The echo of the Sorting Hat's words hadn't yet faded when Dumbledore, ever composed, stepped forward once more. His robes billowed behind him like a slow-moving tide of calm authority.
Dumbledore (voice steady, grandfatherly):
"There are many things... many truths, which often cannot be seen clearly in the moment they unfold. We act as best we can, with the knowledge given to us, and sometimes... even then, the outcome is not what we hoped."
He cast his eyes across the hall — warm, regretful, layered with that familiar air of wistful wisdom.
"I have always acted for the greater good. I have done what I believed was right — not always what was easy."
The words echoed. He was careful — not outright denying anything, but shifting the blame into the mist of circumstance and noble burden.
"The world outside these walls has grown darker by the year. Sometimes, I was forced to make difficult choices. Choices that may have seemed... cold. But I did so to protect what I could."
He looked toward the staff — McGonagall, her mouth a thin line, her brows furrowed in uncharacteristic doubt. Flitwick rubbed his chin with a troubled frown. Pomona Sprout looked openly disturbed.
Dumbledore (continued):
"None of us can predict the ripples our choices make. But if I erred… I did so with a heavy heart. I only ask that you believe this."
There was silence.
But it was no longer reverent.
It was questioning.
Doubt, like poison, had begun to seep through the room.
The Sorting Hat, silent now, sat like a witness that had just exposed the prosecution's darkest secrets.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry Potter sat stiffly, his eyes locked on Dumbledore.
He couldn't stop hearing the Sorting Hat's voice, or the calm, chilling clarity of the ghosts as they spoke of the threats the school faced.
And the way Dumbledore had... dismissed it all.
His hand clenched slightly against the table, mind racing.
The warnings whispered from the shadows of Phineas Nigellus Black's portrait in Grimmauld Place came roaring back:
"He'll let others bleed if it suits the picture he's painting. The Boy-Who-Lived is a brushstroke in his grand masterpiece."
"You think your pain matters to him? You're a page in his prophecy. Nothing more."
Harry's throat tightened.
He had wanted to believe Dumbledore. Always had.
But now… now the Sorting Hat had confirmed it.
Dumbledore had known.
The Chamber. The basilisk. The cursed cup.
He had known.
Whispers swelled in the hall — students murmuring behind their hands, some throwing sharp glances at Harry. Whispers of "He let it happen...", "Why didn't he stop it?", "The hat said he knew..."
Even some teachers leaned into each other, speaking low and fast.
Dumbledore raised a hand — the gesture familiar, practiced. But it did little now.
The weight of Hadrian's presence, the revelations, the castle's own ghosts siding against him — it was too much.
He was losing the room.
And he knew it.
Harry leaned toward Hermione and Ron, his voice barely a whisper.
Harry (quietly):
"He knew all along... and still let me walk into it."
Hermione's eyes were wide, lips parted in disbelief. Ron looked like he'd swallowed something bitter.
Across the staff table, McGonagall stood slowly.
She didn't speak.
But she didn't look at Dumbledore, either.
She was looking at Hadrian.
The room was shifting — the atmosphere now charged, no longer dominated by the usual reverence Dumbledore commanded.
It belonged now to something older.
Something deeper.
Something tied to the very stone and spellwork of Hogwarts itself.
The murmurs hadn't died down. In fact, they seemed to be growing, swelling into a low, uncomfortable buzz that filled every corner of the Great Hall. Dumbledore stood at the center of it all — poised, wise, but undeniably cornered.
And then — Hadrian moved.
It wasn't sudden or dramatic. Just a simple step forward. The way the castle itself responded, though — with a soft, reverent hum in the air, a faint glimmer from the enchanted torches — made it feel like a statement from the very stones.
His voice, when he spoke, was clear and calm — but it carried through the hall like thunder beneath still water.
Hadrian (to Dumbledore):
"You speak of fate. Of choices. Of burdens too great for anyone else to understand."
His gaze didn't waver.
"But the truth is, Headmaster, it's not fate that led you to silence. It was your ambition. And your fear of losing control."
Dumbledore opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, but Hadrian kept going — his voice sharper now, like steel.
"You speak of the 'greater good,' but you forget — this school was not built to serve the ambitions of men. It was not meant to be a chessboard for politicians, prophets, or puppet masters."
He turned slightly, addressing the whole hall now — students, teachers, and ghosts alike.
"Hogwarts was meant to be a sanctuary. A place of learning. Safety. A home for those cast out by the world. And you let it become a battleground for secrets and schemes."
A pause.
Then — from the front of the hall, the old, worn Sorting Hat shifted slightly on the stool. Its voice, rough and knowing, rang out once more.
Sorting Hat:
"He's right, you know. This talk of 'greater good' you like to drape around your shoulders like some righteous cloak…"
"It's not the greater good of the school. Or the students. Or the future."
"It's your greater good, Albus Dumbledore. The greater good of a man who fears being questioned. Who fears being powerless. A man who cloaks manipulation in wisdom and calls it sacrifice."
Gasps echoed around the room. Even Professor Flitwick visibly flinched. McGonagall's face had gone pale.
Dumbledore didn't move. His expression had hardened — not into anger, but something tighter. Controlled. Defensive.
Hadrian's voice softened, but the weight of his words only grew heavier.
Hadrian:
"This school was never yours, Dumbledore. It belongs to the Founders. To the wards. To the students. And they've made their choice."
He looked toward the enchanted ceiling — the stars above glowing brighter for a moment, casting the entire hall in a light that felt... different. Almost ancient.
"You may be Headmaster in name. But titles mean little when the school no longer recognizes your authority."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Even the ghosts floated still, watching with expressions not often seen on their translucent faces — relief, approval, and in the Bloody Baron's case... vindication.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry stared — heart pounding — as everything the painting of Phineas had whispered now played out in the open.
For the first time, Dumbledore looked truly small. Not because of stature or presence — but because the room no longer saw him as untouchable.
The veil had been lifted.
And Hadrian — the forgotten guardian of the castle — stood center stage.