide young Harry in the years ahead.
The Sorting Ceremony — Later That Day
The Great Hall was awash with twinkling candlelight, its enchanted ceiling mirroring a serene twilight sky. I stood at the head of the staff table, robes rustling softly, awaiting the arrival of Harry Potter. His early years, spent under the Dursleys' harsh roof, weighed on me still; his magical protections demanded he reside with his aunt and uncle, bound there by his mother's sacrificial love.
Suddenly, Fawkes swooped onto my shoulder, her plumage shimmering in the firelight. She emitted a delighted trill—a rare display of emotion.
"Fawkes?" I murmured, intrigued. Instinctively, I sensed a surge of powerful magic. One privilege of my position: Hogwarts itself alerts me when a being of exceptional power crosses its threshold.
Minerva then guided the first-years into the Hall, their faces shining with wonder as they crossed the enchanted floor. Harry was sorted swiftly into Gryffindor amid delighted cheers. And then the final name echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling:
"Ashton A.D. Willson."
A hushed silence fell. A tall, regal youth stepped forward, his posture commanding as though born to lead. Every eye followed him, drawn to an aura of latent power. I, too, felt a stirring deep within—a familiar shiver of recognition.I thought in my mind how can this be possible. how can he have the blood of Dumbledore family.
Before I could speak anything , the boy raised his wand and cast a swift cleaning charm, polishing the Sorting Hat's brim until it gleamed. Then, with measured composure, he placed it upon his head. Silence deepened, expectations mounting.
Moments stretched like suspended glass. Then, from the ancient hat, came a clear proclamation:
"SLYTHERIN!"
Gasps echoed around the Hall as Ashton's brow furrowed in surprise. Whispers rippled through the gathered students. Then, calmly, he slid his hand into the brim of the hat and withdrew a brilliant silver blade. A collective gasp rose—the legendary Sword of Godric Gryffindor gleamed in his grasp.
POV: Ashton A.D. Willson
The world spun around me as I stared at the sword. Had I truly drawn the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat, despite its verdict? My pulse thundered in my ears as I lifted the blade for all to see.
Its craftsmanship was impeccable—an elegant hilt engraved with ancient runes, a blade honed to impossible sharpness. Magic surged through it, a devouring energy that resonated with my own powers. Yet it differed: it did not consume spells outright but instead fragmented the very essence of material things, cleaving stone and steel with equal ease. in time this might become the most powerful sword there is, and can cut through anything.
Murmurs drifted up from the tables, but my attention snapped back as Professor Dumbledore approached, the luminous Elder Wand held aloft.
That wand… the fabled Elder Wand, one of the three Deathly Hallows. A shroud of dense, ominous power clung to it.
Could the ancient tales be true? Had Death itself entrusted mortal hands with these artifacts?
Before I could ponder further, Dumbledore laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.
"My boy, it is extraordinary to see the Sword of Gryffindor in your possession. Legends speak of a true Gryffindor summoning it in times of dire need. Yet you have been placed in Slytherin—curious indeed."
He turned to the Sorting Hat.
"Tell me, were you correct?"
The hat's voice rang out:
"This child embodies traits of all houses, but Slytherin suits him best."
The Hall erupted in astonished chatter. Dumbledore offered me his hand.
"Return the sword now, where it may be safeguarded. Its legacy belongs to Hogwarts."
Without hesitation, I placed the gleaming relic in his outstretched palm. As I turned toward the Slytherin table, I caught Daphne Greengrass's steady gaze from across the room. From the Gryffindor table, Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched intently, their expressions a blend of curiosity and envy.
My heart pounded as I slid into my seat. The Sorting Hat's verdict might have placed me among Slytherins, but wielding Gryffindor's sword hinted that destiny had woven a far more intricate tapestry for Ashton A.D. Willson.
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Author's Note:
my apologies dear readers. my exams are going on so i don't have the time write and update anything.
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English isn't my first language, so if you find any mistakes or unclear parts, please let me know in the comments!