As the host, the headmaster of Mahoutokoro was extremely satisfied with how swiftly his professors handled the student unrest. Especially since the school itself had suffered virtually no losses.
Not a single one of the ancient buildings—structures of immense historical value and symbolic significance—had sustained serious damage. If one were to speak purely of losses, Mahoutokoro had merely lost a large patch of lawn. For wizards, that was nothing worth mentioning; even by Muggle standards, it hardly counted as a loss at all.
Financially, things were trivial. As for reputation, there was even less to worry about. Troublemakers came from all three schools—no one had the right to laugh at anyone else. The reputational damage was negligible. On the contrary, their rapid suppression of the riot made Mahoutokoro look outstanding.
Thus, among the three headmasters, Mahoutokoro's headmaster wore the brightest expression. With a grave and earnest tone, he offered advice to one of his professors, subtly hinting that he might grant him a major opportunity in the future.
Clearly, he was showing off.
When everyone else stumbled, my 59.5 got rounded up to 60—how could I not be happy?
Just as he deliberately kept the professor by his side to bask in the spotlight a bit longer, the preliminary investigation report came out.
Most of the students involved were still suffering from the bizarre aftereffects of various potions and were receiving round-the-clock treatment. Progress, however, was slow. It was rumored that some professors had even suggested withholding anesthetics—to teach these near-disastrous troublemakers a lesson they would never forget.
Since the perpetrators were in no condition to give statements, the report was compiled based on tesTeemony from the victims.
Unfortunately, the findings were grim.
A significant amount of property had been destroyed in this incident.
Students' luggage, tents, spellbooks, herbs, potions, and countless miscellaneous items had all been reduced to ashes in the fire. Even worse, three wizards had permanently lost their wands in the chaos, unable to retrieve them in time.
This was, of course, worthy of criticism—they clearly hadn't treated their wands with due respect. But it also meant they were now completely unable to use magic until they returned to school.
At Ilvermorny, wands were chosen by their owners at the school itself. Buying one elsewhere was not an option. While it sounded minor, violating this tradition was tantamount to heresy. Ignore it, and one might well be branded an outcast.
This left them with only two choices: return and undergo the wand-choosing process again, or remain wandless until their eventual return. The former was impossible, since most professors and all three headmasters were currently in Japan.
If it were ordinary students, this might have been overlooked. But one of those affected was a prefect who had saved several people during the incident. He had rushed into the flames and carried out a young victim—only to drop his wand in the process.
Given his significant contribution, his headmaster could never simply abandon him. Without a wand, any further learning would be painfully inefficient.
And this was merely the beginning of the losses.
Because further down the list was news so severe that even this normally composed headmaster turned deathly pale.
According to the investigation, the true instigators who escalated the situation into a large-scale riot were four prefects from Ilvermorny.
They were the ones who injured a professor.
They were also the first to set fire to the camp.
Had they not burned their own encampment, the other two headmasters might have turned hostile on the spot.
But now?
Of course, forgiveness was the only choice.
Though the barely concealed smiles on the other two headmasters' faces were unmistakable, their voices were filled with sincerity as they comforted their thoroughly battered old colleague.
Because the ever-smiling Headmaster Charlid had done something unthinkable—he clutched his head, completely disregarding his dignity, and sobbed at the edge of the table.
And it was hardly surprising.
A school had only twenty-four prefects in total. In a single incident, five had effectively been lost. Excluding one who might barely be salvageable, the rest would almost certainly be expelled for their grave misconduct.
Naturally, as the chief culprits, they had no face left to demand compensation.
What kind of joke is that? You burned your own things—who's going to pay you for it? Even having money doesn't mean you can waste it like this!
Beyond these losses, the school's most precious asset—its reputation, something countless professors would gladly give their lives to protect—had taken a devastating blow.
Three schools had gathered together, yet only your camp burned down. And worse—it was your own doing.
Isn't this proof that your school's education has failed?
Such accusations were inevitable. Howler letters would soon flood in. Under this pressure, parents might choose smaller schools, turn to Brazil's Castelobruxo, or even abandon formal schooling altogether in favor of traditional family instruction.
Compared to all that, two injured professors were a trivial matter.
Under this crushing weight, the usually stern Headmaster Charlid finally collapsed. The towering man cried like a child, even blurting out foolish words about resigning.
The other two headmasters hurried to console him.
Dumbledore suddenly felt deeply tired.
I'm already this old and still holding on—what on earth is wrong with young people these days?
Gradually soothed, the headmaster of Ilvermorny calmed his sobbing and stood up, his eyes red-rimmed.
"I'm sorry. I don't know whether the board will still support a bastard like me after this. But I must take my leave first—I cannot leave that trash to the next headmaster. I must deal with them personally."
Before the other two could stop him, the headmaster—usually wearing a perfectly rehearsed smile—rushed toward the hospital with reddened eyes. Professors from his school who possessed healing skills paused their work to greet him.
"It's fine. I have something to take care of. Please continue with your work."
Not a trace of a smile remained on Headmaster Charlid's face. His icy expression was frightening.
Under this oppressive aura, even professors from other schools were momentarily subdued. The once-noisy hospital fell silent, save for the occasional groans of the injured.
Just as he reached the ward entrance, the grim-faced headmaster suddenly turned around and bowed deeply to all the professors.
"Thank you, everyone, for the efforts you've made for the school all these years. And thank you as well to those who rushed here tonight, sparing no effort to treat these fools. Allow me to express my gratitude first."
After completing the bow, Charlid took a deep breath and strode into the inner room, leaving the professors behind to continue their work.
At this moment, the night had only just begun.
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