Chapter 45:Good Headmaster

Harry sat uneasily in the chair across from the desk, his gaze darting around the room.

Dumbledore smiled kindly, interpreting the boy’s discomfort as a natural reaction to their first one-on-one meeting.

“Oh, Harry, relax,” Dumbledore said warmly. “I was once a Gryffindor student too. You might even call me your senior.”

Harry glanced up briefly before lowering his gaze again. He didn’t respond, unsure of the potential consequences of disagreeing with the Headmaster. Most of what he knew about Dumbledore came from Hagrid’s tales, and without firsthand experience, he couldn’t gauge the man’s true demeanor.

“Lemonade?” Dumbledore offered, reaching for a pitcher.

“Yes, please. With ice,” Harry replied, masking his unease with politeness.

A moment later, a glass of chilled lemonade materialized before him. Harry picked it up, took a sip—and immediately grimaced.

“Ugh!” he exclaimed. “Why is it so sweet?”

He strongly suspected that sugar was free at Hogwarts, judging by the syrupy concoction masquerading as lemonade.

Dumbledore chuckled, unperturbed. “It seems you’re not a fan. What a shame.”

Reaching into a jar on the desk, he extracted a cockroach candy and popped it into his mouth. Harry’s stomach churned at the sight. If he hadn’t known it was a magical treat, he might have lost his appetite entirely.

“Some of us are trying to sleep, you know!” an irritable voice echoed from the wall. “For Merlin’s sake, Albus! Even during my tenure as Headmaster, I never summoned students for late-night meetings. Not once!”

The voice belonged to Phineas Nigellus Black, whose portrait hung prominently among the other former Headmasters. Harry immediately recognized the sharp tone and condescending air.

Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, Harry silently prayed, hoping to avoid drawing Black’s attention.

Fate, however, had other plans.

After admonishing Dumbledore, Black’s gaze shifted to Harry. He squinted, as if trying to place him, before his expression changed to one of realization.

“Aha! I knew it! Let me think—Gryffindor’s—”

Dreading Black’s usual tirade about house superiority and bloodlines, Dumbledore intervened swiftly. “Dilys, might I ask for your assistance?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“With pleasure, Albus.”

Dilys Derwent curtsied with a playful gleam in her eyes. She rallied a small contingent of Headmasters from their frames and led them into Phineas’ portrait.

“What are you doing?” Black demanded, his voice laced with alarm.

The Headmasters didn’t answer. They advanced in unison, knocked him off his feet, and secured him to a chair, even gagging him for good measure.

After a brief struggle, Phineas went still, his expression darkening. His mind raced as he processed the situation.

So, the Gryffindor boy hadn’t perished alongside Ragnok but had somehow reappeared a century later… Time travel? And his age—had it even reversed during the journey?

Hmph. So what?

Even if reduced to ashes, I’d recognize him!

But Phineas’ indignation burned hotter. You tied me up! Even if you beg, I won’t tell you the truth. Never!

“Phineas is always like this,” Dumbledore explained to Harry with a sheepish smile. “He’s actually a good... uh…”

“A good Headmaster?” Harry ventured, though the words felt strange as they left his mouth.

Phineas Nigellus Black? A good Headmaster? By Merlin’s longest bunny ears…

Dumbledore’s expression twisted into something complex. For a moment, he opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it. Memories of enduring Phineas’ strict and often arbitrary rules as a student resurfaced, unbidden.

The other portraits fell silent before breaking into uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh, child,” Dilys gasped, dabbing her eyes. “If you’d been a student during Phineas’ tenure, you’d understand just how hilarious that statement is…”

Harry shrugged, unfazed. He had visited the Headmaster’s office before—albeit under Polyjuice Potion, impersonating someone else. Besides, the other Headmasters had never interacted with him directly, so their lack of recognition wasn’t surprising.

“To be fair,” Eupraxia Mole chimed in, “Phineas’ efforts to unite the houses were unparalleled. Not even the Founders themselves could have done better.”

Phineas thrashed furiously in his chair, the wooden frame creaking under the strain.

“Portraits truly are fascinating, aren’t they?” Dumbledore mused, raising his lemonade in a toast to the animated frames.

Harry decided it was time to steer the conversation toward more pressing matters. He was young and valued his sleep, after all.

“Well, Headmaster,” Harry began, “I wanted to talk about what happened on the Quidditch pitch today.”

“Go ahead,” Dumbledore replied, dropping another cockroach candy into his glass. Its antennae jutted out, twitching eerily in the liquid.

Harry took a deep breath. “I believe someone cursed my broomstick. It went out of control, and a classmate warned me it might have been a jinx.”

“It must’ve been Hermione,” Dumbledore chuckled. “At her age, few witches match her brilliance—”

“Which brings me to my question,” Harry interrupted. “Why would someone dare curse my broomstick in front of you? And more importantly, why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“Someone was already doing their best to save you, weren’t they?” Dumbledore replied, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

As he disentangled a stray cockroach candy from his beard, he glanced up to find Harry studying his glass with the same apprehension.

“Are you… afraid of me?” Dumbledore asked, raising an eyebrow. His tone suggested he wouldn’t be surprised if the answer was yes.

“No, sir,” Harry replied. “I was just thinking about a spell I read in a book.”

“A spell?”

“Yes,” Harry said carefully. “One that claims you can read someone’s thoughts just by gazing into their eyes.”

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