On Monday, August fourteenth, nineteen ninety-five, Dolores Umbridge goes to a cafe before work. She is not the kind of witch who is accustomed to this, and she had to wake up earlier than she likes to allow time for the trip, so she is already irritated with the task; the cafe is the kind of half-wizarding place that serves both Muggles and regular folk, which makes her hate it more, as such places should not exist no matter how many notice-me-not charms you spackle at them. And her mood was already foul with the reason why: the note the night before, written on blisteringly white parchment of fine but unexceptional gauge and its wax seal is that of a large and mysterious bird.
An Augury, the note had clarified, for the Augury Initiative.
She performs two laps of the cafe and does not see the chosen signal from the note, a red teacup. She exits the cafe beginning to feel desperate when she very nearly trips over it; a homeless Muggle woman, and before her, a teacup red as a cardinal and full of alms.
She is very dirty. Dolores immediately dislikes the Augury Initiative if they employ dirty, homeless muggles.
Dolores minces her way up hesitantly. "Hello," she says stiffly.
"Oh," the woman mutters into the cup. "She said you have to wait a tic."
"Who?" Dolores asks sharply.
The woman does not respond, merely shakes her head.
Dolores stands there as long as she can stand it, feeling increasingly foolish. She very nearly turns to leave until a voice speaks behind her.
"Hello, Dolores," it purrs. "I'm so glad you decided to come."
Dolores spins round. The woman is pale, round of face, with hair piled atop her head so black it is tinged blue. Something tells Dolores that the hair has been Transfigured-a disguise, then. Her high-throated robes are layered transparent silk that flutters in the breeze, sleeves that very nearly touch the ground edged in silver thread, all wrought in a purple so dark is it very nearly black. They are very fine robes, and well-made, Dolores notes bitterly; they must have cost more than Dolores makes in a month, which marks this woman as from money both old and plentiful. Incongruously large, very Muggle sunglasses black out her eyes. The overall effect more than a little intimidating.
"Hem," Dolores manages, a strangled little cough. After a moment, she offers her clammy hand.
"How lovely to make your acquaintance," the woman says says, clasping the proffered hand between both of her own. "You may call me Pythia, Pythia Lestrange. I've had some tea sent to the back room so we can have some privacy."
"No," Dolores says quickly. Too quickly, maybe; the woman's mouth purses slightly. No, that won't do at all. If Dolores wants to get anything out of her-out of this Augury Initiative-before taking this to the Aurors or somewhere else, she'll have to please the agent at least a little. She offers up her best simper. "I would rather enjoy the sunshine, don't you agree?"
The woman smiles. "Of course. I'll have the tea brought up."
They are offered a little table in the corner of the patio by an overfamiliar waitress; it is early in the morning and not quite so hot yet that it would be uncomfortable, but nerves have the back of Dolores' sweater set damp anyway.
Dolores settles across the table and pours herself some tea, and then begins to heap spoonful after spoonful of sugar into it. "Your note was quite intriguing. I'm wondering, if I may ask, where you might have heard-"
"Hang on," the woman who calls herself Pythia interrupts, extracting her wand-a strange and knobbly thing that Dolores is sure she's seen elsewhere. She raps the table, and around them the sound from the street and the cafe goes blurry. The wand goes back into her pocket before Dolores can inspect it further or wonder where she'd seen it before. "There. Now we've got some privacy. Now, you were just wondering where I had heard that you sent Dementors after Harry Potter and how I got your home address to send that note and tell you about it, but I think it's much more interesting to get straight to the point and ask if you've considered our offer to join up."
"Well, it would seem to me that there is no choice but to join your little initiative," Dolores says, done spooning sugar into her tea and beginning to stir with the sound of grit against porcelain. "You claim to have proof, which would be an incredible abuse of my power were it true. It would leave me entirely at your mercy."
"You didn't read the note very closely," the woman says, her warm tone belying the insult. "I also said that we'd leave you be if you chose not to accept our offer."
"My dear-Pythia, was it? Pythia Lestrange?" Dolores replies, even sweeter. Lestrange is quite the name to be using these days, what with all the better-known branches of that particular tree rotting in Azkaban, and Dolores makes sure that this Pythia knows it. "I do know when I'm being threatened."
"I wouldn't threaten you," the woman says, in a voice so serious it gives Dolores pause. "I'd rather be your friend than your enemy. I have no interest in pressing the unwilling into service, but your talents are criminally underused in your current position, and the task you have been given for this year is a trap."
The idea is so absurd that Dolores lets out a fine little giggle. "A trap? The school post? Forgive me, Miss Lestrange, but I believe myself more than capable of handling a class or two of schoolchildren."
"Are you forgetting who you're really being sent to mind?" The way it comes out, drawling and arch, is very nearly an insult. Her speech isn't quite as polished as a Malfoy's, but that arrogance is pureblood through and through.
Dolores' voice goes high. "Of course I know who I have been sent to mind," she snaps impatiently. "Which is why your little club cannot jeapordize my position. The minister is counting on me to keep Albus Dumbledore in line."
"The Minister's a fucking idiot," she says flatly.
Dolores splutters into her teacup for a moment, then looks around fretfully to see if anyone had heard. They hadn't, of course. "You can't mean that," she says, once the sticky-sweet tea is cleared from her sinuses and into a napkin.
"I mean that with all my heart. Dumbledore is dangerous. You wouldn't be sent to mind him if he wasn't," she says. She seems to be relaxing as she expounds, as if the cover of the spy is falling away and the real woman is emerging. "Cornelius lets Dumbledore do as he pleases because Dumbledore was offered the position before him, more than once. All that does it make it clear he's second choice and robs not only the office of Minister but the entire Ministry and you." One sharp fingertip comes before Dolores' nose.
"Dumbledore protests that he is uninterested in politics," Dolores says dumbly, cross-eyed and focused on the finger. "He's never accepted the position of Minister and never will."
"He's on the Wizengamot!" Pythia spits, hand gesturing explosively upward to the cloudless sky. "No one on the Wizengamot is uninterested in politics. And you know as well as I do that the Order of the Phoenix is back and walking the halls of the Ministry."
"You suspect," Dolores corrects.
"I know," she says firmly, her fist thumping the tabletop with a chime of porcelain. "It's war, Dolores. Dumbledore said so to the Minister's face not two months ago. Your Ministry is being infiltrated, and what does Fudge do? Send his most effective agent off to do a dismal job at the school in hopes of catching Dumbledore in the act?" Pythia gives a most unladylike snort.
"And what do you propose, then?" Dolores says, regaining her composure and straightening her blouse.
"I can help you," she says simply. "I can feed you information, help you actually mind him instead of watch on while he does as he pleases."
"I very seriously doubt-"
"Did you know he was associated with Grindlewald?" Pythia interrupts, plowing on and leaning forward. "There are letters. Very interesting letters between very close friends. I know where they can be found, the Prophet could publish them."
Such a thing gives her pause. "How does any of this benefit you?"
"I think you know that Dumbledore is on his way out, if both of us have our way," Pythia smiles. "I work for the organization that will come to replace him."
"Which is?"
"The Augury Initiative. People you want to know." She moves the sunglasses down on her nose and looks over them. "People you have already impressed quite a bit, people who want to make sure you keep your meteoric rise going."
"Ministry officials do not take bribes," Dolores says sharply.
"Bribe?" The woman puts a hand to her chest in mock-horror. "You wound me. I would never offer a bribe. I'm offering friendship."
"The kind of friendship that keeps secrets, I expect?"
"Your secret will be kept either way, Dolores. That was just a way to make sure you'd come."
Dolores doesn't like being manipulated this way. But trusting this stranger who knows far too much is also too much of a risk. And keeping up contact could offer profit. "What do you require?"
"Two portkeys," she says. "Off the books, if you please. This kind of thing is illegal, of course, and even asking for it would get me inquest from the Aurors, right? They'd take your word over mine. So now you've got something on me. I've left the paperwork with my associate with the teacup. Deliver them back to her within four days, and you'll be squared off with me, and we won't bother you again if you don't want to be bothered."
Dolores feels her mouth stretching into a smile. She has always been known for them, her smiles. "Very well," Dolores says primly. She drains the last of her cup and then hesitates, letting it hover above the saucer. "And if I should reconsider your offer-?"
Pythia beams. "That's another matter entirely. Can you get me a meeting with Lucius Malfoy?"