Chapter 576: Dumbledore's Retirement Plan
As the Christmas feast reached its peak, the Great Hall was filled with the sound of tearing paper and delighted gasps as students unwrapped their gifts.
Nearly every student now possessed a Magic Hand Mirror. Sean had intentionally capped the price of the first-generation models at a single Galleon—barely enough to cover the raw materials, and certainly not enough to pay the artisan labor at The Emerald Workshop.
Fortunately, Sean was likely the wealthiest student in the history of Hogwarts. His vaults at Gringotts were swelling daily, and by his own estimation, his personal fortune now eclipsed that of even the oldest "Sacred Twenty-Eight" pure-blood families. This allowed him to treat the M-Net not as a business venture, but as a foundation for the future.
At the High Table, Professor Trelawney was finally ushered to her seat. She glanced frantically around the table, her eyes wide behind her magnifying lenses, only settling once Professor Binns had drifted into his own chair.
"Don't be the first to rise... please, don't be the first to rise..." she muttered under her breath, her voice a thin, vibrating trill.
Professor McGonagall's temper, already frayed by the day's excitement, finally snapped. "I highly doubt it makes a difference, Sybill," she said coldly. "Unless there is a homicidal maniac with a battle-axe waiting outside the doors to chop down the first person to leave the room."
Dumbledore let out a soft, involuntary chuckle. Trelawney looked as though she had been slapped.
"Those without the Inner Eye always mock the resonance of the beyond," she said loftily, casting a pointed look at Sean. "But when the veil is lifted and the truth is bared... hmph. They will marvel at how precisely the tracks of fate were laid."
"I'm sure they will," McGonagall replied flatly.
Above them, the enchanted ceiling was gently dropping warm, magical snowflakes that vanished before they could touch the food. Thousands of candles flickered above garlands of holly and mistletoe. The four long tables were groaned under the weight of roast turkeys, mountains of mashed potatoes, and silver platters of Wizard Crackers.
Sean watched as Mr. Filch unwrapped his own gift. Inside was a Third-Generation Magic Hand Mirror. The caretaker looked up, his expression a mix of shock and confusion, and his eyes met Sean's.
Filch had sent Sean a scarf—a heavy, multi-layered wool wrap with "S.G." neatly embroidered at the ends. Sean was wearing it now, feeling the comforting warmth against the Highland chill.
When they exchanged gifts, it was always done with a handwritten note. Tucked into the folds of the scarf, Sean found Filch's cramped handwriting:
Merry Christmas, Mr. Green. The Scottish winter grows colder every year. On the days when a fireplace doesn't follow you through the halls, may this keep you warm.
In return, Sean had sent Filch a small roll of parchment:
Merry Christmas, Mr. Filch. Along with my best wishes, I have enclosed a 'Caretaker's Guide to Workshop Pranks.' I hope it reduces your workload today.
The fires in the Great Hall roared with extra vigor, and the Christmas feast felt more like a family gathering than a school event. Over the last few years, it seemed to have become a tradition for almost every student to send Sean a scarf. Between Justin, Harry, Hermione, and the McGonagall clan, Sean had enough knitwear to last a lifetime. He likely wouldn't need to visit Twilfitt and Tattings for the rest of the decade.
The feast continued for another twenty minutes until Sean felt he might actually burst from the sheer amount of plum pudding he had consumed. Finally, Albus Dumbledore rose from the center of the High Table.
The silver tips of his beard trembled slightly as he tapped his goblet with a spoon. The clear ting-ting silenced the hall instantly.
"Merry Christmas!" he called out, his blue eyes sparkling with genuine joy behind his half-moon spectacles. "Before you all finish the last of the pudding and your brains turn into treacle, allow me to steal a few moments of your time."
The students sat up, their curiosity piqued.
"Many years ago," Dumbledore continued, "I sat where you are now, looking up at this table and listening to a Headmaster's speech. At the time, I never imagined that one day I would be the rambling old man standing here myself."
He paused, his voice softening into a more intimate tone. "Tonight, that rambling old man has an announcement to make."
Whispers erupted across the tables. Sean saw Justin put down his fork and Ron stop mid-pull on a cracker.
"Firstly," Dumbledore said, "it gives me immense pride and comfort to announce that I have officially selected a successor to take up the mantle of Headmaster of Hogwarts. As for myself... once the current tasks are finished, I have decided to officially retire."
The hall went so quiet it felt as though a Silencing Charm had been cast over the entire room. Then, a second later, the noise returned like a crashing tide.
"Did he just say... retire?" Hermione gasped, clutching her mouth.
"Retire?!" Ron's chicken leg fell from his hand.
Dumbledore tapped his glass again, his voice regaining its calm authority. "The damp of the Highlands is settling into my bones, you see. My old knees are starting to rust. Fortunately, I have found the right person to take over before I stop working entirely. That is all from me...
"Now, Mr. Green, if you would be so kind as to assist me back to my office? My knees truly are being quite stubborn tonight."
Sean blinked. Dumbledore's knees? Since when?
He stood up and offered the Headmaster his arm. Under the stunned gaze of the entire school, the "Headmaster-elect" led the greatest wizard in the world out of the Great Hall.
In the Corridor.
The moment the doors closed, Dumbledore stopped leaning on Sean. He stood tall, his eyes bright and clear.
"Headmaster... your health?" Sean asked cautiously.
"Oh, forgive the dramatics, child. I find I don't care much for the 'Present' tonight. Let us discuss the 'Future' instead," Dumbledore said warmly.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"As you see, we need someone to remain here at Hogwarts. Someone to act as the heart of the school... while another goes off on a Great Adventure." Dumbledore twinkled at him. "Forgive an old man's wandering heart; he still has a bit of 'reckless youth' left in him, and it would be a shame to take it to the grave."
"You're going to hunt Voldemort alone?" Sean's gaze sharpened.
"Don't look at me like that, my dear successor. Aren't you doing the exact same thing?"
Sean paused. "You... you know?"
"Of course. We have both been working tirelessly, though I suspect you have achieved significantly more than I have lately. I must commend your efficiency, Sean, but it is far too dangerous. In the past, I had no choice but to let you lead, did I? My 'Inner Eye' didn't tell me a boy named Green was coming to save us all.
"But now, we can afford to be conservative. I believe your place is here, at Hogwarts. It is the safest choice. As for me? I shall take a few old friends and see if these old bones still have some fire in them."
Dumbledore looked at Sean, the firelight from a nearby torch reflecting in his blue eyes. His gaze wasn't that of a teacher to a student, but of a man to his peer—to a friend.
"We have always been on the same side, child. But until now, you have carried the heavier risks. It is time we shared the burden. Little Hangleton has been quite active lately; I've received reports. Since my legs are 'rusting' anyway, I've decided to take a stroll in that direction."
Sean felt his heart skip a beat. How much does he know? Does he know about the Riddle House? Does he know about the second servant?
"It seems we have both been busy in the shadows. Perhaps this time, I am the one with the better intel?" Dumbledore looked like a retired grandfather enjoying a chat, but Sean knew better than to underestimate the man.
"How did you find out, sir?"
"Albania. I have been watching that forest for a long time. It is a vast, ancient place that doesn't mind hosting... irregular entities. Finding a ghost there is impossible, so I asked some old friends to keep an eye on every wizard entering or leaving the region."
Screening the travelers... Sean thought. It was a simple, yet massive undertaking.
"It was quite simple. At a local inn, we spotted Peter Pettigrew. I have Nymphadora Tonks to thank for that—have I introduced you? She's a brilliant young Auror, our newest recruit. A Metamorphmagus. She can be quite... persuasive."
"Our recruit?" Sean caught the phrasing.
"An old-fashioned organization. Full of stubborn, brilliant people." Dumbledore waved the subject away airily. "What about you, child? Is there anything you wish to tell me? Anything at all?"
Sean weighed his words. "Professor Trelawney delivered another prophecy recently."
Dumbledore's expression turned serious.
"She said: 'He remains cunning... watch the seventh.'"
"Oh..."
"It means," Sean continued, his breathing heavy with resolve, "that if we ever get a chance to end him once and for all... it will likely be our only one."
The wizarding world was a large place. If Voldemort realized he couldn't win—if he saw that Hogwarts held multiple masters capable of defeating him—he would disappear into the darkness for another century.
Can a wizard truly live forever? Sean wondered. Voldemort had certainly traveled further down that path than anyone else. Dumbledore might not fear him, and perhaps Sean didn't either, but a Voldemort who wasn't obsessed with Harry—one who operated from the shadows to dismantle society piece by piece—was a terrifying prospect.
He thought of Snape's description of the Dark Arts: A Hydra. Cut off one head, and another appears—one that is fiercer and more cunning than the last.
In the days following Christmas, the school could talk of nothing but the "Headmaster-elect." The title had been firmly pinned to Sean by the student body.
Fred and George took to following him through the corridors, sweeping off their hats in deep, theatrical bows. "The Great Green! Headmaster of Hogwarts! Fred and George Weasley offer their humblest respects!"
While it caused a few laughs, it had a different effect on the general population. Students were now hesitant to approach Sean. Even Hermione and Justin felt the weight of his new status.
Sean, however, was oblivious. He had spent the last two weeks buried in Transfiguration theory, obsessing over Dumbledore's concept of "Blind Confidence."
[You have practiced Magical Transfiguration at an Expert level. Proficiency +50]
Sean frowned at the system chime. He still hadn't broken through to Master level in the overall branch.
He stared at Dumbledore's notes, his eyes losing focus as he looked at his status.
[Name: Sean Green]
[Transfiguration Talent: Purple (Transfiguration Master title active. Original: White)]
[Transfiguration Branches:]
Magical Transfiguration: Expert (14,500/30,000)
Material Transfiguration: Expert (1,300/30,000)
Soul Transfiguration: Proficient (550/3,000)
He had ground out fifteen thousand points in two weeks—a staggering amount. But while his work on physical and magical objects was soaring, his progress in Soul Transfiguration was stagnant.
He still didn't understand his own "Magical Circuit."
Fortunately, this twilight was particularly misty. And in the mist, things tended to become clear.
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