The soft thud of a beanbag striking palm echoed steadily through the headmaster’s office while Earl perched on the desk with his head bobbing up and down in rhythm.

Wilber paced in a figure-eight around the space while three well-worn juggling sacks in red, blue, and a faded green that had seen better decades arced in gentle rhythm through the air. They moved in a calming cadence, one honed in the tight spaces of university corridors, school playgrounds, and teacher lounges when juggling had been a party trick instead of a grounding tool.

His thoughts, however, were far less rhythmic.

Washing machines. Bewitched and belligerent. House elves and students alike dodging wet scorching laundry like Bludgers, slipping on bubbles, the laundry room turned completely topsy turvy, and perhaps the worst offense of it all... a professor who walked out amidst the disorder and never returned. That was just the beginning of it all, if Algamus’ words were true — and truly, why would the house elf have any reason to lie to him? House elves did not embellish for drama, nor did they deliver warnings lightly. If anything, Algamus had spoken with the sharp-edged precision of someone burdened by knowledge and uncertain whether sharing it would mend the problem or unravel it further, but very clearly at their wit’s end after cleaning up the messes. If even a portion of what he’d said was accurate, then Jeorge’s involvement wasn’t mere misunderstanding or honest mistakes, it was a pattern and a dangerous one.

The headmaster caught the green bag a touch harder than intended, a couple of its innards wiggling out trough the seams and toppling to thee floor, and sighed heavily. “Fool me once, shame on the artifact. Fool me twice…” He didn’t finish the thought.

Earl shifted invisibly from the desk to somewhere by the bookshelf, no doubt listening and sensing the growing tension in the room. Wilber didn’t need a demiguise’s sight to know what was coming next would require restraint. He liked Jeorge. Earnest, gifted, and brilliant in a way that bloomed sideways...recklessness dressed in curiosity was still recklessness.

The beanbags dropped softly into his desk drawer and he pushed it shut with finality. When Jeorge arrived, and he would be arriving shortly, Wilber would not greet him with a sweet butterscotch or a joke... not this time. There was too much at stake.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what Jeorge was being summoned for. Shadows of doubt hung heavy in the air. Now, how was he expected to share his side of the story? He had ventured off to retrieve his notebook, a seemingly simple task, only to discover it after class, the room now a chaotic mess with broken machines, ruined clothes, scampering house elves and an angry Algamus. Well, Algamus, looking displeased, was normal. But the absence of students added a heavier weight. It wasn't a mistake, just a... judge of error. One that an understanding man like Wilber would understand. Surely.

Nah. Jeorge knew he needed to be more compelling. With a steady resolve, he entered the Headmaster's Office after reciting the password. The once-welcoming room felt imposing, its walls lined with former Headmasters staring him down, threatening his calm demeanor. But he ignored them and the gaze of their camouflaged companion.

“Wilber...” he nodded sharply, the twinkle was absent from Wilber's eyes for once. But Jeorge was poised, waiting to get the confirmation to sit or remain standing.

Wilber did not speak for several uncomfortable moments, remaining instead beside the window with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, the fading light casting long shadows across the floor of the office.

“The title is Headmaster, Professor Leroy,” he said gently but firmly. “Or Headmaster Winterbottom, if we’re feeling particularly formal. I imagine formality is appropriate today, don’t you?”

The words weren’t cruel, but they were quiet with the unmistakable weight of disappointment. He offered a vague gesture to the chair across from his desk but he himself remained standing.

“There’s a great many things I find curious,” he began, his voice threading that impossible balance between grandfatherly and grave. “But perhaps none so curious as where you find your things.” He unclasped his hands from behind his back and folded them over his front. “Your muggle devices. The cursed filmstrips. The infernal washing machines. One wonders if you collect them at a little shop labeled ‘Dark Knobs, Knickknacks & Catastrophes’ or if these artefacts simply follow you home like stray Kneazles.” He stepped closer to the desk now, his features not yet unkind but etched with the quiet gravity. “I do hope, Professor, that when I make my necessary inquiry to the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, it is not your name I find tangled up in their records.” There was no raised voice nor any slamming of hands ― only the stillness that came before a storm.

“Now then,” he said after a pause, eyes never leaving Jeorge’s, “tell me precisely how a professor leaves a classroom in chaos and fails to return. And do take care with your words, Professor Leroy. You are not explaining away a prank. You are explaining why I’m speaking with you now and not standing beside a student’s hospital bed.”

Headmaster... My, my... this was serious business. Wilber always kept things casual and jovial, which sometimes grated on Jeorge, admittedly, but overall was commendable and worthy of respect. This forced formality changed Jeorge's demeanor. Once at the chair, he remained standing with his hands folded loosely in front of him, presenting as a man who understood the appearance of remorse better than the substance of it.

"Headmaster Winterbottom," he began smoothly, "first, let me say that I appreciate the opportunity to explain." His gaze met Wilber's to show he had his full attention. "I'll admit the situation... escalated. And I can see how it might seem that I purposely left it in disarray. But I'd argue that the real problem wasn't my absence, it was in fact, the unpredictable nature of the equipment. The machines were holding steady before I stepped out. Yes, there were signs something might be off - a little extra rattle, maybe more steam than usual - but nothing alarming. Certainly not the sort of thing that demands halting an entire lesson or initiating emergency protocol."

The memory of the rumble caused him to shift slightly, his tone measured.

"In fact, I stepped out briefly to retrieve my notebook to record the incident. Which, I eventually gathered that it was still in the classroom - small oversight. But by the time I remembered, I was already down in the ground floor, and I figured, well, I'd inform the other elves of the dilemma to handle the situation until I returned. That was my call. Hindsight, perhaps, was unkind." Briefly, he paused, showcasing a sign of false humility.

"As for the machines themselves... I had made a few adjustments. Minor enhancements. A typical cycle can last up to two hours, so further adjustments were made to speed up the cycle so the students can see it through completion. As you understand, such instability must have come from layered charms, I wasn't aware students had been practicing nearby. Perhaps even interference from unrelated enchantments stored in the room when the elves tested them. Old rooms can react in unexpected ways when Muggle tech is involved." Another pause. He lifted his shoulders in the gentlest of shrugs - less "I'm guilty" and more as "sometimes, things happen."

"I returned as soon as I possibly could. By that point, Algamus and the two elves had already dismissed the students. But if anyone thinks that I planned to abandon the students, or worse, initially cause the chaos in order to flee that..." He sighed, "That simply isn't true." And a gross exaggeration at that. Planning chaos took effort and time, he was more of the roll with the punches. Just as he had heard about the student who experienced an injury but still stayed to help resolve the matter. The experiment's results excited him in the moment, and he had to act quickly.

Jeorge let the silence stretch just long enough before softening his expression with a practiced smile. A smile that had smoothed over more than a few misunderstandings in the past.

"And, for what it's worth, I've never shopped at Dark Knobs, Knickknacks & Catastrophes. That sounds like the sort of establishment that wouldn't take returns." He did say shop, correct? Technicalities mattered in his head. His posture shifted though at the mention of his name being on record. So it really came to this, the false act could drop with his smile now. "Well... you've seemed to have made up your mind, Headmaster. You'll find my name has been cleared of any previous investigations. I'm merely here because a gross judge of error has me defending my position of work. Do you need to hear anything else from me?"

Wilber listened in silence and while the urge to interrupt surfaced several times, he resisted and instead tightened his once relaxed grip on the back of the chair beside him, knuckles whitening.

Only when Jeorge’s final question had been offered with a practiced smile did Wilber speak, slowly straightening his posture and willing his hand to relax.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I need to know how quickly you can pack up your office.”

He let those words hang in the air between them for several moments, no need for additional theatrics nor explanation when the words themselves carried so much weight themselves ― though he did eventually continue, his feet planted firmly upon the ground and his eyes unblinking as he stared at Jeorge.

“You are hereby dismissed from your duties, Professor Leroy. You have until sunset tomorrow to remove your belongings. That is the fullest extent of leniency I will allow.” He paced slowly now, emerging from behind his desk to slowly circumnavigate Jeorge, though not with the intention to intimidate. Rather because he needed to move or risk the tremor in his voice betraying how deeply this hurt. “You say you stepped out to retrieve your notebook,” he continued, his tone deceptively mild. “And yet students and house elves alike have confirmed you were in the room when the machines began their assault. That you watched as boiling water and heavy machinery spun across the the floor on a collision course. And then you left.” He turned to face Jeorge directly now, all warmth drained from his features. A gesture that was not cruel but starkly disappointed. “You. Left Them. You left OUR students. In the heat of panic, you walked away and did not return until the damage had already been done. You reappeared only when the house elves had risked themselves to subdue the machines, able students joining in the fray, and the corridor had fallen quiet.” He exhaled slowly, pressing his knuckle to his glasses. “And you expect me to believe you prioritized your notebook over dismantling the threat? That your curiosity, some academic detachment, somehow overruled your duty to the young witches and wizards placed in your care?”

Wilber’s voice grew firmer now, his composure wavering. “These were not some new brand of experimental machines. These were Muggle-made, brought into an enchanted castle with every known risk that entails. I trusted you to take precautions. Instead, you permitted unstable magic at best or allowed Dark magic imbedded artefacts at worst and left children to face the consequences.”

He shook his head once.

“And this is not the first time. The monochrome curse. Surely you remember that, Jeorge? The cursed filmstrips that somehow made it into your lessons on Muggle films and warped the minds and physically altered the appearance of students and castle alike? They too bore your fingerprints. That’s twice now you have inflicted danger and trauma upon this school’s children.” He paused, though not for effect but to keep emotion from cracking through and his voice to raise―though the man was already very much red in the face. “There will not be a third time.”

He drew in a breath, steady but firm, and took a step closer—not looming, but close enough for his words to land fully.

“You've shown me you're the sort of man who would absolutely throw students into a room full of Cornish Pixies and bolt the door behind you, knowing full well they hadn’t yet learned the charm to stun one, let alone survive the lot and then claim it was their wandwork, not your absence, that let the chaos loose in the first place. You are slippery, evasive, and willfully misrepresenting facts to cover poor judgment.”

He stepped back now so that he could meet Jeorge's eyes fully, his face looking like a balloon that was being squeezed entirely too tightly and could pop at any moment. “You may not see yourself as reckless, Professor Leroy. But recklessness paired with intelligence is a far more dangerous thing than ignorance. And that is not a risk I will permit within these walls any longer.” He reached into his desk, withdrew a small sealed envelope and placed it gently on the edge of the desk. “Your formal dismissal, should you wish to contest it through the proper channels. I will inform the Board of Governors of your departure. And should I find so much as a leftover Muggle kettle behaving strangely in your quarters... I will not hesitate to involve the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.”

And with that, he turned once more to the window. The conversation, as far as he was concerned, concluded and Earl watching with glowing eyes from the shadows.

The silence that followed between them was taut and heavy, aside from some of the former Headmaster portraits clapping and sharing encouraging words to Winterbottom. The red-headed one, however, blew him kisses.

Jeorge didn't speak right away. His eyes that usually consisted a twinkle at the thought of a new venture was empty. Such scolding took him back to his divorce. Calling him reckless and losing trust. Perhaps they were right? Whatever flicker of indignation had flared earlier was now dulled - not absent, but carefully shuttered between the lines of his face.

He gave a slow nod, barely perceptible.

"If that's your decision... then I'll respect it." His voice was quiet. Neither warm or cold, just flat. Let's be honest, he didn't agree at all with what he said, as if he'd lock students in a room with Cornish Pixies. Please.. his profession wasn't dealing with creatures and in the case, they'd all have evacuated because he'd leave the door open behind him like before... but in a way, Wilber was right in him choosing to not fight back. Not just because he considered his own well-being before others, like a healthy individual, but he knew there was no undoing it now. He had already made his decision before he stepped in, begging and pleading would only amplify the humiliation.

Jeorge reached for the pink envelope, tucking it neatly into his robes without unfolding it. He straightened his sleeves and then turned toward the door. Just before crossing the threshold he paused, only for a second, and muttered lowly to himself, "Well... it was too slow anyway." He'd have to make further adjustments to his notes.

Then he walked out towards the direction of his office. Where could Jeorge Leroy go from here? He supposed that staying with his son, Phred, before publishing his findings was an option. As frosty as their relationship was, his son had mercy. There's no way Jeorge would be welcome back into St. Dorgo's Secondary School with their own former Headmaster's word against him. He may be down, but not out for the count.

Who knows... this castle may or may not have seen the last of him.