Every year, Albus Dumbledore took the Hogwarts start-of-term feast very seriously.
He always prepared a speech for the occasion, and when he was in a particularly good mood, he'd even share a joke he'd spent days crafting. Unfortunately, most found his jokes utterly baffling—he worked on them so long, they became too abstract and whimsical for anyone to follow.
This year was no exception. He did tell a joke from the podium, but it seemed no one realized it was meant to be funny.
Of course, none of that truly mattered. All that mattered was watching those bright-eyed children fill the Great Hall, their faces brimming with hope and excitement. That alone brought Dumbledore an indescribable sense of fulfillment.
It was this feeling that had sustained him through the years.
Long ago, Dumbledore had decided his true calling was as an educator—not as some great wizard, ambitious schemer, or seeker of power, even though those things would have been his for the taking.
For the taking—a temptation as seductive as it was perilous.
It was the pursuit of those easily-grasped things that had cost him so much more.
Only later did he realize: his true mission lay in the difficult, the daunting. Turning innocent children into kind, courageous witches and wizards—teaching them to face an imperfect world with grace. That was his purpose.
It was never easy. In fact, it was terribly hard, because so many children, once enticed by power, would lose themselves to ambition...
...
After softly speaking the password, the door to the headmaster's office swung open.
Dumbledore entered, carrying the Sorting Hat.
At this moment, the room held only a man, a bird, and a hat.
Fawkes the phoenix was old now, perched motionless as if dozing, barely acknowledging Dumbledore's return.
"Oh, dear Professor Dumbledore, congratulations on welcoming another batch of new students!" the Sorting Hat called out, unable to contain itself.
"Tell me," Dumbledore said, settling into his chair and addressing the hat on his desk with a twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles, "who among the children stood out this year?"
"Haha, well, Harry Potter, of course! He's truly extraordinary." The Sorting Hat cackled, its laughter sharp and far from pleasant.
"You know that's not the one I'm asking about." Dumbledore leveled a knowing look at the hat.
"Then it must be Neville Longbottom! A bit befuddled, but promising—a true Gryffindor in the making!" The hat's voice rose in a crescendo, almost operatic by the end.
"My old friend, you seem to be holding something back. Need a little reminder?" Dumbledore said quietly.
"...Please, Dumbledore, let's not talk so much... You know, beings like me are different from you wizards... We, too, must fear those above us..." the Sorting Hat stammered, growing hesitant and unwilling to continue.
"Don't worry. This room is already protected against prying eyes," Dumbledore assured him.
"That's not enough..." The hat's peak twisted nervously, as if searching for hidden dangers.
"Then I'll reinforce it."
With a wave of his ancient, knotted wand, Dumbledore cast a powerful, silent spell across the headmaster's office.
Now, no one—no matter who or what, not even those beyond this world—could eavesdrop on what happened within these walls.
...
...
After parting from Hermione, Qin Yu returned to his dormitory, and it took a long time before he could shake the illusion that her scent still lingered in the air.
Only then did his mind settle, replaying the day's events—especially those that had unfolded in the Great Hall.
As the feast ended, Dumbledore had, as expected, reminded everyone: students were strictly forbidden from entering the corridor on the right side of the fourth floor.
Qin Yu knew exactly why. That was where Dumbledore had hidden the obstacles protecting the Philosopher's Stone—and the first challenge was Hagrid's three-headed dog, Fluffy.
Well, he'd had a hand in that, too. After all, he'd fronted the money to help Hagrid buy the beast.
Everyone knew the Philosopher's Stone was the ultimate alchemical artifact—capable of turning any metal to gold and producing the Elixir of Life.
Most importantly, it was the object Voldemort coveted most—the key to his resurrection.
Qin Yu desperately wanted to warn Dumbledore to keep an eye on a certain suspicious professor, who would stop at nothing to steal the Stone.
But he'd already made his choice over the summer. Now, he simply couldn't do it.
"Feels like I've been royally played by the system!" Qin Yu grumbled to himself.
...
Beyond the Stone, Qin Yu's mind drifted to another concern: Professor Swinton.
After the feast, he'd caught up with the ever-unhurried Snape to ask if there was any news of Swinton.
"I received a letter from him not long ago. He said he was off to Egypt to explore some ancient ruins. Haven't heard from him since," Snape replied. Then, as if remembering something, he added, "Oh, and he asked me to pass along his wishes for a pleasant new term."
At this, Snape's mouth twitched ever so slightly.
What Qin Yu didn't know was that Professor Swinton's original words were: "...Severus, I won't bother writing to Qin directly. Just let him know how I'm doing, and wish our little brother a fun new term!"
Clearly, "little brother" was a deliberate jab—after all, at such a distance, Swinton didn't have to worry about Snape exacting any revenge.
It had been ages since Qin Yu had seen Professor Swinton, or even heard much from him. Remembering the flashes of melancholy in the professor's eyes before he left, Qin Yu felt a pang of worry.
But with Swinton traveling who-knows-where, there was no way to write to him. All Qin Yu could do was wait for his next letter.
Thoughts of Swinton—his possible adventures, his unspoken secrets—swirled through Qin Yu's mind as he drifted off to sleep. (Hermione: Hm???)
...
On Qin Yu's first night back at Hogwarts, in a shadowy district of Paris, a tall man sat alone in a wizarding bar.
He was the very Professor Swinton whom Qin Yu couldn't stop thinking about before bed.
Or rather, he wore Swinton's face, and Swinton's body.
But he was not Swinton.
"Ian, aren't you going to buy me a drink?" A blonde woman slid onto the stool beside him.
"My pleasure!" The man flashed a dazzling smile, his eyes fixed boldly on the woman's revealing neckline—openly appreciative, openly amused.
The woman didn't seem the least bit offended. Instead, she returned his gaze with a sultry smile and a honeyed voice. "I asked around for you. They'd be happy to have you join. But you'll need to head to North America yourself—this Gellert Abernathy fellow is in New York right now."
"Thank you, Camille." He grinned at her.
"Is a simple 'thank you' all I get?" she pouted, feigning disappointment.
"What would you like, then?" he asked, eyes glinting.
"Whatever you say~" Her crimson-tipped fingers traced lightly across his cheek.
Soon, the two of them left the bar together.
—A bar that only wizards could enter.
And this man was Ian Stanley.
He had Stephen Swinton's appearance, but a very different soul—one who had no qualms about indulging his desires.
Tonight, Paris shimmered in the moonlight, intoxicating and full of secrets.
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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