When Phineas regained consciousness, the History of Magic class had already ended.
He sighed inwardly. Professor Binns must be a masterful wizard, he mused. Otherwise, how could he lull every student to sleep and have them all wake up just as class ends?
Indeed, Hogwarts lived up to its reputation. Phineas resolved to be more vigilant in the future.
As night fell and dinner concluded, most students scattered—some enjoying the last golden rays of sunlight outside, others gathering in the common rooms to chat and play, while still more buried themselves in the library's vast sea of books.
Phineas, however, returned alone to his dormitory. His presence in the Slytherin common room remained unwelcome.
Perhaps knowing that he wouldn't retaliate within Hogwarts' walls, his peers had grown bolder. The exclusion had worsened—from whispered gossip to direct sarcasm and deliberate acts of social isolation.
If he reached for a book, someone would snatch it away first, even if they had no intention of reading it. If he sought a seat, it would be claimed before he got there, even if the person already occupied another. No one discussed lessons with him, no one talked about Quidditch, and no one traded Chocolate Frog cards. They simply acted as though he didn't exist.
Eventually, Phineas gave up and retreated to his room with Chocolate, his loyal pet, for company.
Elsewhere in the castle, Professor Jonathan climbed the moving staircases to the Headmaster's office on the seventh floor.
Not everyone at Hogwarts was either bustling with worry or aimlessly idle—few were both. But Albus Dumbledore was one such exception.
He had no classes to teach, no lessons to prepare, no homework to grade, and no dormitory rounds to manage. Yet, he bore the weight of the entire school, and the burden of deeper concerns—like the boy who had vanished nine years ago, a boy believed by many to be dead.
But Dumbledore knew better.
"How is he?" the Headmaster asked quietly as Jonathan entered.
Jonathan sighed. "Dumbledore, it's not good. He's completely isolated—not just by his housemates, but by most of the students at Hogwarts."
Dumbledore's expression tightened. He exhaled deeply. "It's our fault," he admitted.
Jonathan looked him in the eye. "You woke me from my deep sleep, asked me to protect the students for a year. I agreed. That makes me their teacher. And as their teacher, I won't stand by while that child suffers like this. I need to know the truth."
Dumbledore studied his old friend—an old comrade from another time. He said nothing at first.
Jonathan didn't press him. He called an elf to bring a special drink, then sat down and sipped in silence, waiting.
After a long pause, Dumbledore finally spoke.
"You've been asleep since the incident, so you don't know all that's happened in recent years. But I assume your… unique awareness has told you some things."
Jonathan nodded. "Your deranged student who called himself Voldemort? I've picked up pieces. In our day, lunatics like that weren't even worth our time."
Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "He may be mad—but he's also a genius. In many magics, he surpassed me—faster, deeper. It's a tragedy that he chose darkness."
Regret and guilt flickered in the Headmaster's eyes. He had failed to steer Tom Riddle down a better path.
"Phineas is connected to him," Dumbledore continued. "He was born into the Black family. You know what Voldemort preached—pure-blood supremacy."
Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "So his family supported Voldemort. That's why Phineas is rejected?"
"Not entirely," said Dumbledore. "Phineas has an older brother who sided with us, but was later framed as a traitor. I've never been able to prove his innocence. That stain passed down to Phineas, and many of our allies resent him for it."
"And the Slytherins?" Jonathan asked. "A boy from the noble House of Black should be a prince in that house."
Dumbledore sighed. "Eight years ago, after inheriting the Black family's assets, Phineas gave us damning evidence. Proof that several pure-blood families had secretly supported Voldemort. Many of those families suffered greatly because of it. Some barely survived. But the move protected Phineas and his inheritance—he bought himself time, breathing room, before his enemies could attack."
Jonathan let out a long breath. "Even as a doctor, I can see how astonishing that decision was for a child."
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He struck hard, and we helped him. The families he exposed knew what he'd done. Their descendants have not forgotten."
Jonathan frowned. "Still, he could've been placed in a different house. He would've fared better anywhere else."
"You're right," Dumbledore agreed.
At that moment, the Sorting Hat, resting quietly on its high shelf, spoke:
"I made no mistake. That Black is a true Slytherin—ambitious, talented, born of power and nobility. No house suits him better."
Dumbledore and Jonathan exchanged weary looks.
They had underestimated the boy. And now, in the midst of rejection and hatred, the question lingered:
How will he rise above it all?
How will he change his fate?