Chapter 5: The Headmaster's Gaze
If one were to describe the nature of Albus Dumbledore's work at Hogwarts, it would be a paradox of idleness and immense busyness. He was idle in the sense that he was freed from the daily grind of lesson plans and parchment-grading that occupied his staff. He was busy because the weight of the wizarding world often rested on his shoulders, and the school itself was a vast, intricate machine requiring his subtle guidance. He was less a headmaster in the conventional sense and more a guardian, a symbol. A Hogwarts with Dumbledore in his tower was a complete Hogwarts, a safe Hogwarts, even if his physical presence was often required elsewhere.
Tonight—or rather, in the early hours of the morning—Dumbledore finally had a moment to himself. The start-of-term feast was over, the students were tucked away in their dormitories, and the castle had settled into its nocturnal hum. With his external duties concluded, he turned his attention inward, to the unique magic of the school itself.
"So," Dumbledore said, leaning back in his high-backed chair and peering over his half-moon spectacles at the Sorting Hat, which sat clean and dignified on a high shelf. "Which of our new students shall command our particular attention this year?"
"The usual assortment," the Hat's voice echoed, dry and ancient, directly in his mind. "Brave hearts, cunning minds, a few who are desperately lost. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Oh, come now," Dumbledore chided gently, a twinkle in his blue eyes. "Surely young Harry Potter, and that Selwyn boy, warrant a second glance?"
"Potter was adamant. 'Not Slytherin,' he kept thinking. A house of bullies, he called it. A shame, really; the boy has a core of steel that Salazar would have admired. As for the Selwyn child... he chose Slytherin himself, though Ravenclaw would have suited his intellect. And he knows Occlumency. Rudimentary, but effective. He tried to shield his surface thoughts from me."
"Occlumency is no surprise," Dumbledore murmured, walking over to stroke Fawkes's brilliant scarlet feathers. The phoenix trilled softly in its sleep. "He spent his formative years at Scuol. One cannot regularly withstand the Cruciatus and Imperius Curses without learning to fortify the mind."
"I have seen a thousand years of children, Albus. The gifted, the slow, the wise, the foolish. It takes a great deal to be 'noteworthy' in my eyes." The Hat fell silent for a moment, then added, as an afterthought, "There is one thing, however."
Dumbledore turned, his interest piqued. "Yes?"
"In all my centuries, no student has ever orchestrated a campaign to have me washed. I must thank the boy for the sensation. It has been an age since I didn't feel... gritty."
Dumbledore looked at the now-clean Hat, a faint, bemused smile playing on his lips. Before he could respond, he sensed a familiar, billowing presence approaching. The door to his office swung open without a knock, and Severus Snape swept in, his black robes swirling around him like a thundercloud.
"Ah, Severus. Thank you for coming," Dumbledore said, returning to his seat.
Snape did not speak. His sallow face and glittering black eyes conveyed his displeasure at being summoned from his bed with sufficient eloquence.
"The traditional skirmish in your common room," Dumbledore began, bypassing pleasantries. "What was the outcome?"
"Draco Malfoy is the first-year prefect," Snape said, his voice a low monotone.
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly. "Indeed? That is... somewhat different from what I anticipated."
"The boy relinquished the prefect's private quarters," Snape added, a hint of vindictive satisfaction in his tone. "He chose to remain in the dormitory."
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "And the rooms went to... the Selwyn child?"
Snape gave a curt nod.
"And the process? How did young Mr. Selwyn secure this arrangement?"
"Malfoy did not lift a wand. Selwyn defeated the other contenders single-handedly." Snape's body shifted almost imperceptibly. "He did not utter a single incantation."
"Non-verbal spells?" Dumbledore's calm demeanor finally cracked, revealing a flicker of genuine surprise. "That, I did not expect. I assumed he was capable, but this... What magic did he employ?"
"Stunning Spells, Impediment Jinxes. Basic, but brutally efficient." Snape watched as Dumbledore rose and retrieved the Pensieve from its cabinet. "You wish to view my memory? Again?" he asked, a familiar sneer twisting his features.
"I merely wish to understand this boy, Severus. I need to be sure—"
"What threat can a child possibly pose?" Snape interrupted, his voice rising. "Instead of fixating on a first-year, perhaps you should turn your attention to a more immediate concern! Why is Quirinus Quirrell, that stuttering, trembling excuse for a wizard, teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts?"
"Quirinus is a Hogwarts graduate, Severus, and he has undergone a... transformative experience," Dumbledore said placatingly, placing the Pensieve on its stand.
"I sat beside him at the staff table! He reeks of garlic and fear, and something else... something malevolent." Snape took a step forward, his anger palpable. "You promised I could protect Lily's son, and you allow a walking danger to stand at the front of his classroom!"
"I am not blind to the dangers, Severus," Dumbledore replied, his voice soft but firm. "But sometimes, focusing too intently on the obvious shadow can cause one to miss the true threat lurking in the light. Now, before we debate Professor Quirrell's qualifications, I would see this."
With a sound of disgust, Snape pointed his wand to his temple, withdrew a silvery strand of memory, and let it fall, swirling, into the stone basin.
"Come, Severus. Let us observe."
The Memory: The Slytherin Common Room
The first-years stood in a tense circle. Professor Snape watched from the shadows, his arms crossed, a look of profound boredom on his face.
"No one wishes to make the first move? Very well." Solim Selwyn's voice was calm. His wand moved in a sharp, precise flick. Three of the girls were instantly and gently pushed out of the circle by an invisible barrier, landing on their feet but looking bewildered.
"Very skilled," Dumbledore murmured within the memory, his eyes fixed on Solim.
The other boys, realizing the threat, reacted. Wands were raised, and a flurry of poorly-aimed jinxes shot towards Solim. He moved with an unnerving economy of motion. He yanked Draco Malfoy out of the path of a Leg-Locker Jinx, simultaneously deflecting a Stunning Spell from another boy with a silent, shimmering shield. He never stopped moving, his left hand—the one holding his wand—constantly tracing subtle patterns in the air.
While Draco was still stumbling, Solim disarmed a third boy with a flick of his wrist, caught the thrown wand, and tossed it aside. Then, with his wand held steady, he slashed it horizontally. An invisible wave of force—a powerful, non-verbal Banishing Charm—swept the remaining contenders off their feet and out of the circle. Only Solim and a stunned Draco Malfoy remained standing within it.
"It's settled, then," Solim said, lowering his wand. He gave Draco a significant look. "Don't forget our agreement."
A sharp crack echoed as Snape, within his own memory, ended the duel.
"Wait, Severus," Dumbledore said, holding up a hand. He stepped into the frozen scene, his gaze intent. He wasn't looking at Solim's face, but at his right hand.
"Do you see this, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, pointing to a heavy, silver ring on the boy's finger.
"I see a ring," Snape replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I also notice he is wearing robes and, unless I am mistaken, a pair of shoes. Shall I list his other possessions for you?"
Dumbledore ignored him, peering closely at the ring. It was ornate, set with a dark, non-reflective stone that seemed to swallow the light. He then looked at the standard-issue walnut wand held firmly in Solim's left hand.
"I think we have seen enough," Dumbledore said quietly.
Back in the present, in the Headmaster's office, Snape stood with his arms crossed, waiting for an explanation.
"What you saw as a mere ring, Severus, was a wand," Dumbledore stated.
Snape's sneer faltered for a fraction of a second. "What?"
"It is not an ordinary wand. I came across it long ago, during my travels with... a friend. I later returned it to the family that held its true allegiance. The Selwyns."
"Then what is the significance? The boy is a Selwyn."
"Solim is an illegitimate Selwyn," Dumbledore corrected gently. "He should not have access to such a relic. Ancient families hoard power, Severus. Their vaults contain fortunes, but also artifacts—wands crafted from woods and cores that are now lost to time. These heirlooms are far more powerful than what Mr. Ollivander can procure today. They are symbols of lineage and power, reserved for the true heirs. Why would Lord Selwyn bestow such a thing upon a son he barely acknowledges? And why would the boy carry two wands?"
"Perhaps you should ask him yourself," Snape said flatly.
"I recognized that ring-wand when I returned it, and in thanks, the Selwyn family made a generous donation to the school's endowment." Dumbledore gestured behind Snape. "It helped fund certain... security measures."
Snape turned. His eyes fell upon a magnificent, towering object—a mirror with a gold frame, inscribed with a cryptic inscription. Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. For a single, unguarded moment, a torrent of raw anguish and longing washed over Snape's face before he brutally forced his features back into their customary mask of indifference.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.
"The Mirror of Erised," Dumbledore said softly, his own gaze avoiding the glass. "It will guard the Philosopher's Stone." He looked at Snape, his expression grave. "Are the other protections foolproof?"
"There is no such thing as 'foolproof'," Snape bit out. "If that is all, Headmaster, I will return to my dungeons."
After Snape had swept out, Dumbledore stood alone in the silent office. He walked back to the Pensieve, withdrew another silvery thread of memory from his own temple, and let it fall into the basin, his thoughts a tangled web of phoenix feathers, ancient wands, and the clever, guarded eyes of a boy who was far more than he seemed.
Meanwhile, deep in the Slytherin dungeons, Solim had finished arranging his new private room. It was spartan, stripped of the opulent decorations that usually filled the prefect's quarters. For him, this was not a lounge, but a sanctuary for sleep and theoretical study. He would find a disused classroom for brewing potions and practicing spells; he had no desire to fill his sleeping space with noxious fumes or accidental spell damage.
Though it was late, Solim felt no fatigue. He sat propped against his headboard, a heavy, leather-bound tome open in his lap. Tomorrow's schedule floated in his mind: History of Magic, then Charms. The only classes he shared with the Gryffindors were Potions, Transfiguration, and Defence Against the Dark Arts. He preferred the Ravenclaws; they were predictable, driven by logic and a thirst for knowledge. Dealing with Gryffindors meant navigating a minefield of prejudice and impulsive accusations. With Neville there, his interactions with the house of the lion were inevitable.
But he pushed those thoughts aside. A more pressing matter demanded his attention, its weight a familiar ache in his chest.
His sister, Sylna.
She had been the only source of warmth in the cold, hostile Selwyn castle. While his older brothers, Dax and Sabian, had been twisted by their time at Scuol—one into a brute, the other into a ghost—Sylna had remained kind, her spirit unbroken. Solim's own magical outburst had occurred at the age of four, a sign of prodigious power that had sealed his fate and sent him to that brutal school. For Sylna, now nine, no such outburst had come. In the eyes of their pure-blood world, she was a Squib—a non-magical person, a source of shame.
He had found his escape from Scuol. But his purpose had crystallized over time, shifting from mere survival to a singular, driving goal. The psychological anchor he had forged with his sister had become the very core of his resolve.
He hoped against hope that the answer lay within the ancient, crackling pages of the book in his hands. He would find a way to change her fate, no matter the cost.