Previously:
"My name is Weasley, sir. Arthur Weasley. And this goes a bit beyond 'your man.'"
---
Bond considered this a moment. "And how far beyond is this?"
Weasley sighed. "Well, I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to begin-"
"You can start by telling me about the hydrant," Bond interrupted. "MI6 was rather unhelpful in that area, and you seem to know far more about it than they do."
"Oh, indeed," replied Weasley. "Though we'd have to take this conversation somewhere a bit less crowded - classified information and all that. You understand."
"Of course," said Bond, though he tensed himself for an ambush.
They paid for their drinks, and left the Factory Room in a hurry. "We're really in luck, you know," Weasley told his companion. "Charing Cross Road isn't more than two or three minutes' walk from here."
"Of course," Bond answered. He wondered if the situation was already getting out of hand. 'Of course it is,' he told himself. 'It was out of your hands from the moment 004 started making those hydrant jokes.' "Where are we going?"
"Someplace safe. Ordinarily I wouldn't be able to take you, but we've modified security for MI6's sake."
'Modified.' Not 'lightened,' not 'decreased,' not 'forewarned.' 'Modified.' Whatever could that mean?
James Bond wondered momentarily whether he wanted to find out.
---
It was silent that day in the Palace of Westminster. Light filtered through the grimy windows where it could, but did little to alleviate the gloom of this forgotten corner of the building. A great round table dominated the room, emblazoned not with the crown and portcullis of Parliament, but with two interlocking triangles, one without and one within; the three-sided figure was inlaid with innumerable sigils and decoration, complicated and unfathomable enough to claim the sanity of he who studied it. Little more than this symbol united those gathered around it, who would not have joined forces had they not seen an opportunity for personal gain.
No one stood to gain more than the man seated opposite the door. This was the man who had organized their little group, calling four to his side to aid him in his quest. What this quest was, only he knew for sure.
He wore a blindingly white cloak which illuminated the room more than the sunlight, and which was inlaid with some of the symbols present in the insignia on the table. His golden hair fell in perfect curls around his face, which appeared to be chiseled from stone. There was a tangible energy in the air around him, which would set anyone's hair on end. His eyes were nothing more than pools of gold, and these he fixed appraisingly on the figure across from him as he spoke.
"What of the fire hydrant, then? For what reason does it put our secrecy at risk?"
The man to his left cut in. "What are we to do about it? No doubt some sorceror emboldened by-"
"I wasn't asking you, Littlefinger. My query was for him and him alone," the man in white stated coldly, indicating the pale, black-robed being across from him.
The man in question was quite the opposite of the leader - where the latter's cloak was whiter than virgin snow, the former had a cloak black as night, though nowhere near as black as that of the person seated at his left. His skin was the color of one dead, accentuating the blood-red and slitted eyes that regarded the man in white. Lord Voldemort toyed with a bone-white wand as he spoke.
"Littlefinger is correct," - here the goateed, silver-caped man smirked - "The Muggles' fire hydrant was doubtless the work of a wizard inspired by the recent activities of my followers. I see no reason to track him down - the Ministry of Magic has that under control."
"But what of your Order of the Phoenix?" inquired the equally pale, turquoise-clad woman at the table. "They know you're up to something! And if they know about you, they must know about the rest of us!"
"Peace, Amelia." The voice belonging to the scarred, blue-haired, and black-cloaked man seemed to be spun from the darkness that suffused the meeting room. "They realize that Voldemort is preparing for a confrontation, but as far as they know, he does not want or need help."
"A sentiment that persists to this day," muttered the Dark Lord.
"Saïx, Saïx, Saïx. Surely you cannot be the only one who has seen the signs?" Littlefinger had chosen a dark green doublet for the meeting, his cape fastened in place by his usual mockingbird clasp. "Meteor showers almost weekly, sudden and unpredictable changes in the weather, increasingly frequent disappearances - have you any idea what the people are saying? They blame it on the temperature, or the wrath of their fictional gods. Now, Amelia speaks wisely - the Order knows better. They know all this means that our homes affect each other now more than they ever have; you of all people should know how such things work. And it's all thanks to Ramiel and his colleagues." Here Littlefinger referred to the man in white, who bristled at his informality.
"If indeed you are correct, Littlefinger, we must act with all speed. Eight of this world's leaders must be eliminated for our plan to be set in motion, and we must give them a reason to meet. The current disturbances are not enough. Voldemort, increase the magnitude of your raids. Let no wizard speak your name lightly. Lady Amelia, tell Lord Markus what I tell you: your coven must take further steps to eliminate the werewolf menace."
The stately, black-haired woman in the turquoise dress was shocked. "Further steps? We thin the lycan ranks daily, and at great risk to our secrecy! Why, there was open fighting between us in the subways of Budapest not three days ago!"
"In my world, werewolves are kept separate from the rest of us. Perhaps you could do with some aid, Amelia," Voldemort commented dryly. Amelia hissed at him, fangs bared.
Ramiel ignored this. "The people of this world will not believe what they do not wish to. The exchange in the subway was nothing more than a gang war to them. I'm told that sort of thing happens quite often."
Amelia sat back in her chair, fuming. "If it please you."
Ramiel stood. "At this time next week, this building will not be here. We meet in King's Landing the day after. Littlefinger, I trust you are entitled to some guests?"
Littlefinger chuckled. "The king cares not whether I choose to burn down a whorehouse or two. He shouldn't object to a dinner party."
Ramiel nodded. "Very well. Saïx, return to your superior and tell him what was said here. The rest of you, you have your orders. This meeting is over."