#aye?

“The Sorting Hat lied, let us try again!”

The old man had smiled. “Are you sure?” Because while Amelia had cried out those words, Edgar’s gaze had long drifted to the multitude of glistening, strange objects all around, and eventually, the mist above.

The twins’ lives had unwoven themselves then, the colourful pattern that their tapestry was undoing itself to form new images, images less chaotic, less unguided, and more clear, more in correspondence to the colours of their heart, and by the time Edgar was nineteen, he was farther away from Amelia than he had ever been before. A world apart.

He was just in the streets of Teipei, finally having successfully ordered a cup of tea without being misunderstood, when two British Wizards passed him and spoke of the war. “At this point, it won’t take long before You-Know-Who’s fully in power,” was all he could hear, but it was enough.

He returned home. Desperate to do something, he began writing for the Dayely Wics, a newspaper distributed in the whole of England but which, due to its pro-Muggleborn affiliations, tended to be regarded as serious as papers like the Quibbler. It was there that Ainsley spotted his name under an article one day.

They met up a few times, and Edgar, who barely questioned Ainsley’s reasoning, too happy to finally have his old school friend back, found himself surprised when Ainsley then said she needed to introduce him to someone.

Little did he know that when he stepped into this old, little apartment in Wizarding London, there’d be no introductions needed.

“I think you don’t have to call me ‘Professor anymore,’” Dumbledore replied to his initial reaction, and there was that smile again.