A Professor of Magic at Hogwarts

Snape caught the Elder Wand, still incredulous. He could feel his magical power becoming livelier, his strength increasing, as if the Elder Wand was silently urging him to cast some spells.

He restrained his impulse and walked slowly over, placing the Elder Wand on the desk. The wand rolled a few times on the table, bumped into the silver base on one side, and after trembling for a while, gradually quieted down.

"Is this it?" Snape licked his lips, his voice hoarse.

"That's it," Dumbledore nodded. "The Elder Wand understands nothing of sentimentality; it's the most ruthlessly pragmatic wand, only concerned with ability. It goes where the power is. Now, not only have I been 'disarmed' by you, but I also cannot match you magically, so you rightfully won the wand."

"But I can't possess it," Snape said coldly, his eyes still fixed on the Elder Wand.

"Severus," Dumbledore sighed deeply, "I'd rather never have possessed it at all. Throughout history, countless individuals have been obsessed with the Elder Wand's immense power, but how many of them found happiness? None!"

Snape seemed to drift off for a moment, his gaze shifting away.

"Fawkes will take you back," Dumbledore said softly at last.

"Who do you wish the wand to ultimately pass to, and who do you intend to use it against?" Dumbledore asked.

"That's up to you," Dumbledore replied calmly. "I hope it never has to be used, that it remains a perpetual mystery, meaning there won't be major upheavals in the wizarding world."

Snape stared, silent for a while. Bored, Fawkes on his shoulder made a clicking sound with its beak.

"—Also means you've found something for Snape to do, instead of him wearing that deadpan expression all day," when the man and the bird vanished in flames from the office, the portrait of Headmaster Black on the wall said with a sly grin, "When are you going to hang yourself on the wall, Dumbledore? I'd like to drop by — oh!"

A very thick wand appeared in his frame and began poking him incessantly.

"You—how—dare—you—say—that! Irresponsible! Talk!" a witch said indignantly.

Amidst a series of thuds and yelps, Dumbledore chuckled softly, lowered his head to toy with the Resurrection Stone ring, then took out a quill and parchment to write a letter, short but concise, waiting for the ink to dry.

A soft flame, Fawkes returned.

"Give the letter to Babajide," Dumbledore said cheerfully to it.

...

Next morning.

"I still find it hard to believe," Harry murmured at the dining table, glancing towards the teachers' table where Professor Bagshot was having breakfast.

Could such a person have sparked the wizard-muggle war half a century ago? Harry tried to discern traces of youth from Bagshot's wrinkled face, his gaze falling on the gray-white hair—were they once dazzling gold?

"Dumbledore knows about it, Harry, he personally brought Professor Bagshot to the school, so whether or not that's the person, it's not as important as the upcoming exams," Hermione reasoned firmly. "We wasted the entire night discussing, accomplishing nothing, it's simply criminal."

Ron, who had been eager to join the discussion, immediately propped his chin with one arm, flipping his fried eggs on the plate. But Hermione didn't let them off, she said with great momentum, "We must review well over the weekend. Because of Animagus, we're two weeks behind our normal progress!"

"Speaking of which, I have to fill out forms in Professor McGonagall's office tonight," Harry said dejectedly.

"Oh, well, that'll probably take two hours," Hermione said with experience. "Professor McGonagall will lecture on a series of regulations from the Ministry, such as occasions and places where Animagus use is prohibited, totaling 47..."

"Don't say anymore, Hermione, I'll have nightmares," Ron grumbled. He suddenly looked towards the opposite long table, "Hey, I didn't know they were so close."

Harry looked up to see Neville and Hannah with their heads close together, eating and chatting.

"Hannah lent Neville her Transfiguration notes, probably helping him catch up on classes," Hermione said dismissively. Neville wasn't qualified for the Advanced Transfiguration class this semester, but he intended to take the makeup exam this year.

"Neville could borrow notes from us," Ron immediately said.

"Oh, Ron, you nincompoop."

Harry regretfully found the conversation interrupted, perhaps he could give Ron some advice, so he wouldn't speak so directly. They finished their meal and headed to their final Ancient Runes class of the week. Before leaving the Great Hall, Harry glanced once again at the staff table.

Hermione followed his gaze, her expression filled with sadness.

"Ah, if Professor Bashat really is... that person, Neville must be devastated," she said.

"Yeah, it's uncomfortable to have close relationships with two dark wizard professors in a row. If it were me, I wouldn't feel right," Ron commented, stirring his eggs on the plate. Hermione didn't let them off the hook, her voice rising in determination, "We really need to review this weekend. Because of Animagus, we're two weeks behind our schedule!"

"As for me, I have to fill out forms at Professor McGonagall's office tonight," Harry said, disheartened.

"Oh, well, that'll probably take a couple of hours," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "Professor McGonagall will be going over a series of regulations from the Ministry, like the occasions and places where Animagus are prohibited, totaling 47..."

"Don't say anymore, Hermione, I'm going to have nightmares," Ron grumbled. He suddenly glanced at the long table across from them. "Hey, I didn't realize they were getting so chummy."

Harry looked up to see Neville and Hannah leaning in, chatting as they ate.

"Hannah lent Neville her Transfiguration notes, maybe she's helping him catch up," Hermione said dismissively. Neville wasn't qualified for Advanced Transfiguration this semester, but he planned to take the makeup exam this year.

"Neville could borrow notes from us," Ron immediately said.

"Oh, Ron, you dolt."

---

At the dinner table, another lively debate came to an end, with Felix just having shared his teaching experiences with several professors.

"Thank you, Felix," Professor McGonagall restrained herself several times, but couldn't hold back, protesting, "I don't think it's responsible to have upper-year students setting questions for lower-year ones."

"But we must admit, Minerva," Professor Slughorn interjected, seeming persuaded, "lower-year courses are quite simple, nothing novel in the content, from an efficiency standpoint..."

Professor McGonagall immediately glared at him, and Professor Slughorn wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Minerva," Felix said calmly, "most of the sixth and seventh-year students are now of age. We can't just treat them as students anymore; they've experienced some things and should bear some responsibilities—"

"At the expense of relinquishing part of your responsibility as a professor? That surprises me," Professor McGonagall said sharply.

Felix shrugged and turned to see Gellert Grindelwald mocking him with a smirk. He immediately changed the subject, aiming at Grindelwald, "Professor Bashat should be done with the final exams, I guess? After all, there's only one grade."

It was well known that Grindelwald only taught sixth and seventh years, with the seventh-year N.E.W.Ts exams being under the jurisdiction of the Ministry.

"I'm preparing to submit my review report," Grindelwald said. "What's that word? Perfectionism, Professor Burbage?"

Charity Burbage looked up, pointing to herself in confusion.

"I've written several papers on Muggle studies and need someone to correct the format. I couldn't think of a better person," Grindelwald said, bowing slightly.

"Oh, sure, I'd be happy to help," Professor Burbage said warmly.

"May I take a look?" Dumbledore suddenly interjected.

"No problem," Grindelwald said casually. "I must admit, some of my past views were extreme, there's room for correction... Muggles have their merits. Like the recent gun control law they've come up with—could you pass the raspberry jam?" Dumbledore hesitated for a moment, then handed him the jam plate. "Thank you—," he continued, "I've been following this: the new law has come into effect, and the Muggle government has confiscated over ten thousand guns..."

"I remember reading about it in the newspaper, those were Muggle wands?" Professor Flitwick asked with interest.

"Almost, but those things have only one purpose, slaughter," Grindelwald said softly. "In my active years, these things were rampant, and Muggles didn't stop there; they relentlessly researched more efficient ways of slaughter. They're inherently gifted in this aspect."

"Oh, I see," Professor Flitwick seemed distracted. "I can't understand why someone would specialize in that."

"Abuse of magic can also lead to serious violence," Dumbledore warned.

"But magic isn't just about violence," Grindelwald said calmly. "We use it to grow crops—" he glanced at Burbage, who smiled faintly; "to rid ourselves of complex labor—" he nodded at Flitwick, who politely set down his fork; "and to seek the truth—" his gaze swept over Felix, who looked back curiously; "and of course, love."

His eyes made a full circle, finally resting on Dumbledore.

"Love is a great magic. Isn't that your view, Headmaster Dumbledore?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore's face showed a surprised expression.

"How wonderful," Grindelwald sighed. "I often fantasize about how the exchange between wizards and Muggles would be like."

Felix put down his knife and fork, watching Grindelwald intently, unsure of what he was about to say. But Grindelwald's words surprised Felix.

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