As the greatest wizard of the century in Britain, Albus Dumbledore held numerous influential positions in addition to being the esteemed Headmaster of Hogwarts. His responsibilities extended far beyond the walls of the ancient school, entangling him in the political and social matters of the wizarding world. From overseeing the education of young witches and wizards to ensuring the fragile balance of power between magical institutions, his daily work was relentless, his schedule filled with tasks that demanded both wisdom and diplomacy.
And yet, even at over a hundred years old, Dumbledore remained energetic and unwavering in his commitment. He tackled the complexities of the magical world with an ease that few could match, always appearing to be in control, always maintaining an air of wisdom that inspired admiration and respect. Most of the time, that is.
There were matters, however, that even the most powerful wizard could not solve with a flick of his wand. Problems that defied logic, that tested patience, that required something beyond intelligence and magic—matters of the heart, of human nature. Among these, the most challenging for Dumbledore was undoubtedly the raising of children.
Even after so many years as Headmaster, with decades of experience in guiding young minds, there were always certain students who left him at a loss. Some defied expectations, some resisted authority, and others carried burdens far too heavy for their age.
This year, the student who concerned him most was not the Boy Who Lived, though one might have assumed otherwise. Harry Potter? No. The child may have been kept away from the wizarding world, but in truth, Dumbledore had always had an eye on him, ensuring that he remained within reach, that he could be guided when the time was right. There was a plan in place for Harry, a carefully woven path that, with the right nudging, would lead him where he needed to go. No, Harry was not the one who troubled him.
It was another child.
"Roger Virgil…"
The name lingered in Dumbledore's mind. At first glance, Roger appeared to be just another new student, an eager young wizard stepping into the unknown world of magic. Yet, the more Dumbledore observed him, the more he realized that this boy was different.
When Roger discovered his magical heritage, he had been delighted. But what followed concerned Dumbledore more than he cared to admit. The boy's actions, his way of thinking—it all revealed something deeper, something unsettling.
Roger's first priority upon learning he was a wizard was not to explore Diagon Alley, not to revel in the excitement of his new life, but to arrange a funeral for his parents.
Dumbledore had ensured that Roger was not left to handle this alone. He assigned a trusted individual to assist the boy, a person who could offer support while also keeping a watchful eye on him. Dumbledore wanted to understand Roger's mind, to gain insight into how he processed grief, how he viewed the world around him.
The results were… troubling.
Dumbledore sighed as he recalled what had transpired.
At the funeral, relatives and acquaintances of Roger's parents gathered to pay their respects. Family members from both sides came, speaking in hushed tones, their eyes filled with sorrow. And yet, Roger remained distant, detached. He exchanged pleasantries when necessary, but there was no warmth, no connection.
To Roger, this was logical. He had barely known these people. Years of separation had rendered their presence irrelevant to him. He saw no reason to forge bonds that had long since faded. But what troubled Dumbledore was not just Roger's emotional detachment—it was the eerie sense that the boy had already decided to sever ties with his past.
Of course, Dumbledore did not know the truth: that Roger was not merely a grieving child but a transmigrator, a soul displaced into a new existence. To Roger, the people mourning were strangers. The memories of the original owner of his body were nothing more than echoes of a life that was not truly his. He did not see these relatives as his own, and thus, he had no desire to maintain relationships that would only burden him.
Dumbledore, however, saw things differently. To him, this behavior signified something else entirely—pain, unresolved trauma, a child struggling to process his emotions. The war had left deep scars on many, and though Roger had been acquitted, it was clear to Dumbledore that the shadows of his past had not faded.
He glanced toward the woolen socks tucked in the corner of his office, his expression melancholic. Time had a way of making one sentimental, of drawing forth memories long buried. He had seen too many children suffer, too many brilliant minds lost to the darkness. Roger reminded him of others—of children who had walked similar paths, of tragedies that he had been unable to prevent.
Dumbledore did not want history to repeat itself.
But his time and attention were limited. He had too many responsibilities, too many battles to fight. He could not personally watch over every student, no matter how much he wished to. Just as he had entrusted Harry's care to Hagrid, he would have to find someone to look after Roger as well.
"The reason why Transfiguration is taught separately from most spells, with its own course, is because its fundamental nature is vastly different from ordinary magic?" Roger's voice carried a hint of curiosity as he examined his list of schoolbooks.
On their way to the Leaky Cauldron, he had been asking questions nonstop, his mind filled with inquiries about the magical world. To an outsider, he would seem like any other eager young student, full of wonder and enthusiasm.
Professor McGonagall, walking beside him, gave a small nod. "It is not just the nature of the magic that differs, but also the method of casting."
She had encountered many inquisitive students over the years, children who bombarded her with questions. Most of them, she knew, would eventually lose their initial excitement, overwhelmed by the academic demands of Hogwarts. Few retained that passion, that thirst for knowledge beyond what was required.
"Most spells work by adding magical properties to an object—expansion, levitation, combustion. But Transfiguration changes the physical structure of an object entirely. It is not a matter of adding something new, but of fundamentally altering what already exists."
She glanced at Roger, expecting the usual wide-eyed fascination. But instead, she saw something else—contemplation, deep thought, an analytical mind turning over the information carefully.
McGonagall had spent considerable time with Roger during the preparations for his parents' funeral. From those encounters, she had formed an impression of him.
He did not behave like an ordinary eleven-year-old.
He was always thinking, always calculating. Even now, as he absorbed her explanation, she could see the wheels turning in his mind, already dissecting the logic behind Transfiguration.
Roger Virgil was a puzzle.
And Dumbledore, watching from the shadows, could only hope that he would one day find all the missing pieces.
Only when he encountered magic did Roger Virgil truly behave like a normal eleven-year-old wizard—his eyes lighting up with excitement, his mind brimming with anticipation, much like a child receiving a new toy. It was the only time he let down his guard, revealing the youthful enthusiasm hidden beneath his otherwise composed demeanor.
Before entering Hogwarts, all students were required to purchase their textbooks for the current grade, new-sized school uniforms, and, for first-years, additional supplies such as cauldrons for Potions, wands for spellcasting, and pets. Typically, if at least one parent was a wizard, they would personally accompany their child on this essential shopping trip, guiding them through the intricacies of the magical world. However, if both parents were Muggles—ordinary people with no knowledge of magic—Hogwarts would arrange for a teacher to oversee the process, ensuring that the child was properly introduced to their new reality.
Harry Potter, for example, had been guided into the wizarding world by Hagrid, the kind-hearted half-giant and Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. Roger, too, was born into a completely non-magical family, with no ties to the wizarding world. Thus, it fell upon Hogwarts to provide him with a guide.
That guide was none other than Minerva McGonagall, one of Dumbledore's most trusted allies, the esteemed Head of Gryffindor House, and the formidable Transfiguration professor.
As they approached the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron—now within sight, only a few minutes' walk away—Professor McGonagall glanced at Roger with a thoughtful expression. After spending time with him, she had come to understand that he was not an ordinary child. There was a sharpness to his mind, a maturity that belied his age. Unlike most children about to enter Hogwarts, Roger carried himself with a sense of purpose.
And so, she asked, "Roger, after graduating from Hogwarts, what do you plan to do? Do you see yourself joining the Ministry of Magic, returning to Muggle society, or…?"
For most young wizards, such a question would be met with uncertainty, an overwhelmed shrug, or a vague aspiration. At eleven, few could confidently envision their future. But McGonagall had spent enough time with Roger to know that he was different. He was the type to think ahead, to plan, to shape his own destiny.
And as she expected, Roger did not hesitate. He already had his answer.