Chapter 48 Dumbledore's Worries

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Silence fell over the surroundings as all the students focused their attention on them. Professor McGonagall intended to intervene but seemed to have received some information; she simply stood quietly at the doorway, observing everything.

Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe stepped up behind Malfoy. At the same time, Daphne Greengrass resolutely approached Rogue and stared him down.

The situation stood at three to two, with Malfoy seemingly holding the advantage.

Just then, prefect Marcus Flint shouted out of turn, “What do you think you’re doing?”

He did not want internal disputes within the house to be made public, as it would become fodder for ridicule from other houses. He bellowed angrily, baring two large front teeth, “For a foolish... insignificant person, you’re quarrelling among yourselves?”

Rogue turned to fix Marcus with a cold, meaningful gaze that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Marcus was a fifth-year student—how could a first-year’s stare intimidate him?

“Those not choosing a side, return to your seats,” Rogue commanded with authority and admonishment, as if he were the male prefect of Slytherin.

Only then did Marcus realize that the true nature of this dispute was a contest among pure-blood families, despite its seemingly juvenile appearance.

“You…” Marcus felt utterly humiliated and wordlessly sat back at the long table. The Flint family chose to stay out of the matter, perhaps deeming the quarrel too childish.

The Slytherins cast smirks and barely concealed mocking looks his way, as if to say, “You can choose not to take sides, but don’t be as foolish as Gryffindor—indeed, don’t be even more foolish than them.”

Feeling the weight of their gazes, Marcus knew his authority had suffered a severe blow. He slammed the table in frustration, masking his inner panic with impotent rage.

“Travis, look at who you’re helping,” Malfoy sneered at Neville, shoving him hard. “You had something stolen by me but didn’t dare make a sound.”

“Come on, Neville, just shout ‘Longbottom is a coward,’ and I’ll return your rubbish,” Malfoy taunted.

“Neville… stand up!” a small lion whispered encouragement to the crouching Neville.

“Seems the Longbottom family’s courage has completely vanished in you,” Rogue’s cold eyes swept over Neville as he turned to leave.

Seeing Rogue about to walk away, Malfoy laughed even more arrogantly, “You’ve probably forgotten how to spell ‘courage’!”

“Malfoy, give me back my Remembrall!” Neville suddenly stood, glaring and shouting, his voice cracking humorously.

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“What did you say?” Malfoy was stunned, never expecting Neville to dare defy him. That ridiculous shout was like a slap in the face.

“Give me back the Remembrall!”

“Hmph! We’ll see about that!” Malfoy’s face darkened as he tossed the Remembrall to Neville and slunk out of the hall.

“Clap, clap, clap…” The Gryffindor table erupted into enthusiastic applause, the lions congratulating Neville’s victory. Brave Neville had defeated the loathsome Malfoy.

“The bravery of the Weasley family is always foolishly excessive and untimely,” Rogue’s words struck like a hammer, abruptly cutting off the endless applause.

He looked at Percy and sneered, “As prefect, you’re not even as good as Marcus. At least he knows how to defend his house, while you hide behind excuses to cover your selfishness.”

Marcus’s expression was complicated; he didn’t know whether to take Rogue’s words as praise or scorn. But as long as Gryffindor was put down, he was pleased.

“Conflicts among pure-blood families?” Rogue mused, his gaze sweeping over the Weasleys. If memory served, Harry, Ron, Seamus, and even Neville were roommates.

“If that’s the excuse some use to avoid responsibility, perhaps you should emulate Voldemort and carry out a thorough purge against us.”

“You…” All the young wizards trembled at that name, eyes wide with terror. How dare he speak that name aloud!

“Afraid?” Rogue continued to crush the lions’ courage. “Compared to Grindelwald, a dark wizard who only digs around the British Isles, does he even deserve the title of Dark Lord?”

“Rogue, the Dark Lord is dead…”

“Ha, yet you still dare not call his name?” Rogue sneered mockingly. “Gryffindor’s bravery seems ordinary to me.”

The feast ended amid an eerie silence, and the young wizards quickly dispersed. The already tense rivalry between the two houses deepened further.

In the Transfiguration professor’s office, Professor McGonagall asked Dumbledore in confusion, “Albus, why didn’t you step in to stop them? Malfoy bullying Neville shouldn’t be left for the students to resolve.”

“That boy Rogue… not only did he speak the Dark Lord’s name aloud, he even mentioned Grindelwald.” Hearing the familiar yet distant name again, Dumbledore appeared somewhat dazed.

“Forgive me, Minerva. I am very curious about Rogue. When I first saw this boy in Azkaban, he surprised me.”

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“Do you know how Professor Snape introduced this student to me? Talented, unparalleled.” Dumbledore fixed his gaze on McGonagall and asked, “Minerva, what do you think of this boy?”

“Humble, steady, with great talent,” McGonagall agreed with her longtime rival Snape’s opinion. “Among the students I have taught, those with such exceptional gifts have gone on to become renowned figures in the wizarding world.”

“But compared to them, Rogue…” McGonagall chose her words carefully, “How to put it… lazy? It’s hard to find a word that accurately captures this trait.”

“He’s not as proactive or diligent as Hermione, seeming interested only in things that captivate him,” McGonagall sighed. “That’s the consensus among all the professors.”

She was somewhat troubled by Rogue’s personality. “If we don’t ask him, he never volunteers answers, even when he clearly knows them.”

“Honestly, the first-year curriculum is completely ineffective for him—it’s just a waste of time,” McGonagall added. “In this regard, even Miss Granger is far ahead.”

“Yes, Rogue has always strictly followed the school rules,” Dumbledore nodded, gazing out the window. “I sometimes wish he would break a few rules like other Slytherins.”

McGonagall somewhat agreed with Dumbledore’s view, despite her strict reputation as an enforcer of rules.

“Albus, I understand your curiosity. But…” McGonagall frowned, worried, “Perhaps it’s inappropriate for me to say, but Slytherin has always revered strength. We can all foresee that Rogue will surpass Draco and become the core.”

“You know his wand core is a unicorn hair. Ollivander always says the wand chooses the wizard; if that’s true…” Before McGonagall could finish, Dumbledore interrupted her.

“I understand your concerns,” Dumbledore sighed. The choice of the unicorn core—the memories stirred something both familiar and distant.

“Minerva, this morning’s conflict seemed to be about Malfoy stealing Neville’s Remembrall, but in reality?”

Dumbledore’s heart was heavy. On one hand, he suppressed the pure-blood supremacist families; on the other, he knew this was not a battle that could be won overnight. Pure-blood ideology was born with the wizarding world itself—it could not be eradicated in a single generation.