The Grandfather Paradox

The Grandfather Paradox, by James Bow

Prologue

"Well, Mr. Grange, your letter from Beauxbatons is most clear and specific. I guess it is my duty to welcome you to Hogwarts." Dumbledore folded the letter and slid it across his desk. A young boy of fifteen, with a round face and short brown-blond hair picked it up and pocketed it.

"So, tell me," Dumbledore continued. "How is old Mr. Fuscle?"

The boy shifted nervously under Dumbledore's sympathetic but penetrating stare. "He's doing well, headmaster. He sends his best and looks forward to beating you at wizarding chess."

Dumbledore laughed. "He would, wouldn't he? He hasn't beaten me yet, but he so loves to try. How is his gout? Any better?"

The boy frowned. "Gout? I didn't know Mr. Fuscle had any gout--"

"He must be getting better, then," said Dumbledore quickly. "Forgive me--" He glanced at his notes. "--Wesley. I don't mean to pry. Mr. Fuscle's letter aside, I'm unaccustomed to accepting students at Hogwarts with so little background. Your papers contain no mention of your parents anywhere."

"I'm an orphan, sir, of wizarding parents," Wesley replied. "I became a ward of Beauxbatons and have lived there ever since."

"And yet your English is very fluent. I can detect no accent whatsoever."

"My parents weren't French," said Wesley. "They travelled the world and took me with them after I was born. When they settled in France, I hardly knew the language, though I had a good head for languages." The boy drew himself up in his seat. "Headmaster, is there a problem with my references? We can contact Monsiour Fuscle, if you'd like--"

"No, no," said Dumbledore. "I'm inherently curious, that's all. And, I fear the times breed a little paranoia. No, all that remains is to welcome you to Hogwarts and to give you your own personal sorting ceremony."

Wesley watched as Dumbledore pushed back from his desk. Leaning a little on his staff, the headmaster stepped deliberately to a shelf and picked up a battered pile of rags which turned out to be an ancient witch's hat, held together mostly by hope.

Wesley took a deep breath as Dumbledors approached and placed the Sorting Hat on the boy's head.

The hat shifted and mumbled in thought. Finally, it called out, "Gryffindor! Definitely Gryffindor!"

Wesley let out his breath. He smiled as Dumbledore took the Sorting Hat away. "Thank you, sir."

"Than you, Mr. Grange," said Dumbledore. "I look forward to seeing your progress. You may go."

Wesley scampered up and strode from the office.

Dumbledore made for his desk as the door clicked, but he was brought up short by the Sorting Hat's voice. "Sir? Dumbledore, sir?"

He turned. "What is it?"

"The boy," said the hat. "He begged me not to say anything, but I think I'd better tell you, anyway."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "He begged you not to say something, and you actually considered it?"

"Yes, sir," said the hat. "Most odd, sir. But he was very persuasive."

"So, what do you need to tell me?"

"The boy, sir. He should have taken me a lot longer to sort. He's almost half Ravenclaw, sir, and there's a good streak of Hufflepuff in him too. But he's Gryffindor all the way, sir; I knew that because he's been sorted there before."

Dumbledore stared. "He's been sorted already? Do you remember sorting him before?"

"No, sir."

"Interesting," said Dumbledore. He pulled a humbug from his pocket and began sucking on it.

"What should we do, sir?"

"Do? Possibly nothing." He stared sharply at the Sorting Hat. "He is a natural Gryffindor, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir. It's where I would have put him, eventually."

"Then we shall do nothing but watch. If Wesley shows his true Gryffindor side, maybe we will understand why the boy is hiding so much."

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