The Strange Dumbledore (Please Read Further)
Dinner at Hogwarts was as sumptuous as ever. After a hearty meal and a rather chaotic rendition of the school song—each student stubbornly keeping their own tempo—Dumbledore dabbed at his eyes, his booming voice echoing through the Great Hall.
"Ah, music! A magic beyond all we do here. Well then—bedtime! Off you go."
His voice faded, and the Great Hall erupted into activity.
The Hufflepuff first-years, the largest group this year, gathered around Prefect Truman to return to their dormitory. Owen followed the crowd out of the hall and up the marble staircase. Just as they were about to head down toward the basement corridor—
"Mr. Sanchez."
Owen turned. It was Professor McGonagall, standing at the top of the staircase with her usual stern composure.
"What is it, Professor?" Owen squeezed past a few students and hurried to her side.
"The Headmaster would like to speak with you regarding the incident on the Hogwarts Express," she said crisply. "Come with me."
They climbed the stairs, eventually reaching the eighth floor. Passing Gryffindor students cast curious glances—their common room was nearby, after all. Together they walked toward the griffin statue guarding the Headmaster's office.
"Cockroach Cluster!" McGonagall commanded.
The griffin spun aside, revealing the spiral staircase behind it. They ascended to the top, where an oak door shimmered faintly with magic.
Owen pushed it open.
The office inside felt dimmer than he expected. Though it matched the descriptions from his first playthrough—odd instruments whirring, silvery lights flickering—he still preferred the brighter, sunlit office from before, warm and full of flowers.
On Dumbledore's desk sat a framed photograph Owen recognized: Aberforth, a young Credence, and Ariana. Even in still wizarding photos, Ariana's presence always felt gentle.
"Oh! The brat has arrived," the Sorting Hat called irritably from its shelf. Its mood was still sour—understandable, after the spectacle it had endured during Sorting.
Fawkes perched on a golden stand nearby, preening lazily. Beneath him, the semi-circular bookcase gleamed with polished wood and silver trimmings. Owen even caught a glimpse of the Sword of Gryffindor, resting in its glass case.
"Mr. Sanchez," Dumbledore said warmly, rising from his desk. He showed no sign of scolding him. "Would you care for a sweet?"
On a silver tray sat a heap of Licorice Cockroaches.
Owen had tasted them before. They weren't actually bad—just far too sweet for his liking.
"No thank you, Professor. My grandfather says too much candy leads to cavities."
"Does he?" Dumbledore chuckled, popping one into his own mouth. "Young people should always be willing to try new things."
He shifted topics casually. "You're not originally from Britain, are you?"
"No, Professor. I was born in France. I lived in a Muggle orphanage in Paris until I was four."
"Oh? And this grandfather of yours?" Dumbledore's eyes brightened behind his half-moon glasses. Clearly, Owen's records had raised more questions than answers—especially his ability to perform a Petrificus Totalus at age eleven.
"My grandfather?" Owen hesitated. "I don't know much about him. He probably isn't related to me by blood. He simply took me from the orphanage and brought me to England."
He called the man grandfather because of his name—Rick—but the man never corrected him, so the habit stuck.
"I see," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. His expression sobered. "Still, I must remind you—bullying classmates is never acceptable. Regarding Harry—"
He suddenly stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening.
"Is that your wand?"
Owen reflexively touched the handle protruding from the small pocket at his waist. A habit from his first playthrough—he always kept it visible and easy to draw.
"This? It's my grandfather's wand. You know… new wands are expensive."
Most wizards bought their own wand despite the tradition of inheritance. A wand made for someone else was never as comfortable.
"May I?" Dumbledore asked.
"Of course." Owen handed it over, struggling to suppress a grin.
Dumbledore examined it slowly.
The wand looked like a dried, twisted branch—but its pale, luminous wood was unmistakable.
Silver linden.
A rare material, nearly impossible to acquire since the 19th century. Wandmakers prized it for its affinity with Seers and Legilimency practitioners. The most famous known owner of such a wand… was someone Dumbledore knew exceedingly well.
The air in the office grew still.
For several long moments, Dumbledore said nothing.
Finally, McGonagall spoke, snapping him out of his trance.
"Owen, correct?"
Dumbledore blinked, recovering his composure.
"Ah—yes. Quite right." He cleared his throat. "Would you like a late-night snack?"