While the Great Hall slowly recovered from the incident—because the incident was the politest word anyone could use—Albus Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes twinkling with unmistakable interest.
Alexander Chen had just taken his seat at the Ravenclaw table, still muttering darkly to himself and shooting occasional glares at the Sorting Hat, which was now being gently soothed by Professor McGonagall like a traumatized veteran.
Dumbledore did not look surprised.
If anything, he looked… amused.
Ah, he thought, watching the boy closely. So this is Jonathan and Eleanor Chen's son.
His mind drifted back to several months earlier—to a meeting filled with tea, diplomacy, and very carefully worded warnings.
"Headmaster," Eleanor had said with a polite smile that absolutely did not match her eyes, "our son is… spirited."
"Stubborn," Jonathan added helpfully.
"…Fearless to the point of recklessness," Eleanor continued.
"And loud," Jonathan said.
"Very loud," Eleanor agreed.
Dumbledore had chuckled then, too.
They had explained that Alexander had been raised with American magical education standards, international exposure, and—most concerning of all—opinions. Strong ones. Loud ones. Relentless ones.
"If he causes trouble," Jonathan had said apologetically, "please know it's never malicious."
"He just refuses to accept reality," Eleanor finished.
Dumbledore's eyes flicked back to Alexander, who was currently whisper-arguing with a Ravenclaw prefect about "statistical bias in magical headwear."
Yes.
That tracked.
He noted the wand at the boy's side—redwood, Thunderbird feather core. Powerful. Unusual. Exceptionally rare in Britain.
American wand, Dumbledore mused. And an American temperament.
The Sorting Hat, still shaken, resumed its duty.
"Cho Chang—Ravenclaw!"
Applause followed immediately from the blue table.
Alexander snapped his head up, pointing dramatically.
"SEE?" he hissed. "PATTERN. TOLD IT IS RACIST!"
Cho walked past him toward the Ravenclaw table, shooting him an amused, you're impossible look as she sat down next to him.
Dumbledore laughed softly into his cup.
Not a polite chuckle.
A genuine, delighted laugh.
"Oh, this will be fun," he murmured.
Minerva shot him a sharp look. "Albus."
"What?" he replied innocently. "The castle has been dreadfully quiet lately."
The sorting continued. Names were called. Houses cheered. Traditions resumed.
But Dumbledore's attention lingered on one boy in blue robes—outgoing, fearless, argumentative, and utterly convinced the universe was conspiring against him via an enchanted hat.
You may change things, Dumbledore thought warmly. Or Hogwarts may change you.
Either way—
He smiled.
—This year was going to be memorable.