Alexander didn't let the rumors bother him.
Mostly because they were true.
The castle was still buzzing about the "Hero Who Defeated the Racist Sorting Hat," but Alexander had already locked himself in his dorm room.
His roommates had long since learned that when he closed the curtains around his bed and placed a silencing charm on the posts, it meant one thing:
Spell practice.
A wand flicked.
"Lumos."
Light flared to life, steady and controlled.
Another flick.
"Nox."
Darkness returned instantly.
Alexander sat cross-legged on the floor. He repeated basic first-year spells, over and over—not because he struggled, but because repetition refined control.
Control was everything.
Still… his thoughts weren't on magic.
They were on the professors.
If Snape decides to leave me alone… I guess I only have one professor left to mess with.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Professor Adrian Blackwood.
Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Annoying him will work eventually. I need to speed it up.
Alexander rolled his wand across his knuckles.
I am positive he is a Death Eater hiding.
There was no proof.
No mark seen.
No suspicious curse cast.
Just instincts.
And Alexander trusted his instincts more than most adults trusted evidence.
Hmmm… let's ask my parents after lunch.
Lunch came quickly.
The Great Hall was still lively, though the Sorting Hat story had evolved even further. Now it includes Alexander suplexing the hat off the Astronomy Tower.
He ignored it.
Ravenclaw table.
Plate filled.
Mind working.
Halfway through his meal, he pulled parchment from his bag and began writing.
Dear Best Parents in the Whole Wide World,
I understand, and I believe the magical Sorting Hat, and I now have a great understanding of each other.
As long as the hat does not appear in front of me, nothing will happen.
But IF it does magically appear in front of me, then it is my utmost responsibility to educate it.
Anyway, can you help me look into my Defense of the Dark Arts Professor, Adrian Blackwood?
No, he is not racist—at least not yet—but I believe him to be a hiding Death Eater.
He is suspicious.
Thank you in advance.
Your lovable and educational Ravenclaw son,
Alexander
He reread the letter once.
Then twice.
Nodded.
Perfect balance of reassurance and concern.
Rolling the parchment, he sealed it quickly and stood.
The Owlery was windy as always.
Owls hooted from every beam.
Alexander raised the letter.
One of the school owls swooped down almost immediately, as if already familiar with his "urgent investigations."
"Deliver this to my parents," he said, tying it carefully.
The owl blinked once… then launched into the sky.
Alexander watched until it disappeared beyond the castle towers.
Good.
Now we wait.
Waiting, however, required energy.
So he took a nap.
By evening, Alexander was walking the dim corridors toward detention.
Filch was already waiting.
Arms crossed.
Cat at his feet.
Expression sour enough to curdle milk.
"You're late," Filch hissed.
"I'm three minutes early," Alexander replied calmly.
Filch squinted at the clock… then scowled deeper.
"Follow me."
The detention, as expected, involved manual labor—no magic allowed.
Trophy polishing.
Rust scraping.
Plaque dusting.
Alexander worked silently.
Efficiently.
Unbothered.
Rumors didn't matter.
Detention didn't matter.
What mattered… was Professor Blackwood.
And whether his instincts were right.
Because if they were—
Alexander buffed a trophy until it reflected his eyes.
Then things at Hogwarts were about to get far more interesting.