"You're going to be late," Alice Montague told her reflection as she struggled with her hair. "You are really and truly going to be late." She reached for her robes and pulled them over her head, throwing the useless hairbrush at her bed. As she ran out through the kitchen she grabbed the orange juice out of the fridge and took a swig straight out of the bottle. She jammed her feet into shoes as she scribbled down a note to her flatmates. Finally she snatched up her wand from the bookshelf and Disapparated, holding her breath.
The first thing she realized when she appeared on the Atrium floor was that her robes were back to front. "Slow down, Alice," she muttered to herself, "fix it on the lift." She started to push her way through the morning crowd, making her way as fast as she could towards the golden gates at the end of the room. There was a short line for the lifts, she saw to her disappointment.
The wrought golden grilles opened, and Alice stepped into the lift along with three other people—two witches deep in conversation about the latest Appleby Arrows match and an anxious redheaded wizard holding a battered cardboard box.
"Level Eight, Atrium," said the familiar cool voice. Alice smiled awkwardly at her companions, but only the redheaded wizard smiled back.
At "Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports" the two witches got out of the lift. Alice shifted her weight, hoping the wizard would leave as well so that she could switch round her robes, but no such luck. A few lavender inter-departmental memos flew in and started to circle the light.
At "Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," Alice gave up on waiting for privacy. She pulled her arms out of her sleeves and spun the robes around before putting the sleeves back on. The wizard was giving her a very strange look over his box, so she tried to smile reassuringly at him, but it came out as more of a grimace. She patted down her hair and breathed deeply, trying to relax.
"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," said the cool voice. Alice felt a flare of panic in her belly. "O-kay, Alice, you can do this," she whispered, earning herself another odd look from her silent companion. On a whim she turned and offered her hand. "Alice Montague, I'm an Auror," she said, feeling a thrill at calling herself so for the first time.
"Ah, um, Arthur Weasley," said the man in a friendly enough way, shaking her hand. She smiled at him and half ran, half marched out of the lift, now quite frantic.
Dawlish was waiting for her, looking irritated and confused (although this was Dawlish's usual expression, so it was hard to tell how annoyed he actually was.) "Montague! You're half an hour late!" he snapped.
She was out of breath and couldn't think of anything to say, so she satisfied herself with another smile-grimace. He frowned. "Well, come along, no need to wait any longer."
As he led her into the Auror Headquarters he started to talk. "We've decided to assign you to Travers—he's a known Death Eater, we've had a team after him for a little while, but one of the members retired just recently. You'll be working with Frank Longbottom."
The name sounded familiar, she thought. She wondered if they'd been at school at the same time.
Dawlish showed her to her cubicle—she had her own cubicle now!—and then pointed Longbottom out. She realized as she came up to his desk that she did recognize him—Frank had been in Gryffindor, and a year up, but he had been Head Boy. He looked up, saw her, and jumped to his feet, knocking over his coffee mug.
"Oh! I'm sorry—I'm Alice—sorry—"
"No, no, it wasn't your fault," he said, shaking her hand vigorously, "Alice, of course! I remember you!" He picked up the mug and waved his wand; the coffee vanished. "You were in Hufflepuff, weren't you?"
"That's right," said Alice, feeling unreasonably pleased that he remembered her.
"Yes, you played Quidditch, I remember."
"Yeah," she said, actually smiling now, "I did."
They grinned at each other for a minute, then suddenly Frank shook his head a little bit as if to clear it. "Okay, let me give you some background on Travers…"
At seven thirty they got up to go. Several others were still staying behind—it was 1978, and nearly everyone was working overtime. She walked with Frank to the lift. He was quiet, but he kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye and it was making her uneasy.
"Level Eight, Atrium," said the cool voice. They stepped out. The Atrium was dim, with only a dozen or so people passing through. The golden symbols moving across the ceiling and the gently splashing fountain were softly glowing, luminescent. Frank reached out and touched her elbow.
"Do you want to, maybe, go out for a drink or something?"
She hesitated.
"I mean, if you have to get home, or whatever…" he said quickly.
Okay, Alice, she thought. You can do this. "No, I don't have anywhere to be. A drink would be lovely."
"Great!" he said, smiling rather foolishly. It was funny, thought Alice, she remembered him as being rather plain, but he was actually quite nice looking.
She held out her hand and he took it. "It's late," said Alice. "Why don't we make it dinner?"