"As for the Mandrakes maturing and brewing the antidote—those matters don't require you. Professor Sprout can handle them alone." She straightened up again, folded her fan and placed it on her lap, lifting her chin slightly like a queen carved from black marble, one who would never bow her head.
McGonagall's face went pale. Not from fear, but from the stifling humiliation of having her worth denied to her face, with no way to refute it. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but Dumbledore raised a hand to stop her.
"Minerva." His voice was soft, but McGonagall fell silent. She looked at him, her eyes reddening as her lips trembled faintly.
Dumbledore turned to face Walburga and Greengrass. There was no anger or disappointment on his face, only a profound calm.
"Mr. Greengrass, Mrs. Black." His voice was not loud, but every word was clear. "I accept the Board of Governors' decision and will leave at once."
Mr. Greengrass stood up. He picked up the roll of parchment from the table and slipped it back into his inner pocket, every movement meticulous.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, thank you for your cooperation." His voice retained that bland, professional politeness. "The Board of Governors does not wish to make this unpleasant. Your voluntary departure is best for everyone."
Dumbledore paid them no further attention. He turned and walked to the broad desk, picked up the battered Sorting Hat resting on it, and gently stroked it as though greeting an old friend before placing it squarely in the center of the desk. Then he picked up the Elder Wand—the Elder Wand—and casually tucked it back into his robe's inner pocket, as if it were no more than an ordinary stick.
Finally, his gaze fell upon Fawkes on his perch.
"Fawkes, old friend," Dumbledore