The corridors emptied as students headed to class.
Laughter faded, whispers followed, and Hogwarts returned—at least on the surface—to routine.
Headmaster's Office
Dumbledore sighed the moment the door closed behind him.
Letters.
So many letters.
They covered his desk, spilled into neat-but-failing stacks on side tables, and threatened to slide off the shelves.
"How," he murmured to himself, adjusting his glasses,
"does one castle produce this much parchment in a single morning?"
He picked one up.
Another complaint.
Another request.
Another suggestion on how Hogwarts should be run.
Being Headmaster, he reflected, was a far heavier crown than most imagined.
A soft clearing of a throat echoed from the portraits.
"Albus," came a dignified voice.
Dumbledore looked up.
Cedric Runcandel, former patriarch, gazed down from his frame, hands folded behind his back.
"I wish to ask," Cedric said evenly,
"about what transpired last night."
Dumbledore leaned back, expression gentle.
"You refer to Temar."
Cedric nodded.
And so Dumbledore told him.
Of the ghosts arriving.
Of the kneeling.
Of Temar Runcandel stepping forward.
Of words spoken—not to the hall, but to a boy who had carried a house on his shoulders since the age of three.
When Dumbledore finished, the room was silent.
Several portraits had gone very still.
"…Three years old," murmured an elderly witch in a gilded frame.
"To lose everything—and still stand."
Another portrait, a former Headmistress, dabbed at her eyes.
"That kind of will is forged in fire."
Cedric closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, pride shone unmistakably.
"He endured," Cedric said quietly.
"And he did not bend."
Then, slowly, he smiled.
"I am glad," he said, voice firm,
"that Temar acknowledged him."
A pause.
"And I am glad," Cedric added,
"that Keith heard it."
A sharp, amused snort broke the solemn mood.
"Oh, please," drawled Phineas Nigellus Black, lounging in his portrait.
"As if there were ever any doubt."
Cedric glanced toward him.
Phineas smirked wider.
"The Black family," Phineas declared smugly,
"is extraordinarily fortunate to have that boy as a future son-in-law."
A few portraits groaned.
One muttered, "Here we go…"
Cedric, however, only chuckled.
"On that," he said calmly,
"I agree."
Phineas blinked.
Cedric straightened, pride unmistakable in his voice.
"We are lucky," he continued,
"to have Keith Argus Runcandel as the descendant of our house."
The words carried weight.
Not boastful.
Not loud.
Simply… true.
Dumbledore watched the exchange with quiet eyes.
So young, he thought.
And already carrying legacies that would crush most grown men.
He looked back down at the mountain of letters.
Then, briefly, toward the window.
"May Merlin help us all," Dumbledore murmured softly,
"if that boy ever decides to stop holding back."