"Professor Dumbledore wants to see me? Why didn't he just call me over in the Great Hall earlier?"
Adam glanced at the hem of Professor McGonagall's deep green robe, his steps slowing unconsciously as their voices echoed through the stone corridor.
"Sorry, dear," she said, her tone carrying the usual sternness of a Head of House, though tinged with a faint weariness that was hard to miss. "Albus is probably still helping the new professor pick out a classroom."
McGonagall paused and turned, lightly tapping her wand. The flames in the wall sconces flared brighter, casting a warm glow.
Her green eyes, framed by her glasses, flickered with a complex emotion, and the lines around her mouth seemed deeper in the soft light.
"I hate to admit it," she said, "but the last Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was a complete disappointment."
Adam blinked, curiosity piqued. "What happened to them?"
McGonagall's lips pursed, her stern expression softening into something almost exasperated. She let out a heavy sigh.
"You'll probably hear about it from the other students eventually, but to keep the rumors from spiraling out of control, I'll tell you myself."
"Professor Tich, as it happens, is currently in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, receiving treatment. Five months ago, we found him collapsed in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom."
"We've since cleared the curse from that room, but two students still managed to sneak in."
"When they saw the magical arrays drawn on the floor, they got spooked and ran out, claiming the professor was performing some sort of cult ritual—especially after certain people embellished the story."
Adam watched McGonagall's pained expression, and a mental image of two redheaded troublemakers flashed through his mind.
"So, Professor, are you telling me this so I can go tell them to shut it?"
McGonagall's eyes twitched as Adam mimed zipping his lips. She sighed softly.
"No, dear. I just wanted to reassure you that Hogwarts isn't as dangerous as it might seem… at least, I hope incidents like that won't happen again."
"Not every young wizard has faced a dragon like you have."
Adam nodded obediently but couldn't help asking, "You seem to know a lot about me?"
"Of course," McGonagall replied. With a flick of her wand, a nearby low table shimmered, and a memory of a London magic society performance materialized—a tiny, lifelike figure appeared on a stage.
"I saw your act before you even started at Hogwarts. That trick where you turned playing cards into anemones was brilliant…"
Her expression softened, a rare warmth in her voice. "The Muggles thought you pulled the flowers from a hidden pocket in your coat, but I saw the magical energy flickering at your fingertips. To master Transfiguration like that, self-taught, at your age… it's remarkable."
She paused, her tone growing thoughtful. "I knew then and there that it wouldn't be long before I saw you at Hogwarts."
"And sure enough, I saw your acceptance letter. But I didn't expect to see your picture in The Daily Prophet the very next day."
Adam scratched his head sheepishly. Performing in front of hundreds, including seasoned Muggle magicians, wasn't easy. He couldn't exactly get away with half-baked sleight of hand.
Magic was magic, after all, and Transfiguration was a kind of trick—one most people couldn't replicate.
"But you can't keep doing things like that," McGonagall said, her tone turning serious. "Using magic in front of Muggles violates the International Statute of Secrecy."
"And that night you rode a dragon, blasting dragonfire at dark wizards in that village—if the Ministry's Aurors hadn't arrived in time, the consequences could've been far worse."
"Even though they managed to contain the flames and prevent a larger fire, plenty of Muggles still saw it…"
Her expression grew sterner, her voice firm.
"I'm sorry," Adam said quietly. "I didn't have a choice back then."
McGonagall, in full Head of House mode, softened as she realized her tone had been too harsh. Adam hadn't been a Hogwarts student at the time. She reached out, gently ruffling his soft hair in apology.
"You didn't do anything wrong, dear. No one could've handled it better. Just… next time, walk away, alright?"
"Next time, I will," Adam said with a nod, his tone earnest.
McGonagall frowned slightly, sensing something off about his promise, but his innocent expression made her second-guess herself.
Thinking back to the small figures she'd seen huddled in corners today, a sudden premonition hit her.
This kid, who'd faced dark wizards on a dragon before even enrolling, might just turn the whole castle upside down in a few years.
They reached the eighth floor, stopping before a grotesque stone gargoyle.
"Iced watermelon juice!" McGonagall called out.
The gargoyle's eyes snapped open, and it shuffled aside with a hop, revealing a revolving staircase as the wall split open.
"Up you go, dear," she said. "Follow the stairs, and you'll see a door with a brass knocker."
She'd been a bit worried about his safety, but then she thought—perhaps it was the objects in the office that should be worried.
Adam waved politely and stepped onto the moving staircase. The wall rumbled shut behind him.
At the top, he found a gleaming oak door adorned with a brass knocker shaped like a griffin. He pushed it open with ease.
"Oh, who's this?" a portrait on the wall exclaimed, eyeing the young wizard who'd just barged in.
A wizard with a goatee glared at Adam. "What school are you from, sneaking into the Headmaster's office like that?!"
Another portrait, a cheerful witch, shot back, "Phineas, he came in with the password. He's clearly here at Dumbledore's invitation. Don't be so hard on him!"
Phineas blinked, muttering, "You're right… but why do I feel so uneasy looking at him?"
Other former headmasters crowded around, greeting Adam curiously. One turned to the witch. "Eupraxia, you're too soft on this Black family brat. If it were my time, he'd never have been Headmaster."
The others swarmed Phineas, throwing punches and kicks, clearly holding grudges against the former headmaster. One even pulled a curtain to shield Adam's view.
Adam ignored the bickering portraits, taking in the Headmaster's office.
The spacious room was filled with odd silver instruments on desks and shelves, whirring and puffing out wisps of mist.
Nearby, a magnificent perch held Fawkes, who was dozing but gave a soft trill in greeting.
Against one wall stood a cabinet with a stone basin marked with strange runes, next to a massive, ornate mirror that nearly touched the ceiling, its surface etched with intricate patterns.
To Adam, every object in the room was covered in complex, delicate magical runes—far more advanced than any alchemical artifact he'd ever seen.
He was entranced, studying the runic structures, until he bumped into a portrait.
When he looked up and saw it clearly, he instinctively covered his face, double-checking the name in the corner.
Glancing down at his school uniform, he grimaced, muttering in despair, "No… Professor… why didn't you warn me?"