"Albus, Albus, oh how glad I am to see you here to-night," the stout man's dull, muddied eyes darted left, then right, before ushering the other, taller man inside. The shack, little more than a leaning mass of rotted wooden planks, seemed caked in a layer of filth an inch thick, and in some places the prehistoric brick work was completely obscured by decades of dirt and disuse. In another life, perhaps, it would have been a handsome woodland cottage, whitewashed and thatched, a picturesque-chocolate-box abode. "Oh, yes, yes, sorry about the clutter," the man murmured absentmindedly, nudging the decapitated corpse of a rat with the toe of a hobnailed boot. He did not seem particularly apologetic. The other man did not seem to mind, however, as he examined the view of the wild, brow furrowed contemplatively, through a cracked and dirt encrusted window pane. His robes, a cheerful, sunny yellow, did not seem particularly in place among the shack's decor (or even his own disposition), and even as he brushed at the window with his sleeve, mind on another subject entirely, one could not shake the feeling that he was watching you. Suddenly, as if kickstarted, the man bounced on his toes before spinning round to peer at the shorter man through half moon spectacles. The man looked quite shocked to be acknowledged in this way, despite the invitation of address. Under his unyielding gaze, one got the distinct impression that he could look right through one's face and into the mind, even the soul, beyond. The mischievous twinkle in his cerulean eyes only intensified the odd, crawling feeling; one almost expected spritely wings and pointed ears to sprout in a shower of silver sparks from his excessively long auburn hair. Albus - Dumbledore, as the stout man knew him to be - hummed a noncommittal affirmation of something, and grinned toothily at him. He shuddered, but as discretely as he could. The mischief in Dumbledore's eyes only intensified.

"Vaughn, perhaps a pot of tea?" The stout man seemed not to know what to do at this statement, a fireplace, kettle and teapot obviously unavailable in the current situation. Dumbledore seemed to have realised this as well, and watched the shorter man squirm with a keen fascination akin to a small boy pulling the wings off a butterfly. He cleared his throat lightly and settled on a dingy old stool, far too low and far too rickety to serve any purpose except firewood. "As you most certainly know, I have approached you with a matter of the utmost urgency and importance," Albus paused here, perhaps expecting a reaction. Vaughn jerked lightly from his stance by the doorway and coughed indelicately. Dumbledore's face flashed with a vaguely similar caricature of disgust before falling back to a smooth mask. "Have you ever happenced upon the lording family of Little Hangleton?" Vaughn swiped a grimy hand under his leaking nose. "Have you ever heard of the Riddles?"