NOVEL NEXT Chapter 19: Assessing The Next Generation
"So, who will start?"
At Dumbledore's words, all eyes turned to McGonagall. As the head of Gryffindor and Deputy Headmistress, it was only natural for her to speak first.
She let out a small sigh, having gone through this routine for years now. "Most Muggle-born students are reaching the expected standard," she began, her tone crisp and measured. "Some, like Miss Granger, are exceptionally talented and can rival those from established wizarding families."
Flitwick beamed at that, clearly pleased that the little witch had been sorted into his house.
"Of course," McGonagall continued, "given that many are new to this world, some struggle to keep up. But with time, the gap can be closed."
That was something they all understood well enough. The "gap" wasn't a question of raw talent but rather the advantage that came from being raised in a magical household. Not every pure-blood family trained their young from an early age, but many did, ensuring their children were already familiar with spells, traditions, and magical theory before stepping foot in Hogwarts.
Dumbledore nodded along, offering no real comment as he reached for a box of Cockroach Clusters, his fingers deftly plucking out a sweet. The subtle twinkle in his eye suggested he was far more interested in the confection than the discussion though, of course, appearances could be deceiving.
The reports continued, each Head of House summarising their students' progress. Snape, as usual, remained silent until it was unavoidable. When the others had finished, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. Then, his expression turned more serious.
"Now, let's focus on specifics," he said, his gaze sweeping the room. "Tell me, how was Harry?"
This time, it was Flitwick who spoke first.
"Brilliant student, knows what he's doing and how to do it. One of the best in Charms."
The tabby nodded approvingly. "He's inherited his parents' traits talented, no less than James." She was clearly happy that the saviour was in her house.
Dumbledore's gaze slid to Snape. The Potions Master scowled but finally muttered, "I don't agree with Minerva. I can't speak for other subjects, but in Potions, he's no better than a troll."
No one reacted. They all knew why Snape felt that way.
Dumbledore smoothly changed the subject. "And Draco Malfoy?"
The use of the surname was deliberate. The conversation had shifted to something more political.
"He was the first student to enter my class," McGonagall said. It sounded like a neutral statement, but everyone knew it carried meaning.
"Was he trying to make connections?" Dumbledore asked, voicing what was already on everyone's mind.
"No," the tabby said after a moment, her eyes serious . "He didn't seek me out specifically."
"I don't find anything special about him," Snape remarked, clearly uninterested in discussing his senior's child.
"Sometimes he couldn't perform spells on the first try," Flitwick added, causing everyone to pause in thought.
The spells taught to first-years were simple enough, and given the Malfoy family's history, no one would have expected Draco to struggle. It wasn't a matter of talent—something else was at play.
Was Lucius truly just coddling Draco? Dumbledore wondered, recalling the rumours surrounding the boy.
Eventually, he spoke. "So long as he isn't a danger to other students, he's just another boy here to learn".
He doubted Draco himself would cause any real trouble at least, not yet. It was Lucius who bore watching. The man seemed determined to fashion himself into an opponent, but neither he had the influence or ability to pose a genuine threat.
People often underestimated the old headmaster, mistaking his whimsical nature for frailty.
McGonagall cleared her throat. "Are we still leaving the stone where it is?"
Everyone knew what she meant.
The pinnacle of alchemy.
The Philosopher's Stone.
Dumbledore waved a hand, as though brushing away their concerns. "No need to worry about that."
It wasn't particularly reassuring, but no one argued.
As the meeting ended, the professors gathered their things and left. Snape remained behind.
Dumbledore didn't acknowledge him, merely reaching for another chocolate.
Snape's patience was never abundant, and tonight was no exception. "Are you going to say something, or not? I haven't got time to waste."
Dumbledore glanced up, blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "Ah, Severus, yes. I wanted to hear your thoughts."
"On what?"
"Anything you wish to share."
Snape kept his expression impassive. "I can't fathom why you're keeping Quirrell here. Can't you see? He isn't normal anymore."
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, though his voice remained mild. "Severus, unless you have proof, throwing around such accusations could have serious consequences."
Snape clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching as though itching to curse something or someone.
But he knew Dumbledore. The old man would do what he pleased. He always did.
With a swirl of black robes, Snape turned and stalked out of the office, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.
Silence settled over the room. The portraits that lined the walls stirred, shifting in their frames, but none spoke.
Alone at last, the headmaster steepled his fingers, his gaze unfocused as his mind drifted elsewhere.
A memory. A year ago.
Quirrell had come to his office, hesitant, his usual nervous energy subdued. But he had found the room empty, the heavy oak desk cluttered with scattered parchment. One particular sheet had caught his eye, its message simple, yet chilling.
The Dark Lord is in Albania.