Eric's answer was airtight.
A deathly silence filled the office, broken only by the occasional crackle of firewood in the hearth.
Snape's face—twisted moments ago by fury—froze like a wax statue caught in an instant of collapse. A strange, choking sound escaped his throat, like a maddened bull caught by an invisible noose, all its charge and bellowing jammed in its chest, unable to burst forth or be taken back.
The flames in his black eyes guttered out, leaving behind only a hollow, stunned emptiness.
An orphanage.
A place he himself had once struggled through.
Not knowing one's parents.
A wound that had once been the source of his own torment and humiliation.
Choosing one's own surname.
That reason—cold, pure, stripped of all emotion—fell like a hammer forged of absolute zero, smashing directly into the foundation of his rage.
He could not condemn an orphan for ignorance of his own origins.
Nor could he mock a child's clumsy yearning for "nobility," because he himself had once been that boy hiding in the shadows, crowning himself the Half-Blood Prince.
All the fury and malice he had brewed through half the banquet found nowhere to cling. Like a blade striking cotton, its force was absorbed, dissolved, leaving behind only a ridiculous sense of powerlessness.
Snape's shoulders slumped. The force propping up his rage finally dissipated.
"Severus."
Dumbledore's voice was soft, yet carried unquestionable authority. He raised a wrinkled hand and pressed it down gently, signaling Snape to step back.
The old headmaster's gaze shifted from Snape's ashen face back to Eric.
His expression remained gentle; the familiar faint smile still curved his lips.
But it did not reach his eyes.
Behind the half-moon spectacles, those blue eyes resembled polar seas frozen solid—every trace of warmth submerged beneath the surface, leaving only an icy, penetrating scrutiny. Compared to Snape's blazing fury, this silent suspicion cut far deeper.
"Let us set aside the matter of your surname for now, my boy," Dumbledore said softly, as if soothing a startled animal.
"Instead, tell me…"
His tone paused slightly. Each word that followed seemed carefully weighed before falling, slow and precise.
"What exactly did you do to the Sorting Hat during the ceremony?"
This was the real question.
The true core of this inquest.
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Snape's hostility was molten lava; Dumbledore's doubt was absolute zero, spreading soundlessly.
In Eric's mind, the [Perfect Logic] talent spun at unprecedented speed.
He could feel the weight of Dumbledore's gaze. This was not a casual inquiry—it was a net already cast. Any flaw, any inconsistency, would be caught instantly and torn apart.
He needed a flawless answer.
One that explained the Sorting Hat's abnormality, yet perfectly fit his current persona: a genius orphan, ignorant of the magical world.
Within a thousandth of a second, the script was complete.
A faint crack appeared in Eric's calm expression, replaced by a carefully measured confusion. He tilted his head slightly—a small gesture that stripped away some of his earlier coldness and added a hint of childlike curiosity.
His eyes changed as well—from a bottomless well to a clear spring reflecting interest.
In an instant, the image of a perfectly inquisitive, slightly bookish Ravenclaw took shape.
"Headmaster, I only…"
He spoke, uncertainty edging his voice.
"I was just curious about how it works."
"How it works?" Snape let out a short, derisive snort, as though the answer were absurd.
But Dumbledore did not smile. He merely watched Eric silently, motioning for him to continue.
"Yes," Eric nodded, as if he hadn't heard the sarcasm. "When I put the hat on, I felt that it… wasn't really an object. It was more like a very ancient collection of consciousnesses—made up of many, many fragments of thought from long ago."
He began his performance, recounting a lie rehearsed countless times in his mind, his tone sincere and naive.
"So I asked it a few questions."
"Questions about the logic of 'choice' and 'destiny.'"
Eric blinked innocently, his dark eyes now so clear they reflected Dumbledore's grave expression.
"For example, I asked: if a student possesses the core traits of all four houses, would the hat's choice favor the house most suitable for them—or the one they most desire?"
"And if those two choices contradict each other, what would its final criterion be? Would it follow the founders' preset underlying logic, or dynamically adjust based on the strength of the student's personal will?"
"And also…" Eric's speech quickened slightly, perfectly embodying a nerd lost in his own logic. "If its judgment itself profoundly affects a student's future—shaping their character and path—then is it really just sorting, or is it defining destiny?"
He stopped, looked at Dumbledore and Snape, then spread his hands, wearing an expression of innocent bafflement.
"And then…"
"After I asked all that, it seemed to… freeze."
"…"
"......"
The headmaster's office sank into a long, suffocating silence.
The fire still flickered, yet made no sound.
Snape stared at Eric as though he were either mad—or something far worse, something never before seen. His mouth opened slightly, but no words emerged.
Using logic questions… to stump the Sorting Hat?
The thought rampaged through his mind, shattering what little rationality remained.
It sounded utterly absurd—more ridiculous than a troll dancing ballet in Hogwarts.
Yet when he recalled the Sorting Hat's scream—laden with terror and collapse—this absurd explanation became, disturbingly, the only one that made sense.
At that very moment, Dumbledore's pupils contracted sharply, narrowing to dangerous pinpoints!
A cold, invisible, nearly imperceptible magic—like the most secretive of venomous serpents—slithered silently from Dumbledore's will toward Eric's mind.
Legilimency.
The greatest white wizard of the century finally abandoned all probing and chose the most direct, brutal method to examine the boy's soul himself.
Yet the instant Dumbledore's vast, ocean-like mental power touched Eric's mind—
Eric's [Perfect Logic] activated!
There was no resistance.
No counterattack.
Not even the construction of a defensive barrier.
Eric made a choice no master of Legilimency could have anticipated.
He voluntarily opened a false, flawless mind palace—one crafted specifically for this moment.
Within Dumbledore's perception, there was no obstacle at all. What he "saw" was a world of impeccable clarity and order.
There was no darkness.
No secrets.
No lies.
It resembled a vast, pristine white library, every "memory" neatly cataloged and placed upon shelves.
Dumbledore easily found what he sought.
He saw an eleven-year-old boy who, upon donning the old hat, felt not anxiety or anticipation, but pure curiosity toward an unknown magical mechanism.
He personally "witnessed" Eric, in his mind, clearly and precisely posing those thorny logical paradoxes to the Sorting Hat—word for word.
Every thought, every phrase, perfectly matched Eric's spoken account.
The mind palace was flawless.
So real that not a single crack could be found.
Dumbledore's probe yielded nothing.
He withdrew his magic without a change in expression, as though nothing had occurred. The atmosphere in the office remained unchanged.
But inside him—
A tidal wave surged.
This child…
This eleven-year-old boy…
Had toyed with his Legilimency using a fabricated mind palace—without him even noticing!
This was not resistance.
It was deception.
A far higher form of mental defense!
Dumbledore felt it.
A chill sank deep into his bones, crawling from spine to crown.
Shock.
And caution.
This child's talent—this intellect so far beyond his age—this lie without a single leak…
An image burst forth in Dumbledore's mind.
Decades ago, in another orphanage, another brilliant, well-mannered boy—equally capable of lying straight to his face.
Tom Riddle.
No.
Dumbledore's heart sank.
Eric Prince was more dangerous than Tom Riddle ever was.
Tom's ambition and darkness burned outward, like a raging fire. Even when hidden, its heat could be felt.
But this Eric…
He hid everything.
All his true intentions were buried beneath a flawless façade—one built of logic and innocence, cold and immaculate.
You could not see his flames.
Because he was a bottomless ice abyss—
one that swallowed even light itself.