What the hell did he mean, his bill was going straight to the Hogwarts headmaster’s office?
What did he mean Dumbledore was personally paying for every book Isaac bought at Flourish and Blotts?
Hermione knew every single word coming out of Isaac’s mouth.
Put them together like that and she suddenly wished her brain wasn’t quite so sharp.
You’re basically telling me Dumbledore is some super-powerful, secretly kind wizard who just… pays for random kids’ school supplies because he’s nice???
“Yeah, Professor Dumbledore is an extremely kind man,” Isaac said with a warm smile and an encouraging nod.
His eyes practically glowed with approval.
Good girl.
Keep thinking nice thoughts about Dumbledore like that and I’ll happily cross your name off the “Who’s Dumbledore’s Favorite Student” list I keep in my head.
Hermione’s face went white.
She slapped both hands over her mouth even though she knew she hadn’t said a single word out loud.
Had he just read her mind?!
“In the wizarding world we don’t call it mind-reading,” Isaac said, looking perfectly innocent.
“We call it Legilimency.
And I’m nowhere near the level where I could even learn it yet.” “Only true masters can pull it off wandlessly and wordlessly.
Do I look like a master to you?” Crap.
The human skin mask was back on.
Hermione’s whole body jolted.
Every instinct screamed not to answer that question.
And yeah… what he said made sense.
So why the hell could this guy still pull her thoughts straight out of her head?!
You still claiming you can’t read minds?!
Isaac gave her that awkward-but-polite smile again.
It wasn’t mind-reading.
It was just that eleven-year-old girls had faces like open books, and Isaac had spent two lifetimes sharpening his people-reading skills in prophecy visions.
Spotting what was going on inside one little witch’s head was basically child’s play at this point.
Mr.
Granger started clapping like an overexcited seal and told Isaac the performance had been “bloody brilliant.” In his current state he even reached for his wallet, ready to tip the kid in actual pounds.
Mrs.
Granger shut that down fast.
Isaac let out a soft, genuinely disappointed sigh.
Drunk “big brother” energy that generous was tragically rare.
In the end Isaac helped Mrs.
Granger herd her dazed husband and shell-shocked daughter back to the car.
“Thank you so much, Isaac,” Mrs.
Granger said, squeezing his hand warmly.
Her eyes kept flicking toward her half-passed-out husband in the passenger seat and her jaw was visibly tight.
If Mr.
Granger didn’t wake up properly tonight, Hermione was probably going to find her father draped across the living-room couch, the hallway rug, or possibly the toilet in the morning.
“If you ever have time, please come visit us.
Oh—here’s our address.” She scribbled their home address on the back of a business card and handed it over before sliding into the driver’s seat.
Isaac watched the car pull away, then finally lowered his hand.
He hoped little Hermione would actually sleep tonight.
When she woke up she’d realize the wizarding world wasn’t that dark after all.
Not every kid looked like a dead man’s son and carried himself like one too.
Once the Grangers were gone, Isaac turned and walked straight back into the Leaky Cauldron.
He asked old Tom to tell the waiting driver to head home without him—he’d get back on his own.
Then he headed straight for the owl emporium in Diagon Alley.
The shop owner recognized him immediately.
These days Isaac was more famous in the Alley than Harry Potter.
The Boy Who Lived had been saving the world for years.
Dumbledore’s secret illegitimate son?
That rumor was brand new and spreading like wildfire.
Yeah.
In the last month the gossip had upgraded Isaac from “distant relative” to “Dumbledore’s bastard.” Apparently bastard-son drama beat distant-cousin drama every single time.
“Oh—Mr.
Waldore!
Lovely to see you.
You look like you’re in a hurry.
Is there a problem with your owl?” The owner sounded nervous.
If the owl he’d sold Isaac a month ago had already broken, that would be extremely bad.
Especially if the kid really was Dumbledore’s secret son.
Dumbledore’s power was basically an unlimited refund guarantee.
“No, sir.
Cuckoo’s perfect.
I just need to borrow one of your owls for a minute.
I have a letter that needs to reach Professor Dumbledore right away.” The owner didn’t hesitate.
He offered his own owl on the spot.
Isaac scribbled a quick note, tied it to the bird’s leg, and sent it off.
As thanks he bought a big bag of owl treats for Cuckoo before heading back out with a satisfied grin.
After that he finally let himself act like a normal first-year who’d just discovered Diagon Alley.
He wandered from the ice-cream parlor all the way to the broom shop, lingering longest at Quality Quidditch Supplies.
The featured broom was the Nimbus 2000—the same one Harry Potter would get later.
Isaac spent a long time comparing it to the other models on display, genuinely curious.
In the end he decided he wasn’t that into riding brooms.
Flying was fine.
Sitting on a stick?
Hard pass.
Still, he stayed in the shop long enough to look like any normal eleven-year-old who desperately wanted to fly something.