Dumbledore gazed wistfully about his office, watching several instruments whirring briskly on his desk. He checked the many-handed clock above the door intermittently. Hogwarts' faculty would be arriving for the start-of-term meeting at any moment.

Fawkes sat on his perch, preening his vermilion feathers meticulously. He was yet young in this incarnation, and his eyes were the unearthly shade of a perfectly brewed potion; they changed from burnished gold to smoky grey to breathtaking amethyst with the bird's mood.

The first through the door was McGonagall, as usual. Her surprisingly unaged hands held a tray of ginger snaps; a peace offering. The various branches of the faculty had been at odds since Umbridge left the previous year.

"Good evening, Albus," she clipped, setting the tray on the large oak table that Dumbledore had conjured to take up the center of the room.

Dumbledore smiled placidly in return, reaching for a crimson quill and dipping it into the murky inkwell before him. The obscure liquid turned from brown to an opalescent gold and shimmered like a fish scale. He stood and moved to the front of the room, tracing the words into the air with the glittering magical ink:

Start of Term Faculty Meeting, August 29

You are welcome to any edibles provided.

By now, a crowd of teachers had flocked inside, from Snape in his sullen black robes to Trelawney, decked in scarves and shawls and beads of varying shades. All took their seats stiffly, fidgeting nervously with their robes. Snape shot Trelawney a dirty look, which she returned quickly.

"I called you all here today, as I do each year, to speak with you about the morale and solidarity among our faculty," he nodded serenely toward the moody teachers. "And our staff." He smiled brightly at Filch, twirling his good hand in the air as though it held an invisible baton. Filch scowled back.

"This year, like those preceding it, brings us a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. I would like you all to welcome Markus Berglund!" Dumbledore again fluttered his hand and the double doors opened, revealing a stunningly handsome man bedecked in midnight blue robes. His face resembled a Greek statue's, with sharp blue eyes like glittering moonstones above high chiseled cheekbones. His skin was suntanned and his rich golden-blond hair had a slight wave to it, like the ripples on a forest lake. He looked rugged and masculine with broad shoulders and a strong stance; he could probably slay a dragon in a split second without flinching once.

The only imperfection in his impossibly glorious face was a long scar running from brow to jaw along the left plane of his visage. Somehow, it didn't mar his features; it only enhanced them.

"Welcome," chimed the teachers. The female professors accompanied the greeting with deep blushes. Berglund only nodded curtly in response, taking the empty seat next to Professor Sprout. She turned an unflattering shade of scarlet.

"Professor Berglund has a fascinating personal history, to which I am sure he will enlighten us all in the future." Inquiring eyes fell upon Markus' face, which did not express an interest in sharing any of its myriad secrets. "Anyway, I feel that a spirited discussion will be in order. Let me open the floor—are there any suggestions from any in this room about how to improve in the coming year?"

A few people shifted nervously, and somebody scoffed audibly. A sudden breaking sound came from one side of the table as Professor Sinistra bit into a ginger snap. Dumbledore pretended not to notice this and continued to smile placidly at the staff members, as though he had achieved nirvana during the proceedings. It would be easy to imagine him meditating under a Bo tree, a crowd of disciples staring admiringly at his serene face.

Except these disciples weren't looking at Dumbledore, and there was something far less than admiration in their eyes.

"I'd like to say something," said Flitwick. "I think that this entire ordeal has been unnecessary. I refuse to believe that Umbridge's effect was so far-reaching that after one year, our entire dynamic has been changed."

"Oh, it wasn't? So you expect us to believe that—"

"I think you just—"

"…Best year in the school's history, and I would know—"

"Absolutely reprehensible—"

"Exactly!"

Everybody started shouting at once, and McGonagall even threw a ginger snap at Filch's face. It bounced off his hollow cheek and broke.

Then, with a thump-whoosh-crack sound, Professor Trelawney fell to the ground, sprawled uncomfortably, her eyes blank and wide. There were gasps from throughout the room, and McGonagall rushed to the professor's side.

Trelawney's arm shot out and pushed Minerva away. She began to convulse, her eyes rolling into their sockets. She opened and closed her mouth like a fish thrashing on the deck of a ship. She rasped vacantly.

"The fifth heir approaches to complete the circle…the final tower shall be unveiled…the sea will rise and swallow stone and mortar…the great battle has begun…the awaited one comes nigh."

Trelawney's eyes closed and she seemed to faint. Only Madame Pomfrey ran to her aide. The rest of the teachers stood with their mouths agog in a semicircle around the professor's unconscious body.

Dumbledore smirked enigmatically, stroking his long, snowy beard.

"I fear I've been upstaged," he said. Fawkes flew to rest on his shoulder. "Notwithstanding, I think I might need a moment. There is a letter I must send; I fear it has a long way to travel."

The silence was all-consuming, but one collective thought was pulsing amongst them all.

The great battle had begun.