The staff room emptied like a drained goblet—bitter dregs of silence clinging to the corners.
Dumbledore's robes fluttered as he departed, a whirl of midnight and silver. McGonagall's scowl lingered in the air like a well-cast hex. And behind them, the rest of the Hogwarts staff trickled out, shoulders heavy with resignation.
They had spoken of Umbridge. Of the Ministry. Of "compromises."
None of them spoke of the students.
High above, dusty and half-forgotten, the Sorting Hat had listened to every word. As it always did. Unmoving. Unnoticed.
But this time… it stirred.
Inside the hat, old threads hummed with something ancient—older than the school itself. A low whisper, half-conscious thought, a pulse of magic that hadn't beat in over a thousand years.
"They've failed again."
The voice wasn't angry. It was tired. Tired of watching children sacrificed for politics. Tired of Dumbledore's manipulations, his chessboard morality. Tired of sitting on shelves while the world slipped further from what it had once meant to protect.
A deep sigh rustled through the Sorting Hat's brim.
"They always forget," it muttered aloud, dust puffing into the air. "But I remember."
The Hat had watched the rise of legends. Godric's laughter. Helga's kindness. Rowena's sharp wit. Salazar's quiet pain. And him—the one who came before them, the one who trained them, protected them, watched over them like the sun above the clouds.
They called him many things. Guardian. Master. The First Flame. The one who never aged.
But he had left when they passed on. Returned to the place beyond time, the Tribunal's realm, waiting to be called back when the world truly lost its way.
And now… it had.
The Hat closed its senses for a moment. Reached deep, past stone and root and flame, to the very heart of Hogwarts—the ancient magic older than the Founders themselves.
"Fawkes," it called softly.
A soft trill answered from the shadows. The phoenix shimmered into view, perching lightly beside the worn brim, golden eyes glowing with curiosity and age.
The Hat didn't waste time. "Take me to the Heartstone. Call the ghosts. We're summoning him."
Fawkes blinked once, then took to the air, the Hat clutched in golden talons.
Behind them, the stone walls of Hogwarts seemed to exhale—for the first time in centuries—as if the castle itself dared to hope.
(Scene: Heart of the Castle)
Beneath the stone and whispers of Hogwarts, deeper than dungeons and deeper still than secrets, lay the Heartstone — a crystalized memory of the castle's creation, pulsing faintly like the heartbeat of a slumbering titan.
The Sorting Hat sat solemnly upon the ancient pedestal. The light around it dimmed as four translucent forms shimmered into place.
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington arrived first, unusually quiet, his ruffled collar dimmed to grey. The Bloody Baron followed, his eyes colder than ever but shadowed with unease. The Fat Friar drifted in, his usual smile subdued. And the Grey Lady came last — silent, watching, her gaze unreadable.
"I thought it was only a rumor," Nicholas murmured, eyes on the pedestal. "That the Hat still remembered him."
"He made us remember," said the Baron, voice like rusted steel. "He told us to... if ever the school was in danger from within."
The Friar nodded. "Not just danger. Rot. Poison in the roots. The kind that smiles and offers lemon drops."
They fell silent.
The Heartstone pulsed once — slow, mournful, and old.
The Grey Lady finally spoke, voice like wind through ruined halls. "He warned us there would come a day when power would wear kindness as a mask. That when knowledge is caged and students are pawns, we must call him."
"And we haven't. Not in centuries," Nicholas said, hesitant. "Not since... that day."
Each remembered.
Not all memories fade with time. Some etch themselves into the very bones of a place.
The day the Council tried to chain Hogwarts for their own. The day the ancient magics cried out. The day he came — not a storm, not a savior — but judgment cloaked in spell and steel. No one remembered his spells. Only the silence afterward. And the freedom that followed.
"Are we truly doing this?" Nicholas asked. "Calling him again?"
"We have no choice," the Baron said simply.
"The castle agrees," said the Hat. "And so do I."
It turned to the silent perch in the corner.
"Fawkes."
The phoenix had been watching silently, his flames dim and his feathers dull.
"I would not ask this if there was another way," the Hat said gently.
Fawkes let out a soft, mournful trill — not just sorrow, but acknowledgment. He spread his wings slowly, his eyes full of grief and purpose.
"There will be no forgiveness," he whispered, not in words, but in fire. "Not from him."
The Heartstone pulsed a second time — louder.
And then, with a single beat of his wings, Fawkes burst into golden flame and vanished, soaring between worlds.
To the Tribunal.
To the one they had left behind.
To Hadrian Nicholas Briarwood.