The Headmaster’s Inquiry
Harry had never been inside the headmaster’s office before. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—perhaps something dark and imposing, lined with bookshelves stretching endlessly into the shadows—but the room was surprisingly warm. Golden trinkets whirred and clicked on shelves, and the walls were lined with paintings of old headmasters and headmistresses, their eyes subtly tracking his movements.
Dumbledore sat behind his grand wooden desk, hands folded neatly, blue eyes twinkling in that unreadable way of his.
“Ah, Mr. Potter. Please, have a seat.”
Harry hesitated only a second before settling into the chair. He kept his expression carefully neutral. He wasn’t sure why he was here, but after years of dealing with the Dursleys, he knew better than to give anything away too quickly.
Dumbledore regarded him for a moment before speaking.
“I imagine you are adjusting well to Hogwarts?”
“Yes, sir,” Harry replied politely.
“Good, good.” Dumbledore nodded. “I had a most interesting conversation with Professor Flitwick after the Sorting Ceremony. He informed me that the Sorting Hat… had quite the reaction to you.”
Harry stiffened.
Dumbledore, of course, noticed. “It is nothing to be concerned about, my dear boy,” he reassured gently. “The Hat is quite ancient, and occasionally it encounters something… unexpected.”
Harry didn’t reply.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his gaze curious but not intrusive. “Tell me, Harry. Have you ever encountered magic before coming to Hogwarts?”
Harry frowned. “Not exactly. Strange things happened sometimes, but I didn’t know what they were.”
Dumbledore hummed as if he expected that answer.
“And your upbringing?”
That question made Harry tense further. Dumbledore knew where he had grown up. Professor McGonagall had personally collected him. But this wasn’t about the Dursleys. He was asking about after.
“…It was fine,” Harry said carefully.
Dumbledore let a pause stretch between them before he shifted topics—so subtly it barely felt like a shift at all.
“Harry, may I see what you keep in your pocket?”
The question was innocent enough. But something in Dumbledore’s voice made Harry’s stomach drop.
He reached into his pocket and curled his fingers around the smooth, familiar shape.
The Rosary beads.
He pulled them out hesitantly, setting them on the desk.
Dumbledore didn’t move. But his eyes—sharp and knowing—lingered on the beads for longer than they should have.
Harry swallowed. “They were given to me before I left.”
“I see,” Dumbledore murmured. His gaze flicked up to Harry’s. “By the nuns?”
Harry hesitated. “By a nun.”
He didn’t say which one.
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. But something in his gaze darkened.
“Magic leaves traces, Harry,” Dumbledore said finally. “And these beads… carry a magic I do not recognize.”
Harry’s breath caught.
He hadn’t imagined it.
The weight. The presence.
Dumbledore studied him. “Do you know where they came from?”
Harry’s grip tightened on the chair. He didn’t know what to say. Because yes, he knew. He knew. But saying it out loud—acknowledging it—felt like stepping over a threshold he wasn’t sure he could return from.
Dumbledore’s eyes softened. “You are safe at Hogwarts, Harry.”
A strange chill ran through him at those words.
Harry said nothing.
And Dumbledore, to his credit, didn’t press.
“Very well,” the headmaster said after a moment, leaning back in his chair. His voice was light again, as if the previous conversation had never happened. “I only wished to see how you were settling in.”
Harry knew better than to believe that.
Dumbledore smiled. “You may return to your classes, my boy. But should you ever wish to speak—about anything—my door remains open.”
Harry nodded, standing quickly and pocketing the rosary beads once more.
As he reached the door, Dumbledore’s voice stopped him.
“One last thing, Harry.”
Harry turned.
Dumbledore’s expression was kind. But his gaze was knowing.
“Be careful,” he said softly. “Some magic does not like to be questioned.”
Harry left the office feeling cold.