The classroom smelled of old chalk and dragon-hide polish, the scent thick in the air like tradition that refused to die. On the blackboard, Professor Galvin Marchbanks had already written the day's lesson in immaculate cursive:
Non-Verbal Defensive Magic: Theory and Practice.
It was the sort of topic that made half the class groan and the other half sharpen their quills.
Mizar didn't groan. He didn't need to sharpen anything.
"Wands on desks," Marchbanks snapped as the last of the Gryffindors filed in. "And mouths closed unless you've got something worth saying."
He didn't need to raise his voice. The man had presence—thin and hawk-eyed with silver hair scraped back like he resented having any softness at all. A former Unspeakable, everyone said.
To his left, Mulciber muttered something that made Avery choke on a laugh. On Mizar's right, Ianthe Macnair already had a peacock quill ready to take notes.
Omar was hunched over, absently sketching a Hippogriff with a monocle in the corner of his textbook; beside him Callista was tying up her curly hair.
Gideon Prewett entered last, trailed by Fabian, both radiating the kind of irreverent confidence that marked most Gryffindor-born mischief. Fabian caught Mizar's eye briefly and gave a mock-salute.
Mizar, ever composed, ignored him.
Marchbanks turned. "Today's focus: shielding. Non-verbal, if you've got the spine for it. The rest of you can whisper your way through the basics like frightened second-years."
A few snickers. A few nervous glances.
Marchbanks's gaze landed squarely on Mizar. "Black-Shafiq. You seem eager."
Andromeda was sitting with him and looked equally poised as her cousin, her ink-dark hair in a braided crown, chin tilted, eyes alert.
Mizar met his eyes, calm and unreadable. "Always, sir."
"Then come to the front. Show the class how you'd block a stinging hex—no words, no wand movement."
The class rippled with interest.
Non-verbal was hard. Wandless was rare. Combining both? Marchbanks wasn't testing—he was hunting.
Mizar stepped forward without pause, robes trailing like quiet thunder. He left his wand on the desk.
Marchbanks arched a brow. "You planning to block me with good intentions?"
"No, sir," Mizar said mildly. "I'm planning to block you properly."
Omar leaned forward, whispering to Callista, "Does he hate Mizar, or is this just a weird pedagogy thing?"
"I think he wants him humiliated," she said, not looking away.
"Let's see what the world-class bloodlines are teaching their children these days," Marchbanks gave him one look. Then fired without warning.
"Confringo!"
The curse shot straight for his chest.
Mizar didn't move.
He just lifted his hand—and the air in front of him shimmered, warping the spell and sending it spiraling into the stone wall with a crack.
A few students gasped.
He hadn't spoken.
He hadn't drawn a wand.
"Interesting," Marchbanks said coldly. "Try this."
He fired again. "Expulso! Stupefy!"
Both spells hit like thunder—but Mizar moved his hand again, palm open, fingers sharp. The first spell buckled, the second diverted into the floor with a sound like splitting stone.
Behind him, someone whispered, "That wasn't on the syllabus."
Marchbanks narrowed his eyes.
"Show-off," Selwyn muttered.
Marchbanks raised his wand a third time—and this time, there was no warning at all.
"Serpensortia!"
A live viper erupted from his wand, thick-bodied and hissing, followed by another, and another. Three coiled serpents landed at Mizar's feet, fangs bared, jaws snapping.
Screams broke out.
"Sweet Circe—!"
Someone fell out of their chair. Even Mulciber flinched.
And Mizar reacted without thinking.
"Stop," he hissed—but it wasn't English.
It was something deeper. Older. Slithering and sharp.
The snakes froze.
Then—they turned.
Not towards the students. Towards him. Lowered themselves to the floor, docile. Waiting.
The room fell silent.
"Did he just—?"
"Did he speak to them?"
"Salazar was the only one who could—"
Professor Marchbanks's wand lowered very slowly.
Andromeda stared.
Behind her, Callista didn't move. Omar leaned forward like he was trying to see if Mizar was breathing.
Mizar stood perfectly still.
He hadn't meant to do it. The language had just come—like a reflex. Not conscious. Not controlled.
He turned to the class. "Parseltongue—the language of serpents. A rare trait. Most famously attributed to Salazar Slytherin himself."
That hung in the air like smoke after a duel.
Mizar drew a breath, forced calm into his bones.
He turned to the class and spoke clearly:
"In case anyone forgot—wandless magic isn't forbidden. Just neglected. Most wizarding schools outside of Europe teach it as standard. Africa, Asia, South America—ask any practitioner beyond our borders."
His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.
"My family simply didn't think it wise to raise children who could only fight if they happened to be holding the right stick."
There was a pause.
"…And the Parseltongue?" Marchbanks said softly.
Mizar's jaw flexed. "My great-great-aunt spoke it. On my father's side."
No one challenged it. No one could.
But the room buzzed.
Selwyn shifted uncomfortably. Mulciber looked pale.
Only Andromeda's voice cut through it: "He didn't threaten anyone."
And Omar: "You summoned the snakes. He stopped them."
Marchbanks made no reply. He merely waved his wand. The snakes vanished into smoke.
Marchbanks lowered his wand—very slowly.
"Parseltongue," he said, loud enough for all to hear. "Rare. Dangerous. Some would say unnatural."
He let that settle like poison in water.
Mizar's jaw tensed.
He looked out at the room—at suspicion, awe, curiosity. Then back to the professor.
"Again, wandless magic isn't illegal. It's just ignored by schools that fear their students might outgrow them."
Marchbanks's mouth tightened. With a flick of his wand, the snakes vanished into smoke.
"Take your seat," he said, voice clipped. "We'll proceed."
Mizar returned to his desk.
The class stared at him. Even the Prewetts looked unnerved.
The Great Hall buzzed like a hive when Mizar entered.
Forks froze midair. Conversations faltered, then returned in whispers just loud enough to sting.
He walked as if none of it touched him.
Andromeda strode beside him, chin high and expression carved from polished marble. Omar and Callista trailed behind, their expressions a mix of caution and quiet fire. Even the Ravenclaws stopped pretending to eat when he passed.
He slid into a seat at the Slytherin table, setting his tray down with deliberate care. He didn't look up.
"I swear," Andromeda muttered under her breath as she sat beside him, "you could've lit yourself on fire and caused less of a stir."
Mizar didn't flinch. "I didn't plan it."
"You didn't not plan it," she said tightly. "Mizar—Parselmouth? That's something you might've mentioned."
His hand stilled on his goblet. "And say what, exactly? 'Oh, by the way, I can talk to snakes, like Salazar bloody Slytherin, but don't worry—I'm very polite about it'?"
She didn't answer. He took a slow sip of water, then continued, voice low but firm.
"The Blacks are already considered supremacists. You've seen the house. The mounted goblin heads in the corridor, the cursed portraits. The pureblood rhetoric carved into the woodwork."
He looked at her, then. Quietly.
"I don't need to give them another reason to fear us."
Andromeda swallowed, guilt flickering in her throat. "You could've told me."
He nodded, barely. "You're the first family member to know about it."
She blinked.
Across the hall, the Gryffindors were still staring. Gideon Prewett whispered something to Fabian, and both of them turned to look again. Magnolia Carstairs, seated with the Ravenclaws, was motionless—food untouched, eyes locked on him.
Mizar stabbed a fork into a roast potato.
The tension clung to him like smoke.
The fire crackled low in the staff room hearth, casting long shadows over the professors seated around the table. Wind battered the castle windows, but inside, it was the tension that pressed hardest.
Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, fingers loosely interlaced. His expression was unreadable.
Professor Galvin Marchbanks stood by the hearth, one hand gripping the mantle. His voice was clipped, his expression thunderous. "That boy is too confident. Too in control. You all saw the Pensieve memory—he didn't defend himself like a student. He reacted like someone used to being targeted. He expected to be attacked. And he had an answer ready."
Professor McGonagall gave a sharp inhale through her nose. "He shielded his classmates. He de-escalated."
"Yes," Marchbanks snapped, "and then explained himself like he was giving a press statement. Cold. Precise. That's not adolescent thinking, that's the making of a tyrant"
Slughorn cleared his throat. "He's composed. That's not a sin."
Marchbanks rounded on him. "You've always had a soft spot for talent, Horace."
Slughorn smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Guilty. But talent isn't dangerous on its own. Fear is."
Charity Burbage looked up from her tea. "So what, exactly, are we afraid of? His spellwork? His bloodline? Or the fact that he doesn't fit the mold?"
Marchbanks didn't reply.
It was Flitwick who spoke next. "I've taught other Black children, Bellatrix was always ready to hex those she deemed as less and I've also watched how Mizar moves through this school. How he listens when others speak. And I've seen who he interacts with. If he were as prejudiced as other Slytherins, he wouldn't treat Muggleborn students with such… earnest regard. Magnolia Carstairs, for one."
"True," Slughorn said. "But let's not pretend that prejudice is the exclusive property of Slytherin House."
McGonagall glanced sideways at him. "That's generous of you, Horace."
"It's accurate," Slughorn replied coolly. "I've taught bigots from every House. Some hide it better than others. Mizar's not hiding anything—he simply doesn't speak unless there's something worth saying."
"There's a kind of danger in that," said Professor Vector softly.
Flitwick frowned. "Or a kind of restraint."
Professor Sprout tapped her fingers against her mug. "It's true that he makes people uneasy. But he's never once broken a rule. Never hexed another student, even when provoked."
"He's respected," McGonagall added. "Feared, yes—but also admired."
Marchbanks scoffed. "Followed, more like. They follow him. He walks into a room, and every conversation shifts."
"They followed him today because he saved them from harm," Flitwick pointed out.
"But the question is why he has such power," Marchbanks said. "And what he'll do with it when he no longer feels like holding back."
All eyes turned to Dumbledore.
"Influence," Dumbledore said at last, voice quiet but firm. "That's what worries me."
"He's not just gifted," the Headmaster went on. "He's charismatic. Strategic. He speaks rarely, but when he does, the students listen. Not just Slytherins. Not just his House. All of them. That's not ordinary."
"Neither is he," McGonagall said, arms folded. "But he hasn't broken a single rule."
Professor Marchbanks scoffed. "He doesn't need to. He moves around the rules. Speaks with perfect timing, perfect poise. There's nothing natural about it."
"You're confusing talent with threat," said Professor Flitwick gently. "Plenty of students have influence. The difference is, he's earned it."
"Has he?" said Marchbanks sharply. "Or has he inherited it—trained into every gesture and pause? The way he speaks—like he's leading a council. It's calculated. Every word lands like it was chosen two days ago."
"He's a Lord, he's been groomed that way." Slughorn leaned back in his chair, sipping from a gold-rimmed cup. "Honestly, Galvin, you sound like you're describing yourself at thirty. What's this really about? Still brooding that Lycoris Black chose Hamza Shafiq over you?"
Marchbanks flushed. Sprout stifled a cough. Burbage blinked.
"That was thirty years ago," Marchbanks muttered darkly.
Slughorn smiled. "And yet you glare at that boy like he personally stole your Gringotts account."
Dumbledore held up a hand, cutting the tension with a single gesture. "Personal feelings aside—what worries me is how easily the students look to him for answers. They seek him out. Even when he was younger, seventh-years used to defer to him."
"And the staff?" asked Professor Vector. "Do we?"
"No," Dumbledore said. "But if I asked you to list five students who could lead a House one day, you'd name him first."
Flitwick nodded. "Because he is leading one. It's no small thing. He's acting exactly how he was raised to."
"And that's precisely the problem," said Professor Hooch. "We're not a political institution. We teach children, not heirs."
McGonagall interjected. "But we have heirs in this school. We always have. The Shackebolts, Malfoys, Notts, Fawleys, Rosiers. Even the Potters, Abbotts and Longbottoms. Mizar is simply… better at wearing the crown."
"He doesn't wear it," Burbage said softly. "He carries it. There's a difference."
Marchbanks rolled his eyes. "Poetic. But meaningless."
"Not meaningless," McGonagall said. "He shields Muggleborns. He protects students others overlook. You may not like how calm he is under pressure, but he hasn't used that calm to harm anyone."
Sprout added, "He helped a first-year who got cursed by Flint. Sat with him in the hospital wing for two hours. Didn't tell anyone."
Slughorn shrugged. "He has honour."
"And power," Dumbledore said softly. "Which always comes with danger."
Flitwick leaned forward. "Headmaster… are you worried he'll misuse it?"
Dumbledore's reply came slowly. "I'm worried that others might. That they'll flock to him, project their needs onto him, and he won't stop them. I'm worried we'll wake up and realize he has more authority in this castle than any of us—and no one noticed the moment it happened."
"Then what do we do?" asked Hooch. "Strip him of prefecture? Shadow him?"
"No," McGonagall said quickly. "That would confirm every reason he has to be guarded."
"We watch," Dumbledore said. "We guide when we can. Intervene if we must."
Slughorn exhaled. "He's not who you think he is."
The room fell still.
Only Dumbledore responded. "No. He's not."
He didn't add yet.
But the silence said it.
Mizar and his friends walked out of the Great Hall like a united front.
Magnolia was leaning against the stone archway of the Charms corridor, arms crossed and wand-cane in between her legs, Ravenclaw crest glinting in the sunlight that poured in from the tall windows.
Her gaze landed on Mizar the moment he stepped into view.
"Mizar."
He paused.
Andromeda, Omar, and Callista slowed to a stop behind him. Magnolia didn't spare them a glance.
"I heard about what happened in Defence," she said. Her tone wasn't mocking or fearful—it was sharp-edged with interest.
Mizar raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. Half the story, twice the drama?"
"Only the good parts," she said. "Wandless shielding. Spell redirection. Snake-handling."
Omar muttered, "Sounds like a circus act when you say it like that."
Magnolia ignored him. Her eyes never left Mizar's.
"I didn't think wandless magic could be done at that level. Not by anyone our age."
"It usually isn't," Mizar said coolly.
She took a slow step forward. "And yet you did it."
He tilted his head. "Is this your version of a compliment?"
"No," Magnolia said. "It's an observation. But I'll add this: if half of what I've heard is true, it was impressive."
Andromeda frowned. "You're not afraid of him?"
Magnolia blinked once. "Afraid? Of someone who stopped three curses and prevented a classroom of idiots from being bitten? No. I'm curious. You're not."
Callista smirked. "She's not wrong."
Mizar narrowed his eyes slightly, studying her. "You want something."
"I want to learn," she said plainly. "The wandless magic. Whatever you did—it's leagues ahead of what they teach here. And clearly, you know it."
He didn't answer. For a moment, it was just the sound of the wind through the tall windows and the distant bell of a courtyard clock.
"Ah! There you are!" came a familiar, slightly too-loud voice.
Professor Slughorn rounded the corner at a near-jog, one hand pressing down his velvet robes, his face split into a practiced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
He stopped just short of the group—Mizar, Magnolia, Andromeda, Omar, and Callista—and adjusted his cuffs as if it were all very casual.
"Mizar, my boy! Professor Dumbledore would like a word. In his office," Slughorn said, voice light but clipped at the edges. "Now, if you please."
Mizar didn't blink. "Did he say why?"
Slughorn's smile didn't budge. But his eyes shifted—just a flicker.
"He didn't have to."
Behind him, Magnolia frowned slightly.
Andromeda stepped forward. "He hasn't done anything wrong."
Slughorn gave a grandfatherly chuckle that somehow sounded like it came from behind glass. "No, no, of course not. Just a… conversation. After all, speaking to snakes in front of a room full of schoolchildren tends to cause ripples."
Callista snorted. "Only because people can't tell the difference between a gift and a curse."
Slughorn's gaze flicked to her, and for a split second, the jolly mask slipped. "And unfortunately, perception has always mattered more than truth."
Omar crossed his arms. "So he's in trouble for being too good at magic."
Slughorn exhaled, long-suffering. "He's not in trouble," he lied. Then amended, "Not exactly."
Mizar's eyes narrowed. He already knew.
Of course they met. Of course they talked about him. Behind closed doors, behind portraits. Like they did with Tom.
Mizar gave Magnolia one last glance. "We'll talk later."
Magnolia watched him go, something unreadable behind her eyes.
Slughorn didn't speak again until they were nearly at the gargoyle that led to the Headmaster's office. When he did, his voice was low and oddly tight.
"They think you're dangerous, you know."
Mizar didn't stop walking. "I am."
Slughorn winced. "Don't say that. Not to him."
He paused. "Not after what we just sat through."
Mizar turned to look at him then—something calm, but not kind, in his expression. "What did you sit through?"
Slughorn looked away. "Every professor in that room whispering your name like it was a prophecy. Marchbanks storming around as if you'd drawn blood. McGonagall pacing. Flitwick—bless him—trying to defend you."
"And Dumbledore?"
A beat.
"…He listened. Mostly. But he asked one question."
Mizar's jaw tensed. "Which was?"
Slughorn sighed. "It doesn't matter, my boy.'"
The gargoyle slid open. The spiral staircase revealed itself.
Slughorn stepped back. "Best not keep him waiting."
Mizar ascended alone.
And above him, the whisper of memory clung to the stone.
Does he remind you of anyone?
Yes, the school was already answering.
Too much.
The door clicked shut behind him with the soft finality of a sealed vault.
The circular office was unchanged: whirring contraptions, old tomes stacked like relics, faint glints of memory in the glass jars behind the desk. The portraits of past headmasters dozed or watched silently.
And at the center—just as he always had been—Albus Dumbledore.
He stood beside Fawkes, gently stroking the phoenix's plumage, eyes on the glass of the window as if reading something in the storm beyond.
"Mr. Black-Shafiq," he said at last, not turning.
Mizar didn't flinch at the formality. "Headmaster."
Dumbledore turned. His expression was neutral, but something sharper coiled behind the lines around his mouth and eyes.
"I understand you demonstrated a gift for Parseltongue today."
Mizar didn't speak for a moment. Then: "Is that why I'm here?"
"Partly." Dumbledore moved behind his desk. "Do sit."
Mizar sat, spine straight, face still. He had not sat in this office in years—years in another lifetime. But his muscles remembered. So did something else.
In his first life—when he was Harry—he had looked at Dumbledore with awe. With longing. With the quiet ache of someone who had never had a real parent and almost believed this man might be the closest thing.
Now, sitting here again as Mizar, the feeling had curdled. All that awe had become awareness. Every kindness weighed, every omission re-examined.
And more than anything, he remembered: Dumbledore had never trusted Tom.
He probably didn't trust him now.
Mizar leaned back slightly, letting the candlelight paint his cheekbones in quiet defiance. "Please tell me you do not believe I'm the Heir of Slytherin."
Dumbledore's eyes met his, sharp and unreadable.
"Oh, I know you're not," he said quietly. "The last true descendants of Slytherin were the Gaunts. A line broken long ago… and with a tragic ending."
He didn't elaborate.
He didn't have to.
Mizar knew. He had lived it. Watched the tale unravel like a prophecy trapped in blood and madness. The Gaunts had ended in ruin, and from that ruin had risen Tom.
Tom—who had already become Voldemort.
Tom—whose shadow still stretched across the world.
Mizar didn't move.
Dumbledore studied him, fingers steepled. "Still, the gift of Parseltongue is not to be taken lightly. It is… uncommon. Especially here."
"In the Maghreb," Mizar said quietly, "it is not."
Dumbledore nodded. "So I assumed. A trait of the Shafiq line?"
Mizar returned the nod, gaze level. "Yes."
He did not say more. He didn't need to.
There was silence. The wind howled softly beyond the window, like a memory trying to get in.
Finally, Dumbledore leaned forward. "You do realize… many of your classmates are frightened now."
"They were frightened before," Mizar said, calm and even. "Today, they simply found new vocabulary for it."
A flicker of something passed over Dumbledore's face.
"That may be true," he said slowly. "But fear has consequences. It shapes belief. Loyalty. History."
Mizar looked away for a moment, eyes drifting to a small brass device on a shelf—one he remembered Harry once asking about, only to be told "not yet."
He remembered trusting that answer. Believing Dumbledore always had a reason. Believing, even when he shouldn't have.
Now?
Now he saw through the kindness like sunlight through lace.
The Headmaster studied him for a moment longer, then slowly walked to his desk and sat.
"I have lived long enough to see many young minds rise through these halls. Some brilliant. Some reckless. Some… burdened."
He folded his hands. "You remind me of a former student. Exceptionally gifted. Charismatic. He walked these corridors with quiet confidence, too. And he made choices that darkened more than just his own life."
Mizar's expression didn't shift, but something behind his eyes cooled.
"I am not your former student," he said. "And I do not intend to darken anything."
"I believe you," Dumbledore said. "But sometimes… darkness does not wait for intention."
Silence.
There was a faint crackle from the fireplace. Fawkes let out a soft, resonant note, but otherwise the room was still.
"I worry," Dumbledore said, "not about your talent—but about your influence. The students admire you. They listen when you speak. Even when you don't. That is a rare kind of power, boy."
"I've done nothing to encourage that," Mizar replied.
"No. And perhaps that is why they follow you."
He stood again, slowly, and approached.
"There is nothing in your record to warrant suspicion. No rule broken. No cruelty. And yet…"
Mizar raised an eyebrow. "And yet you called me here."
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed behind his half-moon spectacles. "Because I wish to understand you. Not accuse you."
Mizar's jaw set ever so slightly. "Then what do you want to understand?"
Dumbledore looked at him as if weighing not just the question, but the years it might echo into.
"…Whether you'll choose to lead with fear," he said at last. "Or with something better."
Mizar didn't respond right away.
When he finally spoke, it was measured, but low. "People fear what they do not understand. That is not my fault."
"No," Dumbledore said. "But it may become your burden."
"I will not be punished for what I am and if—
The stone beneath him hummed in alarm. Wards faltered. He turned.
The brass phoenix-shaped knocker was flung aside without ceremony. The doors burst open. Regulus.
And through them swept—
"Mum?" Mizar said, startled despite himself.
His mother was already crossing the room like a force of nature, her St. Mungos robes trailing like stormclouds, wand gripped in one gloved hand. Uncle Regulus appeared with his wand at the ready alongside uncle Arcturus, tall and cold-eyed, silver-streaked hair impeccable and face set in thunder.
Uncle Marwan and Noor entered behind them a minute later.
Dumbledore, still behind his desk, did not rise—but his expression shifted. Calm… to guarded.
"Headmaster," Lycoris said, voice precise and far too smooth. "I trust you were not planning to detain my son without informing his family."
"I informed his Head of House," Dumbledore replied, his tone measured.
"That is not the same thing," Marwan Shafiq snapped.
"Indeed," said Noor quietly. "A schoolmaster may take liberties with children. But with heirs? With Lords? That is another matter."
Arcturus's gaze landed on Dumbledore like a dagger of winter. "You questioned him privately. About what—his blood? His gifts? What exactly required secrecy?"
Regulus stepped forward, barely a whisper of a boy but radiating quiet menace. "You think we'd let you corner him like a criminal? Question him like a suspect?"
Dumbledore did not flinch. "He is not a suspect. He is a student with extraordinary influence. That is all."
"That," Lycoris said coldly, "is a very fragile word when used by a man with your history of choosing which students to elevate… and which ones to fear."
Mizar stood still, halfway down the spiral stairs. The drama of it hadn't touched him yet—but something curled in his chest. Old habits. Old grief. And an unspoken memory of a time when no one had come bursting through the door for Harry.
This time, they had.
"I did nothing wrong," Mizar said. "He just… wanted to talk."
"That's not what we were told," Noor said. Her voice was quiet, but something dark sparked behind her eyes.
"You were summoned alone. After your Parseltongue was revealed to the school."
"There was no reprimand," Dumbledore began, but Arcturus cut him off.
"Do not lie. You called him up here to examine him like a dangerous spellbook. As if he were not trained in magic his forebears mastered before this school even stood."
Marwan's jaw tightened. "You want to keep him under control. But you forget—Mizar is not yours to mold."
"He is ours," Noor said firmly. "And he is not a child fumbling with magic he barely understands."
"I came prepared," Marwan said. From within his robes, he withdrew a slim leather folio—old but impeccably preserved—and handed it to Dumbledore without ceremony.
"Writings from Salma bint Ibrahim ibn Jamal Al-Shafiq, my grandfather's sister," he explained, "Mizar's great-great-aunt. A respected Parselmouth. She held an internationally recognized teaching license from the government and taught at Uagadou."
Dumbledore opened the folio. The parchment within gleamed faintly with wards of verification. Parseltongue, in long, curling lines, was scrawled beside translated annotations. A Ministry-certified seal shimmered in the corner—genuine and unaltered.
Marwan added, "The Egyptian branch of the International Confederation of Wizards recognizes Parseltongue as a registered familial gift in our Clan. Mizar's ability is inherited. Documented. No relation with Salazar Slytherin."
Regulus said nothing—but his eyes, dark and steady, had not left Dumbledore's face.
Lycoris folded her arms. "So. Now that the inheritance is proven, perhaps we should ask why a child was made to defend himself in public, against hostile spellfire, in the middle of a classroom?"
Marwan's gaze narrowed. "Was this wandless lesson sanctioned?"
Dumbledore did not immediately reply.
"Because I would like to know," Marwan continued, voice rising just enough to sharpen, "why a professor—Galvin Marchbanks—chose to attack a seventeen-year-old student. And then conjure live snakes in a room of children—"
"He responded with control," Dumbledore said, calm but firm. "He did not strike back."
"That's not the point," Noor interjected, her tone like sand scraped across stone. "He was forced to choose. Between humiliating himself or frightening the others. And he was given no warning."
Lycoris's voice was like a snapped icicle. "Do you test all gifted students this way? Or just the ones from Grey and Dark families?"
A portrait of Headmistress Everard shifted uneasily on the wall.
Slughorn, who had been lingering just inside the door, gave a helpless cough. "I—ah—believe Marchbanks may have… gotten carried away."
"No," Marwan said coolly. "He got careless. And Dumbledore let him."
The fire flared in the grate.
Fawkes rustled his feathers with a low, unsettling cry.
Dumbledore finally closed the folio. "I accept the documentation," he said. "I accept that Mizar is not the first in his line to possess this ability. I will like to clarify that I never suspected him of being a descendant of Salazar. I'm simply worried about the extent of his power and how easily he seems to get people to follow him."
Regulus gave a soft, incredulous laugh. "You're worried people like him?"
"He is charismatic," Dumbledore replied. "Intelligent. Reserved. Unshakably poised. That alone invites admiration. But when combined with an ancient tongue, a powerful lineage, and the right temperament—"
His voice dropped a shade. "—influence can grow into something much harder to contain."
"And tell me, Headmaster," Arcturus said icily, "have you ever said the same to the children of Gryffindor? Or is influence only dangerous when it comes from a snake?"
Before Dumbledore could reply, a low voice cut through the tension—cynical, dry, and entirely unimpressed.
"I see this office hasn't changed. Still brimming with sentiment and suspicion."
All heads turned to the portrait on the wall, where Phineas Nigellus Black now leaned forward, hands clasped over the carved armrests of his ancestral chair. His eyes—so much like Arcturus', like Mizar's—were narrowed with regal disdain.
"That boy is my great-grandson," Phineas said, voice curling through the air like a well-cast spell. "And I will not sit silently while you measure him against phantoms and fears."
"Phineas—" Dumbledore began.
But the former Headmaster raised a hand. "You may sit in my chair now, Albus, but don't mistake that for moral authority. I know what it means to lead this school, and I also know of your biases."
His painted gaze turned to Mizar. "You come from a line that prized strength, yes. But it also prized loyalty. Discernment. Legacy. I've watched this boy from these walls since his first year. He studies harder than most. He protects the younger students regardless of House. He's careful, and that terrifies the ones who think ambition always leads to cruelty."
Dumbledore was silent.
Phineas tilted his head, just slightly. "If you're afraid of his influence, then perhaps it's not him you mistrust—but the fact that he hasn't chosen you."
The words fell like glass breaking.
Mizar said nothing—but a quiet thread of breath escaped his chest, almost too soft to hear.
Behind him, Arcturus smiled, just faintly.
"You heard my grandfather," he said. "And you've heard us. If there's nothing more to discuss—"
"There is one more thing," Lycoris interrupted, eyes glittering.
She turned back to Dumbledore, gaze steady as iron. "I want Galvin Marchbanks removed from any further contact with students. I want him out of Hogwarts by tomorrow morning."
Dumbledore's hands steepled slowly. "He is a tenured professor—"
"Who flung spells at a student to provoke a display of control," Lycoris said icily. "No warning. No safeguards. And a room full of witnesses."
Arcturus added, voice colder still. "You believe yourself a paragon of restraint. Of reason. But let's not pretend this is the first time your hand has tilted the scales. We all saw who you named Head Boy."
Dumbledore's expression shifted—fractionally.
"Oh yes," Arcturus said, eyes sharp. "You didn't expect that to come up. Tell me: when was the last time a Slytherin held that badge? Twenty years? More? But this year—when your best candidate had the marks, the discipline, the leadership—you gave it to that Trueblood boy. Polite, agreeable. Very willing to echo your philosophy. And less likely to cast shadows where you don't want to see them."
Dumbledore's voice was low. "Lawrence Trueblood is a fine student—"
"He's a safe student," Arcturus snapped. "And you passed over my nephew because you weren't ready to see a Slytherin in that role. You let your bissed opinion of our House cloud your judgment of the one child who has never failed anyone."
"And never will," Phineas Nigellus muttered from the frame.
Dumbledore didn't answer.
The fire crackled in the hearth. Outside the windows, the wind howled like something old remembering its name.
Mizar stood still through it all, unmoving. A quiet center in the storm.
He hadn't asked to be defended.
But he let it happen.
Because somewhere—some buried place where Harry had once waited for letters that never came—he finally felt something shift.
They were his family.
And they had come for him.
Lycoris turned once more, voice measured. "We will not be made to answer for our magic or the ways we practice it."
"I will speak with Marchbanks," Dumbledore said.
"No," Regulus cut in, voice like cut glass. "You will dismiss him."
All eyes turned to him.
"Because what you're failing to grasp," he said quietly, "is that a man who casts spells at students to provoke a reaction doesn't belong in a classroom. A man who conjures snakes to humiliate a boy for his bloodline doesn't belong anywhere near children."
Dumbledore's jaw tightened slightly. "Professor Marchbanks—"
"Is still sore," Regulus said flatly, "that my sister chose another man."
The silence hit like a hex.
Even Phineas Nigellus blinked.
Lycoris said nothing, did not flinch—but her fingers flexed once at her sides.
Arcturus made a low, satisfied sound.
Regulus pressed on. "He's held that grudge for nearly three decades, and today he used it to justify humiliating a seventeen-year-old boy in front of half the school."
He looked Dumbledore dead in the eye. "You call that education?"
Marwan gave a sharp, mirthless laugh. "This is what Hogwarts has become, then?"
"A school where teachers settle personal scores and call it pedagogy," Noor said coldly.
Arcturus turned fully to Dumbledore now, the weight of his authority gathering like clouds before a storm. "I know every man and woman on the Board of Governors, Albus. You forget—I sit among them. And I assure you, not one will stand behind a professor whose conduct endangers their children and embarrasses the institution."
"You're twisting my arm," Dumbledore's voice, when it came, was quiet. "I will recommend his retirement. Effective immediately."
"Make it happen tonight," Lycoris said. "Or we will."
Her threat wasn't shouted.
It didn't have to be.
They left in a sweep of robes and finality, Mizar moving in the eye of the storm—shoulders squared, chin high, silence louder than any parting words.